BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Sir Bernard Henry Spilsbury (Courtesy of WikiCommons)
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
Sir Bernard Spilsbury was an acclaimed pathologist and the father of forensic science whose most celebrated case made his name and changed the face of murder investigations forever. In Room 15 of Albion House at 55-57 New Oxford Street that a ghastly murder was supposedly concocted. But how solid was his evidence, and did it lead to an innocent man being executed?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Albion House at 55-57 New Oxford Street, where Dr H H Crippen met his mistress, supposedly planned his wife's murder and (a few doors away) purchased the poison which would end his wife's life, is marked with a quail green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: To name a few...
Old Bailey Court Transcript - https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?div=t19101011-74 As well as the British Newspaper Ardhive. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Sir Bernard Spilsbury; the acclaimed pathologist and father of forensic science whose most celebrated case made his name and changed the face of murder investigations forever. But how solid was his evidence, and did it lead to an innocent man being executed? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 115: The Lethal Evidence of Sir Bernard Spilsbury. Today I’m standing on New Oxford Street, WC1; two roads north of the St Giles’ workhouse where Charlie Chirgwin’s life was ended by an officious little jobsworth, two roads south of Zakaria Bulhan’s delirious rampage in Russell Square, a few doors down from the deadly tidal wave at the Meux & Co brewery, and one street east of the bloody conclusion to the mummy’s boy’s killing spree - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated just shy of Tottenham Court Road tube station, unlike Oxford Street, New Oxford Street is a vague part of Bloomsbury where a multitude of people pass through every day, but no-one stops, as there’s no real shops. There are the usual branded things like a coffee place, a sushi place and a burger place, as well as a pub chain, a church and a pointlessly tacky tourist shop which sells stereotypically British crap covered in Union Jacks, all of which were made in China... but there’s no reason to head there or even to stay. At 55-57 New Oxford Street on the junction of Bloomsbury Street sits Albion House; a nine-storey glass-fronted eyesore on a small square block which rents out offices to an odd mishmash off small businesses, such as a dentist, an estate agent, an energy consultant, a radio engineer and even a darts-themed pub. More than a century ago, before its demolition, the original Albion House was a four-storey building with an identical purpose. In Room 15 was a small independent druggist called Munyon’s Remedies, a patent medicine company churning out a plethora of potions to put-pay to all kinds of ailments in an unregulated era, back when any old quack could concoct a wonder cure, regardless of whether it worked or not. During the January of 1910, being sat alone to brood, it was in that building that a small bespectacled man met his mistress, formed his deadly plan and a few doors away he purchased the poison to end his wife’s life. The trial made Sir Bernard Spilsbury a celebrity, his medical testimony became bulletproof, it changed the face of forensic science and it would become one of the world’s most infamous murder cases ever. And yet, it was here, in Room 15 of Albion House, that a ghastly murder was supposedly concocted. But how accurate was Sir Bernard’s evidence, and did his ego send an innocent man to his death? (interstitial) The characteristics of a successful serial-killer are an unquestionable self-belief, a supreme confidence to convince others and an unshakable arrogance in the face of conflicting opinion, as well as a hunger, a drive, a power, an ego and a selfishness to destroy other people’s lives in the pursuit of their own goals. Given his troubled background, his abandonment by his parents, his dubious education and his isolation throughout his life, it could be said that Sir Bernard Spilsbury had all necessary characteristics to become a highly respected pathologist, as well as a middle-class murderer, or maybe... he would become both? Bernard Henry Spilsbury was born on 16th May 1877, above his father’s chemist shop at 2 Regent Place in Leamington Spa, a spa-town in Warwickshire. Stemming from a long-line of working-class inn-keepers, his father James sought a loftier existence for his eldest son and pushed him to live his dream he never could. As the first-born son of James Spilsbury Jnr, being a young boy, Bernard adopted his father’s passion for science and his fascination for crime, as well as his ambition, his work-ethic and a need to be respected, but he also absorbed his father’s coldness, his arrogance and his lack of empathy. Educated privately at home – with no-one to interact with but his siblings, his tutor and the housemaids - Bernard made no friends, especially when (aged nine) his parents abandoned him to a boarding school for three years, a new world he was ill-equipped to deal with. Being quiet; he kept to himself, he resented others and – hearing only his own opinions - he became fixated by his own success, beliefs and superiority. But as his father expanded his business further, the family were often uprooted. In 1889, aged 12, they moved to Salford in Manchester. In 1890, aged 13, they moved to Crouch End in London, with Bernard briefly educated at University College School. And in 1892, aged 15, his father enrolled Bernard at Owen’s College in Manchester to study chemistry, physics and biology, as his family stayed behind in London. He had no friends, no family, no interest and no drive – and feeling isolated – he spent his time walking alone. In 1895, aged 18, James Jnr sent Bernard to study Natural Science at Magdalen College in Oxford to fulfil his father’s dream of becoming a doctor. Described as lazy, argumentative and ill-prepared, Bernard’s tutors said he was a moderate student who disliked being proved wrong, refused to read the texts properly and was unlikely to get even a third-class degree. In 1898, he passed with a second, but only just. It’s baffling to think that the future Home Office Pathologist and father of forensic science whose damning evidence would hang people’s lives on his every word was - at best - a ‘D-grade’ student... but he was. In September 1899, aged 23, having failed to get a scholarship at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, Bernard enrolled as a medical student at St Mary’s, with no plans, no interests, no medical speciality and no career. Compared to the other students, Spilsbury was unremarkable. Being an impressive man of six-foot two-inches tall, he stood out, but being cold and unassuming, he was later described by Professor Sir Sydney Smith as “very brilliant, but fallible and very very obstinate”. Although a dogged workaholic, being crippled by back pain, Bernard frequently abused painkillers. By his late twenties, he had lost his sense of smell (an invaluable tool for a medical professional). As a fifty-a-day smoker he developed circulatory problems. And having severed the tip of his right index finger, to remain useful, he had to retrain his hands to be ambidextrous, but a successful career in medicine looked unlikely. Later, in 1908, he married Edith (the daughter of a dentist), they had four children together and they lived in a nice house in Harrow-on-the Hill. In short, Bernard could have become just another doctor... ...and yet, it was at St Mary’s that he would meet Augustus Pepper and his life changed forever. August Joseph Pepper was the senior surgeon at St Mary’s who pushed the envelope of medical science and – as a noted Pathologist to the Home Office – was witness for the Director of Public Prosecutions. With pathology and forensic science still in its infancy and regarded by the medical establishment as ‘the beastly science’, as one of the few trusted experts, Pepper was in high demand at London’s murder trials. Being fascinated by Pepper, Bernard became his assistant, a menial role in which he prepared the bodies for autopsy, but every day was a revelation and he loved learning from his father figure. After two years, Bernard was appointed as surgical dresser to Pepper and side-by-side the two prepared evidence for trial. In November 1904, at Thames Police Court, Bernard made his first court appearance as expert witness to the prosecution in the murder of Emily Farmer; a shop assistant who (the Police surgeon stated) had died of suffocation having been gagged by robbers – a crime that warranted the lesser charge of manslaughter. Oddly - for such a solitary, arrogant and obstinate man like Bernard – in court, he found his true voice. By dressing smartly, speaking well and - never using fancy words to show-off his intellect - he impressed both the lawyers and the jurors by delivering a well-explained analysis of the medical facts in layman’s terms, defending the cross examination in a quiet convincing way and demolishing the Police surgeon’s theory. In a short trial, Bernard’s evidence was so lethal, that the robbers (Conrad Donovan & Charles Wade) were found guilty - not of robbery nor manslaughter - but of murder, and both were sentenced to death. Over the next few years, Bernard developed his experience, his knowledge and his techniques, he passed his second medical degree and became the resident Assistant Pathologist at St Mary’s, alongside Pepper. In July 1909, as August Pepper retired from St Mary’s and as the Pathologist to the Home Office, at the tender age of just thirty-three-years-old, Bernard Spilsbury became his successor. His first notable case as pathologist occurred on 12th July 1909, in the hair salon of Harrod’s, when twenty-year-old Horn Dalrymple ordered a dry shampoo from experienced hairstylist called Beatrice Clarke. Using a highly toxic but entirely legal mix of carbon tetrachloride and carbon bisulphate, a potion stronger than chloroform, although it had been safely used for the six years prior, it resulted in the young girl’s death. At Kensington Coroner’s Court, Bernard proved to the jury that the shampoo was fatal and Beatrice Clarke and the salon’s manager (William Eardley) were charged with manslaughter. Bernard was a lethal witness; his knowledge was exhaustive, his evidence was trusted, his testimony was infallible and the jurors hung on his every word, like it was the word of God. But the biggest case of his life was yet to come... ...and it would change forensic science forever. Prior to Spilsbury, forensics was an afterthought in a murder investigation as the Police relied exclusively on witnesses, statements, evidence and a copper’s instinct, but science was just wishy-washy nonsense. Being barely out of the Victorian era - where a constable was more of a moral guardian than a detective - it was not uncommon for the Police to re-arrange a dead body to preserve its dignity, to wash away any bloodstains for fear of offending any passers-by, or to send a victim’s clothes to the cleaners before being examined by a pathologist. Crime scenes were rarely secure; evidence was lost, nothing was preserved, and even in court, many pathologist’s theories would be debunked as lazy, inaccurate and arrogant. Bernard Spilsbury would change all of that... and he would make his name in one infamous case. Born in Coldwater (Michigan) on 11th September 1862, Hawley Harvey Crippen was a small meek man of just five foot three inches tall and a slender seven stone in weight; with bookish spectacles, a neat mop of thinning ginger hair on his head and a Walrus-like moustache which was too big for his tiny round face. As a softly spoken and old-fashioned doctor, he specialised in ‘ears, noses and throats’ and was a qualified dentist, but being easily bored, he often flitted between different career paths when boredom struck. In 1894, Crippen met and married Corrine Henrietta Turner, known as ‘Cora’; a striking music-hall singer who went by the stage-name of ‘Belle Elmore’. Being taller and sturdier than her tiny besotted beau, the two were an ill-matched couple from the start; as whereas she always strode, he hid in her shadow, and being little more than her henpecked husband, she had many affairs and her true love was back in Chicago. In 1897, they moved to 34 Store Street in Bloomsbury (London), but with Crippen not sufficiently qualified to practice as an English doctor, he earned a modest living concocting homeopathic remedies for a patent medicine company called Munyon’s Remedies, based in Albion House at 55-57 New Oxford Street. The building was fortuitous, as being a multi-occupancy premises for small anonymous businesses, as he sat alone in Room 15 devising a range of supposed remedies for common complaints like nausea, colds and nerves – by mixing natural and synthetic ingredients like willow, eucalyptus, cocaine and morphine with a large dollop of sugar – it gave Crippen the opportunity to keep a jealous eye on Cora and her affairs. As Albion House was also the home of the Music Hall Ladies Guild (where they were treasurers), Droeut’s Institute for the Deaf (with Crippen was the patron) and here he also “managed” his wife’s singing career. In 1905, they moved into 39 Hilldrop Crescent in Camden (North London). With their eleven-year marriage in tatters, but unwilling to divorce owing to Crippen’s traditional values and religious beliefs, the shameful lies of their illicit liaisons struggled on for another five years, and as Cora started another affair in their home with one of their lodgers, Crippen began an affair with the Deaf Institute’s typist - Ethel Le Neve. What happened next is mysterious and incredulous, but it would slip the noose around Crippen’s neck. On 19th January 1910, at a chemists called Lewis & Burrows at 108 New Oxford Street directly opposite Albion House, as a herbalist who had visited there many times before, Crippen purchased five grains of hydrobromide of hyoscine; an entirely legal drug (which is still used today) for nausea, travel sickness and as a cough suppressant, which may cause euphoria and – like many drugs - in larger doses it can be fatal. On 31st January 1910, after a party at 39 Hilldrop Crescent, at which neither of their moods were described as “friendly”, Cora disappeared, leaving behind many of her personal belongings. On 2nd February, Crippen wrote a letter in Cora’s handwriting resigning her position as treasurer, stating she had gone to California to nurse a sick relative. On 20th February, Crippen’s mistress – Ethel Le Neve – moved into 39 Hilldrop Crescent and (at a function for the Music Hall Ladies Benevolent Fund) she was seen wearing Cora’s furs and jewellery. With Cora’s loved one’s growing concerned, on 24th March 1910, Crippen sent a telegram stating that she had died in Los Angeles, and as no-one could find her, her friends notified Scotland Yard. Believing this to be nothing but a domestic and bowing to the pressure of the Press who asked how a woman could go missing for six months without the Police lifting a single finger, Crippen was interviewed on 8th July 1910 by Chief Inspector Walter Dew, a perfunctory search of the house was conducted and Crippen admitted that he had fabricated the letter and made up the story of Cora’s death, as he was deeply ashamed that she had left him, having gone back to Chicago to be with ‘true love’ - Bruce Miller. With the press picking holes in this sensational story, on 11th July, Inspector Dew went to Albion House only to discover that Crippen & Le Neve had fled to Antwerp and boarded a boat to Canada. That day, under public scrutiny, the Police conducted a thorough search of the house including the coal-cellar, but they found nothing. Two days later, under that same brick floor of the coal-cellar, they discovered a set of hair curlers, a tuft of bleached hair and the lower half of a torso wrapped in Crippen’s pyjama jacket. Initially inconclusive whether it was animal or human, although its decayed internal organs were found in situ, the body was missing its head, limbs, bones and sex-organs. The only identifiable part was a six-by-seven-inch piece of flesh (possibly from the upper thigh and lower buttock), but the victim’s age, height, weight, gender and identity were impossible to establish from such a small specimen. On 31st July 1910, Crippen & Le Neve were arrested onboard a liner, and returned to London to face trial for murder. The murderous case of Dr Crippen was front-page news across the world. With the press and the public voracious for details but critical of the Police’s early ineptitude, so needing a conviction, Inspector Dew sent the torso to the Home Office Pathologist Bernard Spilsbury and out of retirement Mr August Pepper. The Police only had very circumstantial evidence; the torso was human, the pyjama top was Crippen’s, the hair-strands matched Cora’s natural colour and Crippen had admitted to fabricating two letters and telegram, having fled to Canada with his mistress. It was very suspicious, but did not constitute evidence. All they had was a small piece of skin with a very small scar... but forensic science would save the day. The five-day trial began at the Old Bailey on Tuesday 18th October 1910, with August Pepper rebuffing the defence’s assertions that the skin - which showed few signs of decay having been buried in a waterlogged soil for six months - had been preserved in an excellent state owing to quick lime in the clay. On Thursday 20th, William Willcox the Home Office’s Senior Scientific Analyst confirmed a lethal dose of hydrobromide of hyoscine in the torso’s liver, as purchased by Crippen. And that same day, being elegantly dressed and eloquently spoken, Spilsbury put the final nail in Crippen’s coffin, by matching the scar to an identical scar that Cora’s younger sister (Teresa Hunn) had seen across Cora’s abdomen, having had an ovariotomy. The cross-examination of the defence was terrible, Ethel Le Neve blamed Crippen and with this creepy-little man unwisely giving evidence – as the medical experts had proven a date, a place, a method and an identity with just a single piece of skin - after only twenty-seven minutes of deliberation - Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen was found guilty and sentenced to death. With his appeal rejected by the Home Secretary Winston Churchill, on 23rd November 1910, Crippen was executed by hanging at Pentonville Prison. Wearing a top-hat, spats and striped trousers, as the media darling of the trial, Bernard became the first Honorary Pathologist to the Home Office, an honorary Member of the CID, a celebrity, a household name and – knighted in 1923 - Sir Bernard Spilsbury was highly respected in the law courts and his evidence was hailed “as lethal as it was bulletproof”. In 1923, he created the ‘murder bag’ which revolutionised police investigations and forensic science. And across his fifty-year career he would conduct more than twenty thousand autopsies, providing key pieces of evidence and resulting in hundreds of convictions in some of Britain’s most infamous murder cases. Sir Bernard Spilsbury was hailed as brilliant and his testimony was untouchable, as even if it was doubted by other experts, to every jury, his word became gospel. But as a cold and arrogant prima-donna who believed that he was truly infallible, some of those convictions are still being disputed today. Infamous cases like Thompson & Bywaters, Frederick Seddon, John George Smith, John Robinson, David Greenwood, Sydney Fox, Herbert Armstrong, Jeannie Baxter and Albert Dearnley, to name but a few, at whose trials; suicides were disproved, bruises vanished, evidence was omitted and the presence of arsenic would magically materialise (when other medical experts had failed to find a single trace). Even in the case of Emily Beilby Kaye, he implied she had died by a blow to the head, only her head was never found. Sir Bernard Spilsbury was also the pathologist on cases we’ve covered before, like Dutch Leah, Louis Voisin, the Charlotte Street robbery, the Blackout Ripper, and – of course – Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen. Several issues came up at the trial, but all were expertly defended by Willcox, Pepper and Spilsbury. Firstly; William Willcox admitted he’d only found that fatal dose of hyoscine in the liver after he was told that Crippen had purchased five grains of the drug from Lewis & Burrows, and its bottle was never found. Secondly; August Pepper stated he didn’t find the scar until two months after the autopsy and only after he had heard about Cora’s ovariotomy. And thirdly; Spilsbury refuted any claim that it wasn’t an operation scar on her abdomen, even though the skin has no belly-button, pubic hairs or sebaceous glands. Experts for the defence stated it was a skin-fold or a stretch mark, but there was no evidence of cutting or healing. So, did the Police, aided by Pepper & Spilsbury manipulate the facts to bring about a successful conviction in a publicly scrutinised and sensational case, which was based on circumstantial evidence? Consider this... Crippen was an unlikely suspect; small, meek and hen-pecked with no convictions or history of violence. The poison was an odd choice, given that he had regular access to cocaine and morphine. The torso was only found by the Police on the third search of the house, with a sample of her hair and his pyjama jacket. But if this mild-mannered man had hacked-up his wife’s body and successfully disposed of her head, limbs and bones elsewhere (none of which have never been found) and expertly removed any clue as to her age, sex or weight, why did he bury half a torso under in his own cellar? Why was the only clue to her identity a supposed ovarian scar? And – if Crippen was right about Cora leaving him for her true-love - if the torso wasn’t Cora, then where did it come from? Perhaps a grave, a hospital, or maybe a mortuary? And then consider this. In October 2007, Dr David Foran of Michigan State University subjected the scar tissue to DNA testing and compared it to the mitochondrial DNA of three of Cora’s surviving great-nieces. The DNA proved that the torso was not Cora Crippen... in fact, it wasn’t even a woman, but a man. (End) The 1940’s would prove to be a difficult decade for Sir Bernard. Addicted to painkillers, crippled by two strokes and chronically depressed - owing to the collapse of his marriage, the death of his sister and both of his sons - his mental health was in sharp decline, as his work became all he had left. Having humiliated so many experts, he had very few friends, and now, aged seventy, he was making mistakes in his autopsies. On the evening of 17th December 1947 at 7:30pm, Sir Bernard entered his small bleak laboratory on the second floor of University College Hospital. He hung up his hat, tidied up his bench, destroyed a few files and a photo of himself and his wife, and – being sat on a cheap wooden chair - he turned on a gas tap. At 8:10pm, smelling gas, a laboratory technician found Bernard collapsed and unconscious, but with his pulse faint he was declared dead at 9:10pm. Many options were considered as to why he had died; natural causes owing to heart disease or accidental death as he had no sense of smell, but with his friend - Sir Bentley Purchase – conducting the autopsy, at the inquest, it was declared that Sir Bernard Spilsbury had died by “suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed”. He was cremated at Golder’s Green on 22nd December 1947 with only twenty-two mourners in attendance. With both men dead, the truth about Crippen’s guilt goes to their graves. But if Sir Bernard Spilsbury did fabricate evidence for his own needs, let us ask two last questions; can we really trust his findings in any of these cases, and – if we can’t - how many innocents were executed at the hands of his lethal evidence? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After an advert for something you’ve probably never considered buying, we have lots of fascinating details about the case, plus a little quiz, some ranting and rambling by me over something pointless, some obsessing about Eva (obviously) and then I shall press stop. Good riddance! Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who is Jessica Peters, I thank you, your goodies are in the post and should be with you soon. Feel free to make all of your friends jealous. Plus a thank you to you and you and you and you and you and you and you.... but not you, cos you’re... urrrggghhh! Joke! Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #114: The Incompetence of John Carragher (Frederick Ernest Monk)18/11/2020
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The white building on the left is 17-19 whitcomb Street, WC2. The first floor window to the right was the office of Frederick Monk, where he was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN:
On Friday 29th March 1968 at roughly 4:20pm, 56-year-old wages clerk Frederick Monk was murdered in his locked first-floor office at 17-19 Whitcomb Street, WC2, For the police, the death of Frederick Monk was a baffling mystery; it was either a robbery only with nothing stolen, a brutal attack only with no motive, or the hate-filled killing of a totally innocent man? But which was it?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of F Cope & Co at 17-19 Whitcomb Street, WC2 where Frederick Monk was killed is located where the fusia triangle is, near Charing Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government Licence 3.0, where applicable.
Crime scene photos taken of the exterior of 17 Whitcomb Street and F Cope & Co, with two comparison photos taken recently by myself
Crime scene photos taken inside 17 Whitcomb Street; the ground floor entrance and stairs, the landing showing two office doors (to the left is Frederick Monk's) and two layouts of the ground and first floor created by the police for the trial
Left: John's rented lodging at 25 St George Square SW1. Top middle: The Queen's Arms pub in Warwick Way (Pimlico). Bottom Middle: The Brittania Dwellings in Hoxton where Frederick was born. Middle Right (top): The guest house Frederick lived at 32 Tooting Bec Gardens in Streatham. Middle Right (bottom): Duchess of Clarence Public House on 171 Vauxhall Bridge Road.
Several crime-scene photos showing the cashier's office, the body in situ and autopsy photos showing Frederick's injuries
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigationj files, held at teh National Archives as well as many reliable sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Frederick Monk; an inoffensive wages clerk at a small decorating firm who was bludgeoned to death by an unknown assailant inside of a locked office. The attack was brutal, but nothing was stolen. So, was this a robbery, a murder, or something else? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 114: The Incompetence of John Carragher. Today I’m standing in Whitcomb Street, WC2; one street south of the Chinatown nightclub where David Knight’s death sparked a gangland hit, two streets south-east of a back-alley in Piccadilly where the Blackout Ripper’s killing spree was cut short, one street west of the attack on Desmond O’Beirne, and a few doors east of the murder at the Royal Automobile Club – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated within the shadow of the National Gallery, Whitcomb Street is an anonymous little side-street within a few seconds walk of Trafalgar Square and Leicester Square, which is rightly avoided by tourists and is only used by the locals and the cab-drivers as a cut-through from Wardour Street to Pall Mall. Like many parts of the West End, Whitcomb Street wasn’t designed, it evolved in an ad-hoc way, hence this gloomy one-way-road consists of a monstrous mess of new builds for big businesses like Pay Pal and Thistle Hotels, but also some little family-run shops such as a newsagents, a sandwich bar and (of course) a massage parlour, all hidden behind a line of four storey flat-fronted houses from late 1800’s. Being within sight of the horrible chimes of the Swiss Centre glockenspiel, the squeal of over-sugared sprogs wailing into M&M World and the perpetual chin-scratch as anyone over 40 thinks “wasn’t that Pret, the former sandwich shop owned by glam-rock pop star and convicted paedophile Gary Glitter?”, (yes, it was), Whitcomb Street is the place that London forgot. But then again, it always has been, as people often forget that it’s the little businesses that need to exist to keep the West End running. Having changed little since 1968, behind the white walls of 17-19 Whitcomb Street stood a decorator’s firm called F Cope & Co, a busy and respected employer of local tradesmen; with a handy Do It Yourself shop on the left of the ground floor, the entrance to Hobhouse Court on the right (leading to a timber yard, a plumber’s merchant and an ironmongers behind) and between both was a street-door leading up to the four offices on the first floor for the managing directors, the secretary and the wages clerk. With a steady passage of workmen heading off to jobs, although there was a constant cacophony of noise owing to the friendly banter, the movement of building materials and the bashing of hammers, it was a pretty uneventful place. Except, on Friday afternoons between 4pm and 5pm, when all of the labourers would receive their weekly wages. And what started as just a regular day, ended in tragedy. As it was here, on Friday 29th March 1968 at roughly 4:10pm, that a mild-mannered wages-clerk called Frederick Monk was murdered. But who would want his dead, and why? (Interstitial) For the police, the death of Frederick Monk was a baffling mystery; it was either a robbery only with nothing stolen, a brutal attack only with no motive, or the hate-filled killing of an innocent man? Frederick Ernest Monks known as Freddie was born in 1911 in Hoxton, East London, as the eldest son of Frederick Snr (a druggist) and Ada (a teacher) with one older sister also called Ada. Wisely waiting until their mid/late-thirties to raise a family when their incomes and homelife had a greater stability, Freddie’s childhood was happy, loving and - although working class - they never needed to struggle. Having passed his school certificate with flying colours, with a passion for maths Freddie was a bright and meticulous young man who was widely regarded by his pals as honest, reliable and trustworthy. As the epitome of his parents, always being sweet and polite, Freddie was described by everyone who knew him as one of the nicest people you could hope to meet - a gentleman who wouldn’t harm a fly. Raised to appreciate the simple things in life, such as; a hearty bowl of porridge for breakfast, a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch and a homecooked meal for tea, he was never a man of extravagance. Renting a single bed in a Streatham guest-house, he wore practical suits (which were always clean and pressed with matching socks, ties and hankies), the short crescent of hair around his ears was neatly trimmed each week by his girlfriend of several years, and he rarely went out. Instead he enjoyed the solitude of reading a good book, supping a nice ale and listening to classical music on the wireless. Being barely five foot three and as little as he was portly, having broken his left leg many moons ago, although he had a very obvious limp, he never let it get him down, as wherever he walked, he whistled. As a 56-year-old bachelor of modest means, for the last nine years he had worked as wages clerk at F Cope & Co. He was dependable, precise, friendly and (as a scrupulous man whose work ran like a well-oiled machine) his employers and the tradesmen respected him and all knew what to expect. Friday 29th March 1968 was a very regular day. It was pay-day for the firm’s labourers, so as twenty-five men in paint and plaster-splattered overalls milled about in the timber yard, Freddie prepared the wage packets. At 2pm, as per usual, he entered William Deacon’s Bank at nearby 9 Waterloo Place, withdrew £639 (£11,000 today), evenly spread the bundles between the seven pockets of his brown pressed suit so they didn’t bulge, and (with his weak leg dragging behind), at 2:35pm, he entered F Cope & Co via the street door on Whitcomb Street. He wasn’t followed, harassed or unnerved. At 4pm, Terence Bacon (the company’s co-director) passed Freddie on the stairs, where he stated “I’m just going off to the Post Office Mr Bacon, I shan’t be long”. With the St Martin’s Street branch one road away, Freddie returned at 4:10pm, as witnessed by Harold Payne (the co-director) and overheard by Alexandra Hilgert (the typist), all who had adjoining offices on the first floor. In his pockets were six sheets of postage stamps worth £5 and a £25 float in assorted change. Again, he wasn’t followed. Behind a plain door marked ‘Private’, Freddie’s office was a small eight-foot-square room with a single locked window, a door with a Yale lock (so when it closed, it locked itself) and there was no entry from the offices on either side. As expected, it was neat and organised, with a set of cabinets, a typewriter, a safe and by the window (where the light was good) a desk with a set of drawers underneath. The pay-day routine ran like clockwork. At 4:20pm, with the supervisors and foremen taking priority over the charge-hands and the labourers, one-by-one (never in groups) each tradesman knocked on the locked door, they identified themselves through the frosted glass panel (as although F Cope & Co always re-hired familiar faces, as a growing business with so many jobs to fulfil, new workmen were needed) they waited to be greeted and to be let in by Freddie. At his desk, by the window, he ticked their name off on a spreadsheet and handed each man a pre-sealed wage-packet from his drawer. Every Friday was the exactly same... except for that Friday. At 4:20pm, Raymond McShee (the painting supervisor) who ran a paint-store outback, knocked on the door, but got no reply, so he returned to the timber yard and waited, as more workmen congregated. By 4:45pm, as a small group formed on the first-floor, knocking louder but to no avail, with no sign of Freddie, Terence tracked-down a spare set of keys to his wage clerk’s office to pay the worker’s wages. At 4:50pm, Terence unlocked the door. At 4:51pm, Raymond called the Police. At 4:56pm, PC Albert Wright arrived at Whitcomb Street and sealed off the crime scene. And although an ambulance was called, at 7:45pm, Dr Geoffrey Dymond of West End Central certified that Frederick Monk was dead. Inside his locked office, the door showed no signs of forced entry, the window was shut from within, the cabinets hadn’t been ransacked and the safe was unlocked. But nothing was stolen; not the £639 in the safe, the £800’s worth of wage-packets in the drawer, the £25 float, or the £5 sheets of stamps. His spreadsheet and pen were just how he had left it; neat and organised on the desk by the window. Only, Freddie wasn’t been missing. He had been right there, in his office, all along. Slumped in a crumpled heap, with his legs all twisted, Freddie was found lying face down on the floor. Scattered about his buckled body were several sheets of stamps, his open pocket-book and a few strewn coins, as his killer had pulled each of his pockets inside-out, leaving the white material exposed. Freddie’s death was brutal and sadistic. Whoever had murdered Freddie had caught him off guard and had attacked him from behind, as with no defensive wounds, a swift blow from a heavy blunt tool had fractured his right shoulder. Disoriented, as this semi-disabled man staggered unsteadily to his feet, his killer swung (what was believed to be) a carpenter’s hammer hard across his head, which impacted behind his left ear and splintered his skull. And as the barely conscious man collapsed onto the floor, lying prone, immobile and helpless – with the inch-wide steel ball of the hammer – his killer had caved in the top of his skull two times more, as a steady stream of blood pooled about his head and torso. His death was slow and lonely, as trapped inside the secure walls of his office, being paralysed and barely-conscious, Freddie was unable to cry, scream or even to call for help. His last moments alive were spent in a terrifying solitude, so by the time the door was opened, Freddie was already dead. No fingerprints were found except Freddie’s. Nothing was stolen. No-one suspicious was seen entering or exiting the premises and there was no sign of a break in. Of the twenty-three staff and tradesmen in the yard and offices at the time of the murder, every known person was accounted for and they all had a corroborated alibi. Nobody heard a struggle; nobody saw his attacker and no weapon was found. The Police were baffled by this violent attack with no obvious motive. Was it a murder made to look like a robbery, a robbery made to look like a murder, or was it personal, business, or something else? Whoever had done this was angry, desperate and would have been bloodied. But then, who would want to murder such a lovely man as Frederick Monk, a true gentleman who wouldn’t harm a fly? His name was John Carragher... ...he knew the location, the victim and his routines. With his plan in place, he would enter the premises without a key, he would attack without a sound, leave no fingerprints, weapons or clues, and would escape a locked room without being seen by anyone, leaving the detectives baffled as to his motive. And yet, although he may seem like a criminal mastermind? In truth, he was truly incompetent. John Carragher was born in Dublin on 24th January 1944 but was raised in the town of Castleblaney on the border of Northern Ireland. Described as a badly behaved boy with jittery limbs, grinding teeth and wide staring eyes, his criminal career began aged 10 when he stole from his family’s farm. Educated at Castleblaney School, he hated his teachers, was often truant and unable to focus, he quit with no qualifications. Later, it was found that he had an IQ of just 84, half way between average and retarded. Aged 13, he ran away from home. Aged 14, he enlisted in the Boy’s Brigade of the Inniskilling Fusiliers until he was discharged on medical grounds. And aged 16, as his own parents had testified in court that he was “beyond control”, he was sent to Borstal and he never saw his family ever again. As a restless, semi-literate boy who’s right leg had been broken and set so often that (just like Frederick Monk) it had left him with a limp – burdened by an unruly uncouth attitude – he survived on a series of low-paid short-term jobs as a painter and labourer, all interspersed with frequent stints in prison. 16th April 1960, aged 16, he was bound-over for one-year at Liverpool Magistrates Court for stealing wallets. 9th May, charged with four counts of theft, he was sent to St Patrick’s Borstal in Londonderry, but having been unsuccessfully “retrained” and found guilty of two further counts of theft, on 21st July 1960 he was sent to prison for sixteen weeks. That’s three convictions in just four months. Moving to England in February 1962, although he planned to start a new life under several aliases such as John Callaghan and John Cash, he struggled to hold down a part-time job and - as a hopelessly inept thief who was easily caught owing bad planning and a violent temper – he often returned to prison. 1st March 1962, he stole a handbag from Crewe Station and was fined £15. 11th March 1962, charged with burglary, he was sent back to borstal for ten months. Five weeks after his release, charged with shop-breaking and larceny in Balham, he was sentenced to four more months in prison. Three months later, charged again with burglary, he served thirty months. And three weeks later, he served a further thirteen months for burglary, and whilst in Wandsworth Prison, he attacked an inmate with a hammer. Released from prison on 21st December 1967, as a 24-year-old drifter with no money, no family and without the skills to hold down a career, the guidance to be good, or the intelligence to execute and plan a flawless robbery, John Carragher made a conscious decision to lead a normal productive life. On 1st January 1968, he was hired as a decorator at F Cope & Co. Sadly the job wouldn’t last, as having turned up six hours late and with his work described as only “satisfactory”, he was kept on as Raymond McShee was one man short, but by the end of the month, he had been handed his cards and laid off. Over the next three months, he flitted between jobs, wearing his usual blue cardigan, blue trousers, black shirt and black shoes, all of which were flecked with paint, and (as the tools of his trade) he carried a navy-blue tool-bag full of brushes, spanners, hacksaws and a sixteen-inch steel hammer. During the twenty-five days that he had worked for F Cope & Co, he met Frederick Monk five times; once on the day he was hired, thrice on subsequent Fridays to receive his wage, and once on the day he left, to be handed his final pay. They never met socially, they had no prior connections and as Freddie wasn’t involved in the hiring or firing of the tradesman, John had no reason to hate him. And yet, on Friday 29th March 1968, John Carragher would brutally batter Frederick Monk to death. But why? If this was robbery, then why did John leave £639 in the safe, £800 in wage slips, a £25 float and £5 in stamps? If this was a murder, why attack him during the day, in his office, at a place they both were known, when Frederick lived alone? And why did John empty all of Freddie’s pockets? What was he after? What did he take? An what was so important it drove him to kill for the very first time? John Carragher wasn’t never a man with a plan; he was an angry, restless and impatient boy with very little intelligence, very few morals and an inability to not get caught owing to his own incompetence. On Sunday 17th March, two weeks prior, in the Queen’s Arms pub in Pimlico, John spilled his whole plan to George Copp, a painter and ex-con he had met the night before. George wasn’t interested and the two men fell out when John’s sexual advances were rejected by George’s girlfriend (Jeanette), at which John shouted “even if I have to wait a few months, I’ll get you when you’re by yourself, and nobody will know what happened to you”, all of which was overheard by an off-duty Policeman. On the morning of Friday 29th March, the day of Frederick’s death, carrying his navy-blue tool-bag and wearing his usual painter’s scrubs, John left his small rented lodging in Mary Sexton’s boarding house at 25 St George’s Street in Pimlico. His rent of £3 and 10 shillings was due the next day, and although he had the money to pay for it, he told the landlady he planned to go to Ireland for a little holiday first. Miraculously still employed, even though his attendance was poor and his work was only satisfactory, having been hired by Woodman’s (a rival firm) to paint the walls of 214 Oxford Street by Oxford Circus, at 12:45pm that day, John Carragher said to a colleague “it’s a beautiful day, I think I’m going to have some fun”. And with that, he walked out, leaving behind his final day’s pay and his tool-kit... ...but tucked into the waist-band of his trousers, he had stashed a sixteen-inch hammer. And although its heavy rounded head was sticky with spots of wet paint, soon it would be spattered with blood. Where he went? We don’t know. What he did? We don’t know. But we do know what he didn’t do. Had he planned this robbery carefully, he’d have known that Freddie’s pay-day routine always ran like well-oiled machine, it’s what made him so respected and trusted as the wages clerk for F Cope & Co. At 2pm, every Friday, Freddie would collect about £600 from William Deacon’s Bank in Waterloo Place, he’d evenly spread the notes between the pockets of his brown pressed suit and (with his crippled leg dragging behind) it would take him ten minutes to limp back to Whitcomb Street. With a disguise, a surprise and a few choice words, right there and then, John could have stolen the lot... but he didn’t. At 4pm, as per usual, Freddie headed off to the Post Office in St Martin’s Street to collect six sheets of stamps and a £25 float in assorted change. It was only one road away from F Cope & Co and the side streets were dark and secluded. So, again, there and then, he could have stolen the lot... but he didn’t. It wasn’t for a brilliant reason, or owing to a personal beef, he just didn’t think of it. John Carragher wasn’t caught because he was too clever, he only got away with it owing to pure luck and coincidence. At 4:10pm, as expected, Freddie returned to F Cope & Co and entered via the street door, as followed by John. The staff were in their offices, the tradesmen were in the yard, no-one was on the first-floor landing and John was just another paint-spattered workman milling around and waiting for his wages. So, how did John get into Freddie’s locked office? Simple. He knocked. (Knocking) Why did Freddie open the door? Easy. He knew him. (John – “Hi Freddie, it’s John Carragher”) But why did Freddie he let John in when he didn’t work there anymore? Well, Freddie wouldn’t know that as he didn’t do the hiring and firing, so as the crews changed every week and mistakes got made, the only way to check it was on his spreadsheet. (John – “Ah, that’s strange. I should be on the sheet”). And as both Freddie and John entered the locked office, as the door closed, the Yale lock clicked shut. With the door marked as ‘Private’, the landing empty, the other office doors closed, and the workmen patently waiting in the yard till Freddie was ready, no-one would disturb them for at least five minutes. John didn’t hate Freddie, he barely knew him, but he needed money and Freddie was in the way. Keen to get to the root of the problem and to work out why John (whose name he recognised) wasn’t on his list, as Freddie leaned over his spreadsheet, from behind, John attacked him with the hammer. The first strike struck Freddie’s right shoulder sending him slumping onto the desk with an unexpected and confusing pain. Struggling to steady himself with the wasted muscles of his crippled left leg, before Freddie could even stand or scream, John struck again, smashing the half-kilo hammer across the back of his head, splitting his skull from right ear to eye, so as the brute force of the blow spun his body 180 degrees, as his legs buckled under him, Freddie collapsed in a crumpled messy heap. Freddie meant nothing to John, he didn’t know him and he didn’t care, so to ensure that this only witness would never identify him, with two fast hard blows, John struck Freddie over the back of head with the heavy curved ball of the hammer. So hard were the strikes that his skull split open, his blood pooled, his brain swelled and – lying face down on the floor – it smashed his nose and eye-socket. With blood in his throat, Freddie lived for a few more minutes but lay paralysed as John pulled his pockets inside-out and searched for the one thing he wanted – the key to the safe. He was so fixated on finding it, he missed the wage-packets, the float and the stamps. Had he looked, he would have seen that the key was in the lock, the money was in the safe and the safe was open... but he didn’t. At 4:20pm, Raymond McShee knocked on the door to get the wages for his crew, but got no reply. Inside, hunched over Freddie, John panicked, he waited till Raymond had left and fled empty-handed. His escape was simple, as leaving via the quiet street-door rather than busy back-yard, no-one noticed another tradesman exiting this well-known painting and decorating firm, spattered with stains and holding a hammer, on pay-day. So, by the time that Freddie was found, he was already dead... ...but it was John’s lack of planning which became his downfall (End) With no witnesses, fingerprints, weapon or obvious motive, the police took a logical approach to the case and interviewed every current and former employee of F Cope & Co. Everyone was accounted for... except one. Searching his lodging, they found his clothes, shoes and a towel, all smeared in blood. The next day, John had fled to Belfast; did a little shopping, watched Cool Hand Luke, flew back on 2nd April and was arrested one week later, as he sat having a pint at the Duchess of Clarence pub. When asked why he’d fled the country, he said; “I didn’t, I went to Ireland because it was a nice weekend” and although he bragged to the police that he had spent £150, we know that nothing was stolen. The decorator, George Copp (who – two weeks prior - had already informed the police that a man had propositioned him regarding a robbery at F Cope & Co) positively identified John. During his interview, not being the sharpest of tools, John said “I didn’t kill Freddie Monk at Copes”, even though the Police hadn’t mentioned either the victim’s name or the location. And although no weapon was found, John Carragher was tried at the Old Bailey on the 24th June 1968. He pleaded ‘not guilty’ to both robbery and murder, charges of which – just three years earlier – may have resulted in a death sentence, but with capital punishment having been abolished, on 9th July 1968 he was sentenced to life in prison. He served his time, his whereabouts are unknown and whether he has adopted a new alias is uncertain. All we do know is that for the sake of a few pounds and a little holiday, a good man called Frederick Monk was murdered. He was sweet, polite and respected. The only reason he was died was because of where he worked and the only reason he died was because of the incompetence of John Carragher. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Up next, we have lots of extra details about this case, we have a quiz, a chat about team, possibly a moment when I shall grumble about a person or boat going by, and this shall all be consumed over a nice cuppa tea and a little biccie or two. Probably two. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Kimberlee Anderson and Lisa Morgan, I thank you both, with an extra thank you to Mugworr who donated to the Murder Mile cake and coot fund via Supporter app in the show-notes. I thank you all. Plus a welcome to all new listeners and a thank you to all long-term listeners. You’re sadists! All of you! Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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To the left is the curved stone wall in Trafalgar Square where Lukas & Luis were standing prior to the attack and to the right is the stone bollard where Desmond fell having been knocked unconscious
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN
On Saturday 3rd June 2017 at 12:24am, in London's bustling Trafalgar Square, as 50-year-old Desmond O’Beirne was heading home after a night out in the West End, he made a very innocent and simple request from a total stranger... 37 seconds later, his life was over.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the norther terrace of Trafalgar Square where Lukas Atunes & Luis Abella punched and kicked 50-year-old Desmond O'Beirne and where he collapsed is marked with a lime green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: To name but a few.
https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-london-47170452 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/harrods-homeless-man-killed-trafalgar-square-desmond-obeirne-trial-old-bailey-a8769216.html https://www.bbc.com/news/av/uk-england-london-43896510/cctv-shows-desmond-o-beirne-killing-in-trafalgar-square https://courtnewsuk.co.uk/spaniard-admits-taking-part-in-death-beating/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-47170452?intlink_from_url=& https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/desmond-obeirne-murder-appeal-trafalgar-square-london_uk_5acb7330e4b09d0a1195ce1f https://www.irishpost.com/news/man-guilty-manslaughter-irishman-desmond-obeirne-central-london-assault-162714 https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/dec/21/harrods-workers-admit-attacking-homeless-man-who-died https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-6682865/Harrods-worker-22-knocked-father-51-one-punch-jailed-three-years.html https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8_ATDSIRi0 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a good decent man who was no bother to anyone when made a very innocent request from a stranger in a public place. It’s something which happens every day in every town and city, but from the moment he spoke that first word, his life was over within seconds. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 113: The Last 37 Seconds of Desmond O’Beirne. Today I’m standing in Trafalgar Square, WC2; one street south-west of the Baby Batterer of Bedfordbury, one street south of the identikit killing at the old curiosity shop, one street west of the hotel where James Forbes McCallum spent his last night of freedom before his bungled robbery of the Coach & Horses pub, and just one road west of the “justifiable homicide” of Ali Fahmy Bey - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated between Covent Garden, The Strand and the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square is a grand public square commemorating the Battle of Trafalgar, which (like most British places) glorifies our victories and vilifies those with titles, but ignores our defeats, the true heroes or the lessons we have yet to learn. Made famous as the site of Nelson’s Column, as well as two fountains to Admirals Jellycoe and Beatty and three plinths to a King, a General and a Major-General (whose accolades are largely forgotten having not featured recently in a Netflix series), most visitors are ignorant of its history as this is a place to pop, perch or protest. It’s where bored tourists scoff that great British delicacy – the McDonalds, grown adults climb on the London Lions like over-sugared babies, angry idiots pointlessly scream at the Police (rather than at the Politicians who are miles away in their tax-payer-funded country-retreats) and a gaggle of baffled Star Wars nerds who are shocked to see that ‘The Great Master Yoda’ floating before them wears Nike, smokes Marlboro, speaks Albanian and often engages in fist-fights with a Wookie, a Spiderman and a Harry Potter. At the north end of Trafalgar Square is the National Gallery; a grand stone-columned Grade I listed building with a knee-high wall and a strip of grass out-front, where visitors often relax and - as a public place - they can sit in safety with their space and privacy respected. Occasionally a stranger may interact - whether to smile, apologise or to ask for a few coins - but their approach is often harmless and brief. For one man, all he asked for was a spare cigarette... nothing more... but seconds later, his life was stubbed out. As it was here, on Saturday 3rd June 2017, that Desmond O’Beirne made a very innocent request, but while the whole world was distracted by terrorists, we forgot about the real evil which lurks within. (Interstitial) Desmond O’Beirne was a good man, decent and kind... Born on 27th August 1966 from solid Irish stock, Desmond grew-up in Edgware; an industrial town in the urban borough of Barnet on the outskirts of north west London, with his parents and his sister Vivienne. As a sprawling city where a mix of wealth, class and race rub shoulders, although it is said that a person’s fame or misfortune can be decided by something as trivial as what side of which street they lived on, Desmond was blessed with a nice home, a loving family and a great start in life. Praised as a ‘first rate student’, Desmond attended St James’ Catholic School in nearby Colindale, a school founded by Dominican sisters in 1934, and being awarded as ‘Best in his Year’ at college, he had the skills, patience and intelligence to succeed, but also the humility to not let this kind of accolade go to his head. Described as a ‘gentle giant’, in truth he wasn’t a physically imposing man, as being just shy of six-foot-tall and only a little bit chubby (as many men are), it was his personality which made him appear larger than life. With a round sad face, sparkly blue eyes and a cheeky little grin, Desmond was harmless, peaceful and (although a little intimidating to those who didn’t know him) he was unthreatening and polite. Raised well, he was generous with his time, money and love, so much so that his many friends saw him as the big brother they never had. But the sweet serenity of his ruddy face couldn’t hide the sadness within. For several decades Desmond earned an honest living as an engineer, where he specialised in steel fixing, a highly skilled profession in which he fitted rebars and steel-mesh to concrete structures in and across London’s skyline. He was married, they had a son and he lived in a small flat in Pimlico, south-west London. To be honest, there is not a lot I can tell you about 50-year-old Desmond O’Beirne, as like so many of us who live our lives, do our jobs, love our families and never aim to stand-out, shrink-down or to ruffle any feathers, he was just an ordinary man living an ordinary life who made the best of what he had... ...and (as with everyone) life could often could be unfair and cruel, so sometimes he struggled. During the economic recession of the late 2000’s, as work dried-up and money became tight, his marriage suffered and (it is said) that he had begun to live an itinerant lifestyle. Life was difficult, but being a good, kind and polite man; he kept himself-to-himself, he was never a bother to anyone and his spirits were buoyed by one of the simple pleasures in life which he could still afford... his cigarettes. Friday 2nd June 2017 was a warm summer evening; the night was cosy, the weather was dry and the West End was as busy as on any Friday night. With Big Ben striking midnight, Desmond merrily sauntered into the wide pedestrianised piazza of Trafalgar Square and lay on the low wall in front of the National Gallery. Dressed in a red t-shirt, black trousers and black shoes - being a little bit tipsy - he rested for a short while on the wall. And with his home just two tube stops away, in his right hand he held a white plastic bag of fast-food to savour later. The area was busy, brightly-lit and covered by cameras and police patrols. As a sweet gentle-giant, who was as pleasant when he was drunk as he was when he was sober, Desmond had no enemies or secrets. He never caused trouble, he didn’t pick fights, he hadn’t met anyone strange that night and he had nothing of any value. As the pubs emptied, the clubs opened and hundreds of people passed-by, all they saw was a tipsy man, snoozing on a wall, after a good night out on the bevvies. At 12:24am, feeling that familiar urge to fill his belly, Desmond got to his feet and (with his bag of food in hand) he had begun to head home for the night, only to realise that he had ran out of cigarettes... ... 37 seconds later, the life of Desmond O’Beirne would end. Desmond’s murder occurred within a few feet of several witnesses in a well-lit public place, the suspects were easily seen and the CCTV footage of those tragic few seconds were so upsetting that they caused an outrage. And yet, Desmond’s killers wouldn’t be brought to justice for more than a year. But why? As with every cowardly criminal; they hid, they lied, they fled and they were protected by their loved ones, but more importantly the attention of the press and the people were focussed elsewhere when Desmond was murdered, which made the case next-to-impossible to solve with the speed that his family deserved. In the years, months and weeks leading up to his murder, Britain was rocked by a series of terrorist attacks by home-grown fanatics, which had raised the UK Threat Level from ‘Substantial’ to ‘Severe’;
Every incident was a tragic loss of life, but with Desmond’s attack having only just hit the newspapers, when the detectives and Desmond’s family urgently needed the help of the public to identify the suspects seen on CCTV, our attention was focussed on London Bridge, two and half miles east of Trafalgar Square. In that instance, during those first 24-hours and the most crucial stage of the investigation, almost no-one cared about a fifty-year-old man who the papers said had been “drinking” and was cruelly described – not as a husband, a father or even an engineer – but as a ‘vagrant’ and a ‘tramp’. It was as if his life was worth less than any of the others... and in the blink of an eye, Desmond was forgotten and his killers vanished. Only, his death wasn’t at the hands of a deluded terrorist, an escaped maniac or a vengeful rival, but from something a lot closer-to-home... and he wouldn’t meet his killers until seconds before his tragic end. We often forgot that evil can appear in many forms, sometimes as the epitome of rage, hate or vengeance, and other times it can appear as arrogance, innocence and stupidity. Lukas Antunes & Luis Abella were two young men living their ordinary lives in London. Unlike so many of London’s lost wastrels - who are demonised as ‘feral youths’ spawned in an uncaring home to a bankrupt culture who are obsessed with knives, respect and status - these two you could happily pass in the street without a glance or gulp. As they weren’t ruffians, thugs or troublemakers, they were just two clean-cut young men with regular jobs, a disposable income and no responsibilities, except to enjoy their social life. Aged 22, Lukas Antunes was a Brazilian national on an Italian passport who had previously lived in North America (hence his accent). Described as a little bit cocky and vain, as a stocky but well-built lad who loved to work-out at the gym, Lukas believed that he was a real lady’s man. Always being immaculately groomed with flawless skin, a tidy stubble and an arrogant swagger, Lukas would post pictures of his shirtless torso online as he flexed like a young Adonis. To some, he was nothing but a brash bullshitter with a fiery temper (all of which hid his insecurities), but to others, he exuded a confidence which reigns supreme in today’s media obsessed age. So, although he strived to be unique, he was no different to many other young men. And whereas Lukas would lead, Luis would follow. Also aged 22, Luis Abella was more like a baby-faced version of Lukas who lived with mum in a Stockwell flat. Similarly described as fashion-conscious, well-groomed and clean-cut, Luis was smaller and thinner, with a quieter voice, a stylish ice-cream swirl of dark black hair on his head and a boyish hint at a moustache as if he had coloured it in with a pencil – hence (it was said) he lived in his best pal’s shadow. They may not sound like a pack of callous killers and that’s because they weren’t. Regardless of their flaws (which all of us have), they were just two ordinary young men living their ordinary little lives in a big city. Hired by an agency called Buzz Retail, Lukas & Luis were a key-part of a high-energy group of young men and women who – all day - would confidently demonstrate the latest gadgets - hailed as “the most exciting toys in the world” - in London’s most prestigious toy-stores such as Hamley’s, Selfridges and Harrods. During the warm summer’s day of Friday 2nd June 2017 - which was a day no different to any other, except for a heightened security on the streets and a fear that anyone of us could be the next victim of terrorists - as Lukas & Luis skilfully played and proudly boasted the merits of each toy in the Harrods toy department – whether a puzzle, a mini-drone, a remote-controlled car, or (the ‘must have toy of 2017’ – the fidget spinner) – having finished their shift at 7pm; they dressed, styled and sauntered out into the West End. In a small group of friends, colleagues and cousins, they caught the Piccadilly Line from Knightsbridge to Leicester Square and blended in with the night-time revellers. There they drank, smoked and chatted, just like everyone else who was waving goodbye to the working week and seeing in the weekend in style. Later, identified by the Police only as Male #1, in the CCTV footage Lukas was seen wearing a red t-shirt, black jeans and white trainers. With Luis, identified only as Male #2, in dark jeans, white trainers and a black jacket with a large white F on the back. They weren’t disguised in any way, as anyone who had planned to commit a murder would, and that’s because the thought had never crossed their minds. At 12:24am, as the pubs emptied, the clubs opened and hundreds of people passed-by, fifty-feet away a tipsy man lay snoozing on a wall after a good night out on the bevvies.... but they didn’t see, speak or even acknowledge him – and why should they – as their sole priority that night was which venue to go to next. Luis was chatting to his pals, Lukas was on his phone, and – with a plastic bag of fast-food in his hand and his stomach growling - Desmond O’Beirne slowly stirred from his slumber on that warm summer night. Lukas and Luis had never met Desmond before, and as the merry man rose to his feet and begun to head home after a nice night out, it was then that Desmond realised that he had ran out of cigarettes... ...37 seconds later, the life of Desmond O’Beirne would end at the hands of Lukas & Luis. Feeling a little rumbly about his belly and a touch rosier around his cheeks, as Desmond staggered to his feet, he knew that – after a few pints – his body craved that last hit of nicotine before his bedtime. Sadly, his packet was empty as his pockets, and as the good old days were long gone when even a kid could buy a ciggie for 10p from a newsagent, a common practice among many smokers is simply to ask a stranger. They might say no, but if you’re polite enough, they usually say yes. And Desmond was always polite. (Ticking) 12:24am and 1 second. Desmond sees a clean-cut group of young men and women standing fifty feet away at the back of the George IV statue, they’re laughing, chatting and one of them is smoking. The Square is moderately busy, but at that moment, this group are the nearest and they seem nice enough. (Ticking) 12:24am and 5 seconds. Focussed only on getting one last smoke to see himself home, Desmond collected his things as a Police patrol headed north to yet another urinating, puking or abusive idiot who couldn’t hold their drink, but right then, Desmond wasn’t worried, as this was his city where he felt safe. (Ticking) 12:24am and 10 seconds. Seeing the group standing at the lip of the curved wall - knowing that as a ‘gentle giant’ he may appear a little intimidating to those who didn’t know him - Desmond pacified any fears with his cheeky smile, his twinkling blue eyes and a walk which (if a little unsteady) was calm and slow so as not to spook the group, as he passed two concrete bollards and an old fashioned lamppost. (Ticking) 12:24am and 22 seconds. As he neared the group, Desmond made a bee-line passed two girls and four men including Luis, and headed straight to Lukas who was on his phone and smoking a cigarette. As always, Desmond was the epitome of sweet, kind and polite... but what Lukas saw was a ruddy-faced stumbling drunk, who smelt of drink, was begging for ciggies and was rudely interrupting his call. In court, Lukas & Luis claimed that Desmond had threatened to “shank them”, to stab them, a piece of prison slang this sweet man never used and his demeanour in the footage showed no aggression at all. (Ticking) 12:24am and 30 seconds. Just eight seconds later, that’s barely enough time for Desmond say “hello” to this stranger, to ask for a cigarette and to be told “no” by Lukas, but as what was said was never recorded and both men were outside of the security camera’s frame, what happened next is unknown. Seven seconds later, the life of Desmond O’Beirne would end. (Ticking) 12:24am and 32 seconds. Startled by something or someone, fearing for his safety, Desmond quickly turns his back on Lukas and (with his bag in his hand) he briskly walks away towards the bollards. (Ticking) 12:24am and 33 seconds. Terrified that the thing which had startled him had escalated, without saying a word or making a gesture in retaliation, Desmond began to run as if his life depended on it. (Ticking) 12:24am and 34 seconds. Being fifty, overweight and drunk, Desmond had only managed to run a few feet before the younger, fitter and more powerfully-built Lukas had started to chase him down. (Ticking) 12:24am and 35 seconds. Sprinting from behind, as he swung his right arm far behind his back to maximise the power of his attack, Lukas swung his thick hard fist fast into the side of his victim’s head, and in a swift single punch, he knocked Desmond out cold. Being unconscious and unable to break his own fall, the fifteen-stone father-of-one hit the concrete slabs hard with his head and chest, as the speed of his run caused his limp body to briefly slid across the stone and come to rest by a concrete bollard. Only, even as Desmond lay silent and motionless on the hard-cold stone, the attack didn’t stop there. (Ticking) 12:24am and 37 seconds. Never questioning the reason for this viscous attack, Luis was already in pursuit, so by the time that Desmond had been floored by a fast fist – with a flying kick - Luis savagely booted the limp man’s body with a ferocity so hard that Desmond’s whole body bucked with the force. And then, as Desmond lay silent and helpless, both Lukas and Luis strutted away with a cocky swagger. Not for a single second did they stop to see if he was okay, or even to call for an ambulance. And although one of their party was seen staring in disbelief at this unconscious man who was profusely bleeding from his head, Lukas barked at his pals to “come on” and - with that - they all disappear into the night. Passers-by stopped to film the collapsed man with their phones (and possibly they captured his attackers too) but no-one shared the footage with the Police and only one person called for an ambulance. Paramedics arrived at the scene a few minutes later, but he was unresponsive having suffered a traumatic brain injury as well as nine fractured ribs. Being listed as ‘critical’, he underwent an emergency operation at St Thomas’ Hospital with screws fitted to hold his skull in place, but his injuries had left him in a coma. That night, as London Bridge was attacked by terrorists, the press turned away, the public lost interest, Desmond was forgotten, eye-witnesses walked away and Lukas & Luis vanished. Transferred to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, Desmond’s sister Vivienne later said “I couldn’t recognise my brother and unfortunately he couldn’t recognise me, there was no communication skills, he was in a vegetative state”. 51-year-old Desmond O’Beirne, the married father-of-one lay in a coma for six months, but having contracted pneumonia, he died on 20th December 2017. Vivienne: “my brother was hard-working and larger than life. He was on a night out in Trafalgar Square when he was brutally and viscously attacked by two cowards who then calmly walked away and left him for dead”. (End) Aided by a grainy piece of footage, statements from a few (but not all of the) witnesses and a Red Bull can with the fingerprints of two unknown suspects, the police were at a loss who his attackers were, but were unwilling to bring the case to a close until justice had been done for Desmond. On 10th April 2018, at a press conference, DCI Noel McHugh of the Met Police made this appeal; “you may have been part of the group and did not realise how seriously Desmond was hurt and that he has now died. That may pray on your mind. You can contact us and help us get justice”. It was a long shot which could have resulted in nothing, but sometimes a good person in a difficult situation can do the right thing. An unidentified cousin later stated that Lukas had “bragged about how he had taken him out with a single punch, he seemed proud of it, but after a few days he stopped talking about it and asked us to do likewise”. As Lukas had fled to America, with the assistance of the US Marshalls, the Met Police conducted a joint arrest on 15th August 2018. Luis charged that day, but having gone into hiding, Lukas was later arrested in Alabama and extradited to the UK. Tried separately at the Old Bailey on the 14th and 21st of December 2018 - as first-time offenders who were found guilty of the lesser charges of manslaughter and actual bodily harm - Lukas Antunes was sentenced to just three years and nine months in prison with Luis’ three-years suspended for two. In all likelihood – given good behaviour – they may already have been released. Desmond O’Beirne was a good man, who wasn’t being a bother to anyone when he made a very simple and innocent request of a stranger. 37 seconds later, his life ended and all because he asked for a cigarette. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Up next, we have some extra details about this case, as well as some waffle about biscuits and tea. So, if this is your thing, pop on a brew right now and join me for a slightly one-sided chinwag Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporter who is Karen Ann Chalupnik, I thank you very much, as well as a thank you to all the new lovely reviews you lovely people have been posting. I really do read them all and they are very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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23 Old Compton Street today, where Bar Soho stands, but back in 1943 this was the Helvetia public house. On the pavement outside, Savvaas Demitriades was stabbed to death
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE:
On Monday 25th October 1943, at roughly 3:30pm, a businessman called Savvas Demetriades was murdered in broad daylight on a public pavement outside of the Helvetia pub at 23 Old Compton Street. The Police's investigation should have collapsed owing to the code of silence in Soho’s Greek-Cypriot community. But this would collapse owing to how petty the murder was.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of teh patch of pavement where Savvas was murdered is located where the rum & raisen triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original court documents and the declassified police investigation files from the National Archives, as well as many other sources. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a beef, a bust-up, a bit of bad blood between two hot-headed Greek Cypriots over little more than a few coins, which led to a brutal murder in broad daylight. Those who knew the two men claimed that they had seen nothing, but their strict code of silence was about to break. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 112: Savvas Demetriades and the Code of Silence. Today I’m standing on Old Compton Street, in Soho, W1; one street south of the bungled porn heist by rabid willy-fiddler Richard Rhodes Henley, a few shops east of the arcade where Alfredo Zomparelli got popped playing pinball, and right next door to the Union Club where Charles Berthier gunned-down a rival over an innocent little comment about his “big arms” - coming soon to Murder Mile. Based at its edges, Old Compton Street is the cultural heart of Soho; a single street thankfully absent of the same high-street stores. Instead, we are blessed with something unique, diverse and authentic. Sadly, like so many places, Soho is sprinkled with attention-seeking tools with their silly beards, trilbies and motorised scooters - all of which screams “look at me, I have no personality” - as they dodge a dance troop shooting the next YouTube hit, a scrawny hipster reading ‘Trendy Allergies’ magazine and a dullard with a thimble-sized laptop who claims to be a ‘writer’ (they even have a website so it must be true) but the only thing that they’ve ever written is a Twitter post stating “I’m writing my novel”. Setting aside the awful gentrification which has ripped the guts out of Soho, what makes Old Compton Street so special is that it’s a place where many nationalities have settled down, set-up shop and served-up a little slice of their old life in with their new. It wasn’t planned, it just evolved, but it has spawned into a marvellous melting pot of styles, sights and smells, with little enclaves of culture on every street corner; whether delicatessens, patisseries, coffee shops or pizza parlours. In 1943, Savvas Demetriades & Christos Georghiou, two Greek-Cypriots who owned a café in the welsh city of Cardiff were frequent visitors to Soho for a coffee, a game of cards and some good conversation with their fellow countrymen. As with so many immigrants, the Cypriots kept-to-themselves, sorted out any problems within and (if needed) they protected their own with a refusal to trust the Police. But their loyalty would be sorely tested, when - in broad daylight, on the bustling pavement, outside of the busy Helvetia pub at 23 Old Compton Street - these best-buddies and recent rivals ended a very bitter feud… and the eye-witnesses to their crime felt obliged to claim that they had seen nothing. As it was here, on Monday 25th October 1943, that the very public stabbing of Savvas would prove to be so petty, that the code of silence in Soho’s Greek-Cypriot community would collapse. (interstitial) Some people kill for love, country, revenge or survival. It’s frowned upon, but to many such motives are understandable. And yet, others kill for causes so trivial, it makes you wonder why they bothered. Savvas and Christos were as close to being brothers as any brothers could be without being brothers. Born two years apart on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus; growing up in the capital city of Nicosia in the years preceding the First World War, daily life was hard owing to its isolated position, economic collapse, religious infighting and made worse by this former Greek colony being under the British boot. To the British, Cyprus was nothing but a strategic naval outpost overlooking the Suez Canal; its people were invisible, their lives were worthless and the land was traded as a little trinket between the Greeks and the Turks. Systematically plundered by larger nations, the tiny island of Cyprus and its people have endured tyranny for centuries in a divided population split between the Turkish-Cypriots and the Greek-Cypriots, many of whom fought during both World Wars for and against the British. As little boys raised during the First World War, the childhoods of Savvas and Christos were short; food was scarce, clothes were ragged and death was frequent. Being gripped by rationing, even law-abiding citizens would dabble in the depths of small-time criminality simply to survive by buying even the most basic of necessities on the black-market. Regarded as petty-thieves by their British occupiers, their daily lives were ruled - not by the military, or even their own police - but by the British Police, therefore it’s unsurprising that many Cypriots developed a mistrust and a strict code of silence was formed. Raised in abject poverty, Savvas & Christos naturally had a thirst for wealth, fine foods and sharp suits. To them, every penny was precious and - as in every family - the two boys squabbled over increasingly trivial matters, but always stuck together through thick-and-thin; like a big brother and a little. Savvas Christos Demetriades was born in 1909, two years after Christos. As the youngest of the two, Savvas was blessed with the patience and wisdom of an older man. He was frugal, astute and (although he loved the thrill of gambling on cards, dogs, horses and dice) he was a sensible spender who would happily blow a bundle on a long-shot in the hope of a big pay-off, but he always knew his limits. In relationships, Savvas was as a calm and loving man for whom family was an unbreakable bond. And being short but muscular man who was handsome in his own way, he had no problem with the ladies. By 1927, as Cyprus had become a British colony, being granted his citizenship and keen to seek a better life overseas, Savvas joined the Merchant Navy alongside his best-friend Christos. Being three inches shorter, four stone heavier and two years older, Christos Georghiou was more akin to a baby brother, both physically and mentally, who often envied the style and savvy that Savvas had, and (lacking the business acumen) he clung onto the younger man’s coat-tails. Like mirror opposites, Christos aspired to be bigger and better than his best-buddy - by petulantly being dressed in sharper suits, slicker hats and with his thin moustache Brilliantine’d into razor sharp slivers - but instead of trying to forge his own path, he would remain stuck in the shadow of Savvas. As a businessman, he disliked hard-work but loved money. As a gambler, he took big risks which rarely paid off. As a lover, he dated many of Savvas’ ex’s and flirted with any potential squeeze. And whereas Savvas had several bank accounts (for his legitimate purchases) and a strongbox under the floorboards (for those which weren’t), Christos never saved a penny. Instead he would seek out his next potential investment in the sports pages of his local rag. And although both men were hot-headed Cypriots prone to fiery outbursts, where-as Savvas would fume then forgive, Christos would bubble and erupt. Savvas would always take Christos under his wing, as although they weren’t related, family was family. For several years, the two men served side-by-side as cooks on several ships in the Merchant Navy. In the early 1930’s, as naturalised British citizens, they moved to Southampton, London and then to the Welsh city of Cardiff, all of which had a large Cypriot community and this became their new home. In 1939, Savvas & Christos decided to go into business together. They invested £150 each, put their skills to good use and – by infusing the standard English fare of cups of tea and fry-ups with a slice of their Cypriot upbringing – they opened the ‘British & Continental Café’ at 19 Caroline Street in Cardiff. It was popular and profitable among the Welsh and Cypriot locals alike. During the day it was a cheap eatery to feed families, but by night - with the blinds down and the doors locked – it was a gambling den for card-sharks like Christos. It was illegal, but through silence, it was kept off-the-Police’s radar. Being as different as they were similar, with two hot-headed men working side-by-side, all day, every day, in the heat of a scorching kitchen, naturally their tempers flared. So, for a while, although their little café proved to be a minor success, trivial little things had already caused it to start to slide. Seeing the café less as a business and more as a place for any pal of Christos to hang-out, Savvas rightly resented these bums who ponced his free food and ate up his profits, so as it tumbled from being a charming family café to doss-hole for deadbeats, very quickly the regular customers stopped coming. Desperate to beat his best-friend who was also his bitter rival, in the den, Christos used loaded dice, a rigged deck and every underhanded trick to win, and so, a deep mistrust began to creep in. It all seems so obvious where the problems lay, but being so hot-headed, both men struggled to simply say “I’m sorry” and (even over such trivial matters) they both harboured a grudge, especially when Savvas had started to date a young lady known only as ‘Peggy’, and Christos would flirt with her too. As best-friends who were as close as any brothers, their relationship fractured, their café bled money and as even the smallest of issues spiralled into petty violence, three incidents would split them apart. On the evening of 23rd March 1943, feeling rightly cheated having lost a sizable sum owing to Christos’ marked cards and wonky dice, an unidentified gambler cursed Christos as a “dirty Greek rat” and sliced open his nose with a flung cup. Seething, bloodied and unwilling to back-down from a petty slight - pulling a stiletto blade from his boot - Christos slashed back, and as the den erupted into all out war, tables were tipped, bottles were hurled and the white walls were re-decorated with splashes of red. And during the melee, as the level-headed Savvas tried to hold back his rabid partner, Christos bit him, which left a trail of blood to the sink and his right hand with a very visible scar for the rest of his life. Within minutes, the Police had a wealth of evidence, but with every witness held by a code of silence, no-one was convicted. All were released, but it lit a bright spotlight on the café, Christos and Savvas. On 12th April 1943, three weeks later, Christos was at it again. The place was a rival gambling den called the Anchor in Hayes Bridge, his targets were a croupier called Chris and a gambler known only as ‘Australian Joe’, the reason was petty, and armed with a broken table leg, he left six men bleeding and one man hospitalised for a week. Twelve arrests were made, but with the witnesses silent, no-one was convicted. And again, Christos was bailed out by Savvas… …but this wasn’t the proverbial straw which broke the camel’s back. In late April 1943, roughly two weeks later, Christos – who would rarely pull his weight, who had let his pals pitch the café into debt and who had frequently been bailed out by Savvas (whose personal savings had often propped up the business) – said that he had seen Savvas pocket some money from the café’s till. Savvas denied it, Christos was adamant, but by May their partnership was dissolved. Unable to find a common ground, or to simply apologise, the two former best-friends split-up, refused to talk and went their separate ways, but with both men being Greek-Cypriots with the same pals and past-times - as the bad blood festered - the chance of them bumping into each other again was high. Six months later, Savvas Demetriades was dead over matter of just £1 and 15 shillings... ...but for Christos Georghiou, it was a matter of pride. On Sunday 24th October 1943, one day before his death, Savvas caught the 10:30am train from Cardiff to Paddington and hopped in a cab to Soho. As a familiar face in its betting shops, patisseries and coffee bars, who had lived in a Cypriot enclave on nearby New Compton Street only a few years earlier, to Savvas, Soho was like a second home and his visits here were frequent and welcome. Since their partnership had dissolved, for an astute investor like Savvas, business had been good. The café was in profit, the gambling den was civilised, the police surveillance had ceased and he was here to collect a £200 winning from a £1 bet. That’s roughly £6000 he’d won off a dog he hadn’t even seen. Looking sharp in his black tailored suit, mirror-shined shoes and starched white shirt - although he carried a bank-book with a balance (in today’s money) of £40,000, with £11,500 in his bag, £10,000 in a cash box, two gold lighters in his pockets and a 24-carat gold ring on his finger with a diamond big enough to cause blindness – he knew no-one would mug him, as he was connected and respected. But being a cultural melting pot, as not everyone in Soho was Cypriot, Savvas left the bulk of his cash with Kristacos Dichomides; an old pal known as ‘Kiki’ who owned the Blue Water Café at 18 St Giles High Street, who – being like a brother – he knew he could trust him with his money and his life. At 5pm he left. At 7pm he met a cousin called Harry at the College Café on Gower Street, where they drank tea and discussed dog-racing. And at 8pm, they met a buddy called Nicola Costas, headed to a Greek tavern on Rathbone Place and ate heartily from the foods of their homeland. It was an ordinary evening for the party of four. So, needing a strong coffee and a few games of cards to see them through to the wee small hours, they headed to a friendly little café called Nico’s at 42 Dean Street... ...just a few doors down the pavement outside of 23 Old Compton Street, where barely sixteen hours later, Savvas Demetriades would be stabbed to death. As he casually strolled in, suddenly it was as if all of the air had been sucked out, as the room fell silent and cold. Like the British and Continental Café, Nico’s was a legal family eatery by day but an illicit den by night, where cards were played, items were fenced, money was made and no questions were asked. Full of Europe’s more hot-tempered patrons, tempers flared and fights were frequent as no-one liked to lose face. Only now, everyone’s eyes were fixed on two men, stood just a few feet apart, who hadn’t uttered a single word to each other in the last six months and now they were standing eye-to-eye. As a tight-knit community, everyone knew about the rift, the break-up and the café, they even knew about the £1 and 15 shillings which Savvas had supposedly stolen from the till, according to Christos. That was what the beef was about, £1 and 15 shillings, which today doesn’t even add up to fifty quid... ...but for the short, dumpy and moustachioed Christos, whose puffy pale face was profusely sweating and whose trembling hand was creeping nearer the blade in his boot, it was a matter of pride... ...only for Savvas it wasn’t. He was a businessman, a family man and a loyal friend, not a two-bit hood. So bellowing (Savvas) “Christos, my brother” across the room, scooping up his old pal in his big arms, wrapping him in a bear-hug and kissing both cheeks, for Savvas, family was family and all was forgiven. That night, the two men laughed like they did in the old good days. With the cards out, Christos on the beer and Savvas supping a lemonade (as he liked to keep sharp when money was at stake), the two men chatted about their ex-girlfriend ‘Peggy’ and mutually agreed to split the cost to bail her out of prison. And as this calm and pleasant night rolled on, at 4am, they all headed home to their beds. At 10am, the next day, Savvas, Harry and Nicola met at Nico’s café, but Christos didn’t show. Each man put in £300, but - with Christos missing - the pile was short, so (as always) Savvas covered his debt. He wasn’t angry or upset, he was just disappointed, but he knew that Christos couldn’t be trusted. Which was true... ...Christos stumbled out of bed just shy of noon, too late to be any use, too hungover to care and with his wallet suspiciously light, Christos headed out to a pub to grumble about his misfortune... but mostly to fume about Savvas. (Christos) “Savvas and his suits”. “Savvas and his gold”. “Savvas and his money”. Spitting venomous curses like “he take from me”, “he cheat me”, “we like brothers”, and never once hearing the irony in his paranoid fuming, as he angrily shuffled into a pub to sink a few pints and having got so staggeringly drunk he could hardly stand-up straight, at 3:20pm, as the seething wreck shuffled out of the Coach & Horses on Greek Street - still furious over the £1 and 15 shillings that “I know he stole” – Christos headed north up Dean Street towards Old Compton Street with a blade in his boot. The paths were bustling, the shops were buzzing and it was broad daylight when Savvas Demetriades and his friend Christos Costas headed south down Dean Street and entered Old Compton Street. In short, this should have been a simple case for the Police to solve, but with every investigation being reliant on eye-witnesses and with a deep mistrust of the British authorities among the Greek-Cypriots, as the strict code of silence crept in... suddenly the eye-witnesses turned blind, deaf and mute. The murder itself was self-explanatory... ... as outside of the Helvetia pub at 23 Old Compton Street, seeing Savvas, Christos punched his bitter rival in the back, a scuffle ensued with fists and feet flying, pulling his blade Christos stabbed Savvas once in chest, both men fell and Savvas was stabbed two more times. And as the blood-spattered man stumbled east towards Charing Cross Road, at the busy intersection, he hailed a taxi and fled... ...and that was it, but very few eye-witnesses could recall even those simple details. Within minutes PC George Newman had arrived on scene, where he saw a large crowd congregated around Dr Calvin Lambert (a passing doctor) who was attending to the profusely bleeding man. As a lone constable awaiting back-up, he tried to make sense of it all and to preserve the crime-scene as best he could, but he was just one man. Many witnesses walked away, many were unsure what they’d seen and many stated “I don’t recall”, “I didn’t see” or gave a vague description. Even Christos Costas (who had dined with both men the night before) claimed “I never seen that man before” and even as Savvas lay dying – with a punctured stomach, three broken ribs, a collapsed right lung and his left lung failing – he used one of his last breaths to protect his fellow Cypriot, his brother and his friend. Savvas Demetriades was rushed to Charing Cross Hospital, but owing to blood loss, he died on arrival. The investigation struggled to find the assailant, as although the Police had secured several witnesses to the attack, their memories would prove to be flaky, vague or mysteriously absent. Especially for those who had families, homes, livelihoods and a selfish desire to keep breathing. A US solider called Private Hoornastra saw Savvas but not his attacker. Martha Zurrer, a waitress at Brown’s Hotel saw most of it, but only from behind. Ellen Bennett, a receptionist at The Queensbury saw everything, except she was three stories up. And a milkman called Alwyn Childs who saw the whole incident (from soup-to-nuts) and gave a full and detailed description of the murder and the culprit, even down to the fact that the attacker was so drunk he had stabbed himself in the left leg. But when they were called in to attend a Police identification parade with Christos in the line-up; the soldier was absent, the waitress’s testimony was dismissed, the receptionist couldn’t identify the man at all, and the milkman (who served many of the Green-Cypriot businesses in and around Soho) flatly refused to walk down the line of suspects, nervously stating “he’s definitely not here”. As for evidence, the knife was lost, the taxi was never found and the blood stains on the street were washed away. And there, the murder investigation came to a close... (End) ...or, at least, it should have done. But a code of silence in a tight-knit community requires a level of honour for those to respect it. Being a businessman (even though his earnings weren’t always legitimate), Savvas was a good, decent and loyal man who treated every Greek-Cypriot as his own, as to him - family was family. Whereas Christos was a reckless gambler and an angry drunk who left debts all over town and had spilled blood on a public street over the paltry sum of just £1 and 15 shillings... which wouldn’t feed him for one day. All it took was one person to say his name and the whole code collapsed. A cousin of Savvas called Joannis Mina spotted Christos in the shop of a Mrs Christina Douglas on New Cavendish Street and (after a brief bit of surveillance) he was arrested the next morning at her home at 26 Marlborough Hill in Wealdstone. He was pale, hungover, agitated and had a fresh stab wound to his left leg. And although the Police had no viable witnesses, it became a moot point, as Christos gave a full confession. Christos Georghiou was tried at the Old Bailey on 10th December 1943, at which he pleaded ‘not guilty’. But having deliberated for 55 minutes, the jury returned a verdict of ‘guilty’ and he was sentence to death. As Christos left the dock, the 36-year-old gambler wept (as he did during his confession) stating of Savvas (Christos) “I don’t know why I did it, he was so good to me, my friend, my brother”. On 2nd February 1944 at 9am, with his appeal dismissed, he was executed by hanging at Pentonville Prison and in his final days alive, not one single friend from his close-knit community paid him a visit. So many people attended the funeral for Savvas that the service was standing-room only, but having shamefully killed in broad daylight for a few coins, the friends of Christos Georghiou refused to take the short trip to see him in prison, as - to them – his life wasn’t even worth the price of a bus ticket. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Up next, we have some extra info about this murder case, there’s a little quiz and a chat about tea and cake, as well as the usual pointless waffle. It’s not compulsory, so feel free to switch off now. If not, pop on the kettle and join me for a cuppa. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporter who is Kevin Price, I thank you very much, as well as a thank you to two very kind people who have donated to keep Murder Mile alive, they are Tracy The Cat Lady (who donated via Supporter) and Anne-Marie Griffin (via Murder Mile eShop). I thank both of you hugely. As well as a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the show. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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By the Maida Hill tunnel where the Pineapple Gate tollbooth once stood and where the torso of Hannah Brown was discovered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN:
On Wednesday 28th December 1836 at roughly 2pm, off Pineapple Place in Maida Vale, the dismembered torso of an unidentified lady was discovered hidden behind a paving stone. With no arms, no legs and no head, her identity was impossible to determine, but the investigation and discovery of subsequent body parts unearthed one of the most brutal murders in British history.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Pineapple Place, near Pineapple Gate where the torso of Hannah Brown was found is located where the red triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos of the locations for Ep111: The Scattered Remains of Hannah Brown. To the left is the footage by the Maida Hill tunnel where Pineapple Place once stood and where the torso of Hannah Brown was found and on the right is Stepney Lock where her head was found.
This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data. I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Top to bottom and left to right: the rough location of Pineapple Place where the torso of Hannah Brown was found, Stepney Lock where her head was found, The Angel pub where the pre-wedding drinks were to take place, St Giles In The Fields Church where the wedding was to take place, an example of Hannah's home and the villas near Pineapple Place.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This case was researched using the original court documents from the Old Bailey, as well as many other sources. MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Hannah Brown, a hard-working sweet-natured widow in her twilight years of her life who was looking to settle down, set-up shop and move to America with her loving husband-to-be. Every part of her dream came true, only what she found wasn’t happiness, but death. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 111: The Scattered Remains of Hannah Brown. Today I’m standing by the Maida Hill tunnel, just off Edgware Road, W2; four blocks north of the seedy hotel where Agnes Mary Walsh met her demise at the hands of the Sad Faced Killer, three blocks north of the odd suicide pact of Lieutenant Colonel Felic Sterbe, one street north-east of the floating suitcase found to have been stuffed with the suffocated corpse of Marta Ligman, and one street west of the unsolved and deeply troubling death of Amala De Vere Whelan - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated within tooting distance of the dingy squalor of Paddington station, running parallel with the busy roar of Edgware Road and skirting the eastern edge of the last stretch of the Grand Union Canal is a series of long elegant avenues comprising of opulent white-stone villas for the seriously wealthy. As a former hunting ground known as Tyburnia, around the 1830’s when construction began, although it was only one and a half miles from Marble Arch and the Tyburn Gallows (which marked the entrance to the city), this part of Maida Vale was still regarded as countryside. One of the few thoroughfares of which was Edgware Road, and a few yards from this spot stood a toll-booth called Pineapple Gate. Of course - except for the avenues, the canal and the tunnel - very little still exists of the woodland, the toll-booth or the exact location at Canterbury Villas where this first grisly discovery took place. This is a gentle canal-side walk, where couples drained of conversation beyond the occasional grunt toss scraps of focaccia to the disapproving ducks, sip a glass of house white as the trucks thunder by, drool over the houses no-one could never hope to buy (if they actually pay their taxes) and dream of a better life in a bigger house… only stuck with the same old misery-guts. But then again, that is love. To many, love is for life. But to some, love is brief, convenient and a necessary evil to a quick solution. By Christmas 1836, fifty-year-old widow Hannah Brown had found happiness, love and (after years of hard-work and heart-ache) she was about to fulfil the dreams which she truly deserved. She felt alive, whole and complete, and yet – with her life cruelly cut-short - her arms, legs and head were missing. As it was here, on Wednesday 28th December 1836, just off Pineapple Place, that the first piece of Hannah Brown was found, and unveiled one of the most brutal murders in British history (interstitial) There was never a lovelier lady than that of Hannah Brown, as said every single one of her friends and neighbours, and although - in death - pleasantries are readily spoken, in Hannah’s case this was true. Hannah Brown was born Hannah Gay in the spring of 1776. Raised in the rural peace of the market town of Wymondham (in Norfolk), it was a place famed for brush-making. Coming from an aspirational lower middle-class family, Hannah was the second eldest child to a school master and a seamstress, who blessed their children – Mary, Hannah, Sarah, Rebecca and William – with a solid education, the skills to survive life and – more importantly – a level of politeness, decency and a strong work ethic. Being a real mix of both parents, Hannah was a strong stout woman who stood five-foot eight inches tall; with a long pale face, short thick teeth and brown hair down to her waist, with a high-chest, strong limbs and large hands. She was gentile, polite and elegant, but with a man’s physical strength. Described as friendly and warm, being blessed with so many faithful friends who would remain by her side through thick and thin, Hannah always had a song in her heart, a spring in her step and - no matter what, being so strong-willed - she would be prepared for everything that life would throw at her. By the turn of the 1800’s, Hannah was married; she was in love, happy and although accepting of the cruel fact that she could never bear children – she had a loving husband and a happy future ahead. But barely a few years later, Hannah was alone, childless and a widow, aged just twenty-three. By the 1810’s, Hannah had remarried and – once more - he was a good man who loved her dearly, but bad luck would strike again, and by the time she was in her mid-thirties, she had been widowed twice. As before, her friends and family rallied round, and with her grief dampened by a £400 inheritance which would keep this smart frugal lady safe and secure for a good long while, she didn’t need to remarry, but knowing that she loved to be loved, she worried that her love life was forever doomed. Having buried her second husband, shortly afterwards her brother-in-law was tragically killed leaving his pregnant wife a widow, who (unable to cope) was committed to an asylum. Hannah had no experience as a parent, but being a devoted god-mother, her warmth and compassion came naturally, she raised Mary-Ann as her own and often referred to this young sweet girl as “my daughter”. Mary-Ann would flourish and thrive as a hatmaker in Yarmouth, and it was all down to Hannah. By her forties, having moved to London’s West End and being an independent woman, Hannah earned her income as housekeeper to Mr Perrin, a hatter and Mr Oliver, an anchor-maker, all who hailed her as an asset. But keen to become her own boss, Hannah purchased a brand-new mangle off a carpenter called Mr Ward on nearby Chenies Street and became a washer woman. A physically demanding job which took skill and strength, but it wasn’t just to earn an income, it was to get her nearer her goal. In the parishes of Soho and Fitzrovia, Hannah was well-known, well-loved and easy to spot by her distinctive look; even if age had added a few wrinkles, a salt & pepper hue to her long hair and (in an accident with a fellow maid) had left a tear in the lobe of her left ear when an earring was ripped out. Elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a hand-woven shawl and a long black boa, she didn’t dress like a typical washer-woman, but again, she didn’t dress like someone pretending to be who she wasn’t. She was a decent, kind and staunchly sober woman, who worked incredibly hard to save every penny so she could fulfil her dream of buying a little shop of her own to sell fruits and pastries. By the winter of 1836, having started with a series of tragedies, the life of fifty-year-old Hannah Brown was looking rather rosy. She was happy, healthy and having fallen in love with a young widower - who loved her without question, he had asked her to marry him on Christmas Day and the two planned to emigrate to his farmstead in Canada - this is where she would spend the rest of her life… …only, when the world was celebrating Christmas, Hannah was being hacked to bits. Wednesday 28th December 1836 was a bitterly cold day. The wind was bitingly crisp, the canal was solid with ice and a thick layer of snow speckled the frozen ground. So cold was the earth that the workmen in Tyburnia had to wait to lay the pathways till the midday sun had softened the soil. At a little after 2pm, by the toll booth at Pineapple Gate, a builder called Robert Bond was returning to work when he spotted a four-foot long by three-foot wide paving slab propped against the wall of Canterbury Villas. It had been there for exactly four days, only now, it was hiding a large hessian sack. With frosted breath, as Robert heaved the brown coarsely-woven bag (which was as big and bulky as a small sack of coal), a slight tearing ripped at its sticky base as the leaking red liquid from within had frozen the sack to the cold-stone floor, leaving a vivid pool which was unmistakably blood. Alerting a policeman, PC Samuel Peglar arrived at the scene at 2:10pm, and when he held the lip of the sack, unwound its string cord (held in place by several crudely poked eyelets) and as the wide mouth of the sack gaped open, he gasped, as inside he witnessed the aftermath of an act of pure evil. Pale, naked and partially frozen, it was unmistakably a woman’s body, only with no arms, no legs and no head, it was just a torso. Being large framed, loose-skinned and high-breasted, her age was hard to fathom but early fifties seemed about right. With no birth-marks, her identity was impossible to tell. And missing two-thirds of her body, her cause of death was unknown. But whoever had hacked her to pieces had done so crudely (by ripping jagged tears through her thighs, arms and neck), but as the old rusty blade snagged and stalled half-way through - with brute force – each bone was pressed and bent till it snapped like twigs, leaving five jagged sticks poking out of the tatty stumps of her corpse. Requisitioning a barrow, the body was carted to the Paddington Police station on Hermitage Street (where it was preserved in vinegar) along with the hessian sack and the wood shavings at its base, but as no-one had been reported missing, the unidentified torso at Pineapple Gate was a mystery. In the months leading up to Christmas 1836, Hannah Brown’s life was good, in fact it was very good. Blessed with powerful arms, large hands and a solid work ethic, Hannah was a savvy woman who knew how to run a business well. With a new mangle, a warm fire and constant pots of boiling water on the stove, from the ground-floor at 45 Union Street in Fitzrovia, she worked in the front parlour, lived in the back, and although frugal, she was always kind and elegant, with her sights on a little pastry shop. With her parents dead, her sisters back in Norfolk and her god-daughter all grown-up, Hannah’s only family was her little brother William – who worked as a broker to Mrs Blanchard at 10 Goodge Street – and although they lived just one street apart – for whatever reason – they rarely spoke. And yet, as a truly lovely lady, Hannah was never short of old friends, new pals… and now, a male admirer. On an unspecified date in October 1836, while her mangle was being repaired by the carpenter Mr Ward on nearby Chenies Street and she was ordering a hessian sack of wood shavings to stoke her fire, it was there that she first set eyes on a very dashing gentleman called James Greenacre. Being a charming forty-two-year-old businessman with sorrowful eyes, a distinguished nose and a kind smile, whose curly brown hair and tatty side-burns were in dire need of a lady’s finesse, although they looked an odd fit – as he was a few inches shorter, a good deal thinner and eight years younger than Hannah – the couple were instantly smitten, having found their soul-mate with a lot in common. Equally being as unlucky in love, where-as Hannah had grieved by the graves of two husbands, living a short but harder life, James had lost three wives and had buried four of his seven children. And just like Hannah, although money could never replace a loved-one, he was financially secure having bought several houses in Camberwell (South London) and a one-thousand-acre farm off Canada’s Hudson Bay. Neither of them needed to remarry, but finding a kinship together, they both loved to be loved. Near the end of November 1836, James Greenacre proposed to Hannah Brown and she accepted. As devout Catholics, they had their wedding banns published by the minister of St Giles-in-the-Fields church on the 27th November, 4th December and 11th December and planning a little libation with a few friends next door at The Angel public house, they would be married at St Giles on Christmas Day. It was the epitome of a whirlwind romance. As a delightful couple, united in grief, who’d found love later in life and chose to be wed surrounded by a handful of Hannah’s dearest friends, as under a twinkling blanket of snow, Mr & Mrs Greenacre would emerge to jubilant bells and Christmas hymns. So smitten was Hannah, that although her plan was to sell-off her mangle, pack-up her clothes and wisely invest her inheritance in a little pastry shop in Fitzrovia, now she had a new dream. To pack-up, to marry, to move to Canada with her beloved husband James and to live the life that this wonderful woman truly deserved. She had no debts, no children and no responsibility. There was no real reason for Hannah to remain in England, so why not leave the smoggy drizzle behind and finally be happy? On Wednesday 21st December, four days before her nuptials, Hannah visited her brother William to inform him of her plans to emigrate, but – for whatever reason – he wasn’t invited to the wedding. On Thursday 22nd December, Hannah introduced James to her best friends Mr & Mrs Davis over a light supper in the Davis’s home at 45 Bartholomew Close in Smithfield. The conversation was cordial, the couple sat hand-in hand on the sofa and the Davis’ were ecstatic at the news that (with no parents of her own) Hannah wanted Mr Davis to give her away and Mrs Davis to be her bridesmaid. Both were delighted and honoured, if a little tearful at the thought of losing contact with their good friend, but James assured them that they would always welcome, at any time, to stay with them in Hudson Bay. And with that, although Hannah was a sober woman who never drank, instead she raised a goblet of water as the foursome of friends toasted the glorious wedding and bright future of Hannah Brown and her new beau. At 10pm they left, smiling, happy and walking arm-in-arm towards Newgate Prison. On the Christmas Eve of 1836, with the ground freshly sprinkled with a smattering of crisp snow, the festival smell of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts teasing every sniffly nose, and the joyous hum as carols were carried on the misty air, Hannah had finished packing-up her life at 45 Union Street. Her mangle was gifted to an old friend, her furniture was sold, the keys were returned, the rent was paid, her customers were thanked and her two rooms was left clean and ready for the next tenant. At 12pm, Hannah called on Catherine Glass, a friend and washer-woman who lived on Windmill Street to drop off an overnight bag and her wedding dress, so she could spend (as tradition decrees) her last night of freedom away from her husband-to-be. Hannah’s mood was bright, happy and beaming. At 3pm, wearing her black silk cloak, black boa and distinctive white shawl, as well as two elegant pearl drop earrings worn a little higher owing to the old tear in her left ear lobe, James and the coachman loaded Hannah’s three trunks into a horse-drawn carriage, and she left Union Street forever. By the next morning, at St Giles, Hannah was due to be married to the man that she loved … …but instead, her cold dead corpse had been crudely dismembered. So, what went wrong? James Greenacre was a lover and a liar. As a serial widower with three dead wives, all of whom he had met, hastily married and were all older and wealthier than himself, each one (whether by disease, fever or accident) had died young and left him as the sole beneficiary of their estates. And where-as Hannah had frugally saved the nest-egg which she had been bequeathed, James liked to spend. He bought a pub in Woolwich, a house in West Ham, a terrace in Camberwell, and (supposedly) a large farm in Hudson Bay, although no-one ever saw it. Prone to dodgy deals, often dabbling in untaxed tea, he had fled to America with a wife and four children, but by August 1836, only he returned to London. On an unspecified date two months later, James overheard a carpenter called Mr Ward chatting to a lovely but lonely lady who planned to purchase a little pastry shop with her £400 widow’s inheritance. James was instantly smitten with Hannah, and where-as she loved to be loved, all he loved was money. Marriage was the fastest route to legally acquire it. And to him, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t single. Four years earlier, whilst married to his third wife, as a serial philanderer, James also had a thirty-five-year-old mistress called Sarah Gale, together they had a son and they planned to elope to Canada. He needed money, Hannah’s money and marriage was the key… only something went horribly wrong. Late on Christmas Eve, as Mr & Mrs Davis picked-up a cut of mutton for the post-wedding roast, they bumped into James on Tottenham Court Road. He was agitated, flushed and barked “the wedding’s off”, rambling about how Hannah was “debt-ridden”, “morally-loose” and a “drunk”, as he barged by the aghast couple with a few borrowed tools under his arm, all tied-up in a brown hessian sack. His accusations were untrue, they knew that, but without Hannah here, how could they prove it? Six hours earlier everything had started so well, as James loaded onto a horse-drawn carriage the three heavy trunks full of her worldly possessions – such as some silks, pottery and trinkets, all of which would fetch a pretty price, as well as a pair of pearl earrings, a gold pocket-watch and details of her inheritance – as they trotted out of Union Street for the very last time, with James lovingly wrapping a warm shawl around her shoulders, to shield his cash-cow from the cold, as the couple headed south. Over the next hour, as the carriage clip-clopped over the River Thames, they kissed and cuddled as James regaled Hannah with the false hopes of what their new life together would be. All of it was true – the home, the marriage, the ship to Canada – only the woman he wanted by his side was his mistress. At 5pm, the carriage pulled into Carpenter’s Place in Camberwell; a tightly-packed terrace of slightly dilapidated houses with broken bricks, shattered tiles and cracked windows. As landlord, James owned them all, but being in arrears and ready to default, he had no plans to repair them, or even to stay. As he dragged the trunk’s dead-weight into the dark gloom of house number six, happy that none of the neighbours had seen them, James closed the door and shuttered the windows to hide his crime. Only, this wasn’t a murder, but adultery. James was a coward, plain-and-simple, who was no better at brutality than he was as a businessman. After the marriage, he wouldn’t kill her, he would fleece her and flee on a fast ship with his mistress Sarah and their son, leaving Hannah broke, alone and tearful. That was James’ plan… or so he would claim. Only Hannah didn’t know that, and neither did Sarah. Keen to spend Christmas Eve with the man they loved, that evening, the two women met for the very first time. They argued, they cried and - according to James – being a bit drunk, Hannah swung in her chair, fell backwards, hit her head on the fireplace and - out of blind panic - he disposed of her body. Of course, being a liar, her autopsy would tell a different story. Being seated at the time of the attack, with a cup of tea in her belly and no defensive wounds, Hannah was struck from behind with a heavy blunt object. With a force so hard she headbutted the table, it snapped her nose, split her skull and detached her right eye from the socket, so the ruptured eyeball dangled down the pale skin of her bleeding cheek. Conscious but dazed, as she steadied herself to sit upright, she saw two sights - her bloodied lap and James with a log – as across her swollen lumpen face, he struck again, fracturing both sides of her jaw, as she slumped hard onto the cold stone floor. And as this grieving widow, loyal friend and kindly god mother lay in a contorted heap, with her dreams now as shattered as the bones in her face, James slit her throat and stood as she rasped her last breath. A short while later, having stashed a few rusty tools in a hessian sack from the shop of Mr Ward the mangle-maker, as he barked to Mr & Mrs Davis “the wedding’s off”, Hannah Brown was already dead. Across the snowy Christmas night, as joyous carols drifted in the foggy air, behind the dark shutters of 6 Carpenter’s Place, a young boy endlessly wailed at the sights he was seeing. As sat atop of a table, with a fresh corpse below his knees, as the old rusty saw he had stolen was barely sharp enough to rip the muscle and sinew, but was too blunt to sever through her neck, perching the corpse’s head over the edge, his father - James – pressed and bent with all of his force, until the fifth vertebrae went snap. Crudely, her limbs were severed likewise, as (quickly recovering from the shock of such a savage death) Sarah picked over the dead woman’s belongings, like a famished vulture pecking at a rotting carcase. On Christmas Day, James bagged up the bits; the head in a silk handkerchief, her limbs in a tradesman’s bag and her torso in a brown hessian sack, as at the base lay a scattering of wood shavings. On Boxing Day, he boarded a horse-drawn carriage bus with a blue tradesman’s bag and - in separate journeys - discarded the bits of his betrothed far across the city – in the West, the East and the South – with her limbs later found in a field in Brixton, her severed head blocking the canal lock in Stepney and her frozen torso hidden behind a large stone paving slab by the toll-booth at Pineapple Gate. Having neither heard a peep from Hannah or James since Christmas Eve - believing she had either fled in shame, eloped in joy, or (as she had originally planned) was living overseas - no-one reported her missing. So, for the next few months, having preserved it in vinegar, the head of Hannah Brown was put on display in a pickling jar at the Paddington Workhouse, but no-one was able to identify her… Not until three months later, when hearing word that the mysterious severed head had salt & pepper hair, short thick teeth and a healed slit down her left ear-lobe – although the bloodless skull was gaunt and deformed – William identified it as his sister and James Greenacre was arrested. (End) On the evening of Sunday 24th March 1837, having obtained a warrant, Inspector George Feltham entered a rented lodging at 1 St Alban's Place in Kennington, where he found James and Sarah in bed together. To the side were three large trunks stuffed full of the deceased’s worldly possessions; a black silk cloak, a black boa, a distinctive white shawl, and – of the pieces they hadn’t pawned off, such as rings, gowns and handkerchiefs – were the gold pinchbeck pocket-watch and the set of pearl earrings. The Policeman’s timing was very fortuitous, as having already booked a ship’s passage for the next day, by the break of dawn, James, Sarah and their son would have set sail to Canada – never to return. Upon his arrest, having become a media sensation especially in the trashy penny-dreadfuls which lapped up every gory detail of the corpse’s demise, although James relished his new-found fame – like a coward - he stuck to his story about an accident and he branded Hannah as drunk, loose and in debt. On 10th April 1837, James Greenacre and Sarah Gale were tried at the Old Bailey. Sarah as an accessory after the fact and James for wilful murder, to which they both pleaded ‘not guilty’. But after a two-day trial, having deliberated for just two minutes, the jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. Sarah Gale was transported to Australia where she would live for the rest of her life. Where-as, on the 2nd May 1837 at Newgate Prison, at the hands of an equally sadistic executioner such as he, known as William Calcraft, James Greenacre entertained the baying crowds with a dangle and an odd little dance at the end of a taut hemp rope, until – after six interminably long minutes – his feet stopped twitching. His death was agonisingly slow, but for the greedy few who sold grisly memorabilia, it was profitable. But this story isn’t his. Hannah Brown was a lovely lady with dreams of living the life which she truly deserved. She was strong, smart and independent. She didn’t need to marry, but she loved to be loved, so in her twilight years, she knew she didn’t wish to be alone. She thought she had found the perfect man, a loving widower who was so similar to her in so many ways, but all he ever loved was her money. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you’ve not been too grossed-out by the grisly details of the scattered remains of Hannah Brown, there are a lot more details which didn’t make it into the episode which I can share with you in the next instalment of Extra Mile after the break, as well as some of the usual nonsense. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporter who is Fiona Montgomery, I thank you very much, as well as a thank you to Selina Dean for your very kind donation via the Murder Mile e-shop. Plus a big thank you to everyone who sent lovely messages saying how much they enjoyed How To Get Away With Murder. It was a much-needed deviation from the usual Murder Mile gloom, which we all need at the moment (given how crappy the year’s been) so I’m glad you liked it. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TEN:
On Friday 5th July 1940 at 13:45pm, War Reservist Constable Jack William Avery left his post at the 'Old Police House' in Hyde Park having been alerted to a man "acting suspisiously" near the gun-emplacements. Confronting the man, PC Avery was stabbed in the left thigh and died the next day of blood loss. PC Avery is one of 1600 police officers to have died since policing began... but is there more to this story, why did he die and who was Frank Stephen Cobbett?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the gun emplacements in Hyde Park is where the black triangle is, just to the right of the Sepentine in Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos of the locations for Ep110: A Memorial to The Fallen. On the left is the Old Police House in Hyde Park where Constable Jack Avery was based and the location of the gun emplacements which Frank Cobbett was sketching. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. On the left is the medical report marking Jack's arrival in hospital, his injuries and his death. On the right is the Old Police House, the location of the gun emplacement and the memorial.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified polcie investigation files held at the National Archives, as well as many other sources.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a memorial to a police constable who died in the line of duty. On the plaque is inscribed his name, his rank and a few details about his tragic demise, but one key detail is missing; as there was also a man with a name and a rank who (some may say) deserves to be remembered too. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 110: A Memorial to The Fallen. Today I’m standing in Hyde Park, W2; a leisurely stroll west from the site of the Hyde Park bombing, a short dawdle south of the three possible robberies or murders of Vincent Patrick Keighrey, a brisk walk north from where John George Haigh toasted his old pal William McSwan before dissolving his body in acid, and a little saunter from the ice disaster on the Serpentine - coming soon to Murder Mile. Perched near the border of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens is the ‘Old Police House’; a three-storey brown-brick Queen Anne-style lodge built in 1902; with crisp white window sills, a neatly manicured garden and Victorian street lamps. If anything, it looks more like a manor house than a police station. The Royal Parks Keepers (as they were known until 1974) were a police constabulary separate from the Metropolitan Police who were there to keep peace and order in London’s royal parks, with some constables living in the park’s many lodges as well as working inside of the Marble Arch itself. Today, as a constant wail of sirens encircles Hyde Park, inside the lush greenery of this 350-acre former hunting ground, life is a little more sedate than in the city itself. It’s not without crime, as there’s often a rogue barbeque to extinguish, a noisy stereo to quieten, rowdy crowds to quell at Speaker’s Corner and the endless theft of phones from a long procession of posing pouting narcissists who believe that Instagram isn’t worth tuppence unless it’s chock full of shoddy videos of their stupid grinning faces. But during World War Two, the policing of Hyde Park faced some truly challenging times, as it wasn’t just an escape for the city’s civilians or a pasture for the grazing sheep, as to protect the city from the daily onslaught of Messerschmitt’s and Heinkel bombers from the German Luftwaffe, Hyde Park was a strategic military base complete with soldiers, barracks and a radar station, as well as defences and offensive weapons such as barrage balloons, rocket-batteries and gun-emplacements. Largely undocumented, much of Hyde Park’s war-time history has been lost to the winds of time, and although a memorial rightfully stands at the ‘Old Police House’ to Constable Jack William Avery - who gave his life doing his job and protecting the city - this is not a story about one fallen hero, but of two. One who is remembered in death, and the other who was forgotten while he was still alive. As it was here, on Friday 5th July 1940 at 13:45pm that Constable Avery left his post on a routine job, where two very different heroes would meet, and their lives would be changed forever. (Interstitial) On 5th July 2007, a memorial to mark the 67th anniversary of the murder of PC Avery was held at the north-east corner of the ‘Old Police House’. In attendance was the Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Ian Blair, the officers of the renamed Royal Parks Police and - following a mass media appeal by the superintendent - Margaret Penfold, who was a distant relative of the deceased constable. With the gloomy sunless sky speckled with scattered showers which reflected the sombre tone of this lost summer’s day, Jack’s death represented one of more than sixteen thousand officers who had died in the line of duty since policing began in Britain, including fourteen who would be killed that year alone. To honour him, on the brown-brick wall of his former-station was placed a grey square slate etched with the Metropolitan Police emblem, and in a white Arial font (as used by the UK Police) were these few words; “to the memory of Jack William Avery, war reserve constable 890A, Metropolitan Police, A Division, Hyde Park Police Station, who was murdered near this spot on the 5th day of July 1940”. To the many people who pass this plaque, this is all they will ever know, as it says very little about him, and to be honest we know very little about him. Like so many ordinary people who died to give us the freedom we often squander - as Jack wasn’t a lord, a general or blessed with wealthy benefactors who would ensure that a rose-tinted view of his potted history would be nationally marked with reverence and honour – the details of Jack’s ordinary life are as scant as the words on his own memorial. Jack William Avery was born on 5th November 1911 in Bromley (a borough now in south-east London but back then it was a parish in Kent). As the only known child of a 29-year-old mechanic and chauffeur called Frank Gerard Avery and a 30-year-old teacher called Bertha Wilding, Jack was born and raised in an ample lodging at 5 Northall Villas in the nearby borough of Mottingham. Their income was small, their home life was happy and although his birth was unexpected, he was no less loved. Being educated locally, Jack was described as a “good student” although he was nothing exceptional, he passed his school certificate and – just like his father – he trained as a motor mechanic, but being short, asthmatic and cursed with bad eyesight, Jack’s career options were always going to be limited. Described as kind and polite, Jack was a slightly built peaceful young man with old-fashioned manners, who would always tip his hat to a lady, open doors for mothers and never forgot his p’s and q’s. By 1939, being recently engaged, earning a wage and living with his fiancé in a small flat, Jack’s little life was as good as anyone else’s in those turbulent months before the world was plunged into war. Keen ‘to fight for King & Country’, on the 3rd September 1939, 28-year-old Jack marched down to Lord’s cricket ground to enlist in the armed forces. Experience wasn’t necessary, as all the right recruit needed was four simple things; to be young, fit, eager and healthy. But of the four, Jack only had three. Listed as ‘4F’, there were many reasons why a seemingly healthy young man like Jack could fail his medical and be declared ‘unfit to serve’, in Jack’s case it was his height, his sight and his weak lungs. Still eager to ‘do his bit for Britain’, that very same day, Jack enlisted as a War Reserve Constable for the Royal Parks Keepers, based at ‘The Old Police House’ in Hyde Park, and he did his parents proud. For such a slight man, it was an odd career, but with the city bludgeoned by a constant bombardment, the park under military control and the air thick with suspicion as possible foreign agents lurked within, being in a time of great mistrust and uncertainty, his role was no less vital. And yet, Jack’s new job and its location perfectly suited his mild demeanour as – although his humdrum routine would often be interspersed by the swift crack of cannon fire and the brilliant flash of surface-to-air rockets – he liked being an officer who peacefully patrolled the lush green oblong of ponds, trees and sheep. Only, of the six years the war would last, Constable Avery would serve only ten months and two days. On Friday 5th July 1940, at 1:45pm, having been alerted by a keen-eyed member of the public who had seen a dark suspicious figure lying-low in the thick grass, furtively making notes with a pad and pencil of the arch of allied gun emplacements positioned at the north-west edge by Lancaster Gate, although unarmed, PC Avery dashed to the scene and in the pursuit doing of his duty, he was stabbed to death. His murder would leave his elderly parents childless and his grieving fiancé without a husband-to-be. That was his story and (of course) it warrants a memorial for the sacrifice that this selfless hero made, but this is only half of the story, as (unusually) the other hero in this tragic tale… was his murderer. His name was Frank Cobbett… but very few people would know that, or even care. Frank Stephen Cobbett was born on the 21st November 1897, in a small one-roomed lodging in a tiny tumble-down house at 19 John Street in Battersea, an industrial wharf-strewn part of South London. As the third eldest child to John Cobbett (a builder) and Mary Ann Taylor (a housewife) - just like his two older siblings Thomas and Ellen who were shamefully conceived out-of-wedlock - by the time that both parents had scraped together a little money to marry, Mary Ann was very heavily pregnant, the wedding was a shotgun affair and Frank would forever cursed with the cruel title of a ‘bastard’. Aged four, with Mary Ann’s mother in-tow, moving to a slightly bigger but equally tiny brown-bricked cottage at 28 Mullins Path in Mortlake, this family of six, soon to be seven, lived a life which was hard, cold, cramped and chaotic. Fights were frequent, food was scarce and tragedy would soon strike. In 1907, when Frank was only nine, his mother died. In need of a wife to care for him and his children, John Cobbett hastily married a recent widow called Ada Coxen barely one year after his wife’s death, and in the two cramped rooms of their squalid little cottage now lived a family of twelve; including Frank, his dad, his dead mother’s mum, his three siblings, a step-mother, four step-siblings and a new baby on the way. Frank was devastated at his mum’s death but equally distraught at his dad’s betrayal. Being a little slow at reading and writing, Frank scraped through a basic education; he was unskilled, uneducated and (as tradition dictated) doomed to follow his father in the trade of being a brick-layer. Disliking his dad, bored with his lot in life and eager to escape a tough upbringing in which he felt very little love; Frank was prone to outbursts of anger - a flaw which could only be cured by drawing. He wasn’t a great artist and his talent was only so-so, but he was only truly calm and content when he was sat in the sun, lying on his belly and breathing softly, with a pencil and pad in his hand, sketching. Everybody has a hobby, this was his… and yet, the soothing act of drawing or doodling would guide Frank through some of the darkest moments of his turbulent little life, many which lay right ahead. On 12th December 1917, three years into the First World War, with the Influenza pandemic wiping out troops faster than any bullets, bombs and mustard gas could, and with the Army in dire need of ‘fresh meat for the grinder’– just like Jack Avery – Frank grabbed his conscription papers and enlisted. Unlike Jack - being young, fit, eager and healthy - Frank ticked all the boxes, and against his father’s wishes (being a veteran who had witnessed at first-hand the horrors of conflict), after a bitter row so fierce that neither would speak to the other again – Frank Cobbett went to war. And for the very last time, he would have a name, a rank and a few scant details which marked his life and his demise. Having passed basic training, 20-year-old Frank Cobbett became Private Cobbett of the 3rd East Kent Regiment and was shipped off to the boggy blood-soaked quagmire of the French frontline to bolster the beleaguered 230th Brigade of the 74th Division. With the brooding skies thick with an acrid smoke, the mud often knee-deep and the vile stench of rotting flesh as dead comrades died where they fell – being too dangerous to move or bury, so often many bodies became makeshift sandbags – living on a diet of death, disease and depression - like so many men - Frank was subjected to horror after horror. And throughout this bloody conflict, although he’d been issued a Lee Enfield 303 rifle, the thing which truly saved his life and his sanity was his pad and pencil; a little hobby which kept him calm, was used by his superiors to sketch the enemy positions and kept up the moral of his war-buddies with portraits. On 11th November 1918, with the war officially over, the enemy having surrendered, twenty million people dead and twenty-one million wounded, as memorials were erected to those brave souls who had selflessly given their lives so that we might live, the unsung heroes who had survived fought on. Following the Sinai and Palestine Campaign of 1915 to 1918, along with the 10th Battalion comprising the Royal East Kent and West Kent Yeomanry – with barely a day to catch their breath - Private Frank Cobbett and his compatriots were sent to Egypt to defend a key strategic point at the Suez Canal. Just like Jack, he did his part for King & Country. Just like Jack, he would be hailed a hero. And just like Jack, his service would be short, as although the aftermath of the First World War would rage on for many years and decades, Private Frank S Cobbett would serve for only fifteen months and three days. On an unrecorded date in February 1919, while doing his duty, Frank was cut-down by an enemy bullet which hit him squarely in the chest, and although this fast-hot-lead had missed any vital organs, blood vessels and (crucially) his spine - leaving him with what seemed like just a small hole in his right breast – the force had blasted-out a chunk of flesh from his back ripping him open from shoulder-to-shoulder. Frank was lucky to be alive, and although his war was over, the pain and trauma was not. On 15th March 1919, being patched-up and shipped home, 21-year-old Frank was discharged from the army, he was given two medals, a bottle of painkillers and a pitiful pension of eight shillings a week (a fifth of the working wage) and like so many battle-scarred veterans who had returned all broken, the soldiers who died were rightfully remembered, but those who had survived were cruelly forgotten. Still furious at his father and unwilling to embrace his family, Frank tried to return to a normal life, but this once-eager boy had died back in Suez and – although barely two years older – what now remained was a moody sullen shadow of his former self, crippled by constant pain and dumped by his country. Unable to carry a hod of bricks on his shattered back, this fit young lad could no longer earn an honest wage as a labourer. He worked for three years on-and-off as a brewer, but plagued by pain, in 1923, he lost his last regular job. And being barely literate and increasingly angry, his options were limited. Over the next two decades, as life for the average civilian returned to normal, Frank became invisible. He had no home, no job, no money and no help. His family were gone, his friends had disowned him and he had no wife, girlfriend or kids. Unable to adjust, Frank became a nobody, a nothing, who drifted from day-to-day, place-to-place and doorway to park-bench. To the many thousands who passed this vagrant slumped in the gutter, they didn’t see him as a hero, but as a dirty shambling wreck who lived out of hostels, begged for spare change and foraged for food scraps in the bins. Frank Cobbett had disappeared and like so many ordinary heroes who gave their health, life and sanity to protect us - with no title, rank or wealth to ensure they would be fondly remembered by strangers – the only reason we know anything about his life after his war-time service is by his criminal record. On 7th February 1930, at Nottingham magistrates court, he was sentenced to one-month’s hard labour for smashing two windows at Trent Bridge in a pique of anger. Returning to London and living rough, he received four further sentences in quick succession; on 13th June 1932 he was bound-over for three years for begging, on 20th February 1933 he served fourteen days hard labour for begging, on 7th April 1933 he served ten days hard labour for assaulting a policeman, a further day in prison on 5th February 1934 for begging, and on 1st October 1935 he was fined £2 for vagrancy. His crime? Being homeless. We know he was local as he was tried at Bow Street and Marlborough Magistrates Courts, his prison stints were at Brixton, and he withdrew his meagre army pension at the Shepherd’s Bush Post Office. By 3rd September 1939, as motor-mechanic Jack Avery enlisted as a War Reserve Constable based at the ‘Old Police House’ in Hyde Park, former Private F Cobbett of 3rd East Kent Regiment had been alone and isolated from a hearty meal, a warm bed and even just a simple conversation with another person for almost two decades. In fact, the most contact he’d had with another human-being of recent was the bruises, cracked ribs and a fractured jaw he had sustained having been beaten-up by a cowardly gang of drunken louts who had attacked him - all because he was weak, dirty and vulnerable. For longer than any human should endure, Frank lived alone, he lived in fear and terrified of being attacked again he was armed with an old rusty kitchen knife he had found at the bottom of a bin. But as lonely as his life was, he still had one love which would always comfort him – drawing. As no matter how poor he was – even if all he could find was a broken stub and an old bit of chip-paper – Frank always found solace by sitting quietly and sketching. It was just his little hobby to pass the time… …but life was against him, his lifestyle was illegal and the law would soon conspire to cause him to kill. Friday 5th July 1940 was a crisp clear day, as Frank quietly lay in the thick grass of Hyde Park, soaking-up the sun along-side the grazing sheep. On his body was his one set of clothes, in his pockets were his worldly possessions (a shaving razor, a pension book, 13 shillings and 6 pence) and in his hands he held a short stubby pencil and a square memo block of paper. And where-as once this had been a calendar - with every page left empty and blank - instead he used it to sketch. Sometimes he’d draw a tree, sometimes a street, sometimes a pond full of ducks and geese, he kept to himself and was no bother to anyone, but today he decided to draw something a little more exciting. Perched by the north-west corner of Hyde Park, a short walk from Lancaster Gate, sat one of the city’s military defences - as with barrage balloons by Kensington and a volley of rockets by Park Lane – the 263rd battery of the 84th Royal Artillery Regiment had positioned an arch of four 3.7-inch mobile anti-aircraft guns, with corrugated Nissen huts and a GL Mark IA radar unit. It was still an unusual sight for a public park, so people often stopped, looked and chatted to the soldiers… but instead Frank drew. There were two laws which made Frank a criminal without him raising a single finger. The first was old and he knew it well – The Vagrancy Act of 1824 – having been arrested three times for being hungry and homeless. But the second was new, very new, as having only received Royal Ascent in Parliament ten months prior, the Defence Regulation Act of 1939 were emergency powers to force British civilians onto a war-footing. It implemented a nationwide blackout, emptied prisons to make way for spies and looters, it criminalised German-owned businesses, requisitioned factories to make munitions, public parks to become military defences, and – to protect the people from the threat of the enemies within – it became illegal to photograph or draw any military bases, buildings or gun-emplacements. But how would Frank know that? After almost two decades of solitude with no-one to talk to, no-one to hug and being barely literate, he wasn’t a threat or a spy, he was just a broken war-hero, abandoned by the country he had fought for, who kept himself busy by doing the one thing he loved – drawing. Only, to those who didn’t know Frank – as a person - he was dirty, strange and suspicious. At 1:45pm, a 40-year-old carpet-fitter called George Bryant ran to the ‘Old Police House’ to alert them to “a strange man” who was “hiding in the grass” and seemed to be “making notes about the guns”. Doing his duty, Constable Jack Avery dashed to the scene to apprehend the enemy; what he saw was a man dressed in black, lying low in the grass, his eyes furtively spying and his hand secretly scribbling. As Jack cautiously sidled-up behind this possible Nazi collaborator and potential traitor to the people, the PC barked “what are you doing?”. Unused to contact and fearful of others, Frank mumbled “what’s it got to do with you?”. Unhappy with his reply, Jack snatched-up the pad to see for himself, and although to many it was nothing but a block of tatty paper, to Frank, his sketch-pad was everything. As his blood boiled, Frank bellowed “fuck off” as he got to his knees. Seeing a knife where his body lay, to defend himself Jack grabbed his truncheon. To defend himself, Frank pulled a knife. As Frank swung, Jack dodged and cracked Frank hard across the head with his truncheon and as the constable blew his whistle to call for back-up, Frank drove the five-inch blade deep into the top of Jack’s left leg. Dashing to aid the injured officer, Constable Hyman Krantz blocked the assailant’s sight with his cape, and – while temporarily blinded - Jack whacked Frank once more on the head to subdue him, and as both men fell; Jack bled profusely as barely conscious Frank muttered something incoherent. Pinned to the ground by two burly men, Frank was arrested and charged with the malicious wounding of a constable, to which his only reply was “I was drawing the guns, that’s all". Cruelly, on every witness statement given that day, Frank is described as a “low moral person”, “odd” and “looking like a tramp”. PC Avery was rushed to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, suffering a single stab wound to his left thigh and groin which had struck the thighbone and split the femoral artery and vein. Given two transfusions and an emergency operation, sadly Jack died at 8:20am of blood loss and shock. His father was by his side as he passed, but unable to reach her in time, his fiancé never got to say goodbye. (End) At 11:15am on Saturday 6th July 1940, 42-year-old Frank Stephen Cobbett, a vagrant of no-fixed-abode was charged with the murder of 28-year-old Constable Jack William Avery. Held at Brixton Prison, his medical assessment described him as “an uncouth type, insolent and mentally low”, but there was no mention of the sacrifice he had made to defend his country, or how shabbily he had been treated. In a short trial, at the Old Bailey, on 15th July (just ten days later) Frank Cobbett was found guilty and on the 22nd he was sentenced to death and to be executed by hanging. But following an appeal, which stated that both men were equally as culpable for their actions, his sentence was reduced from the capital charge of murder to the lesser offence of manslaughter and he would serve 15 years in prison. He did his time, he was released and very little else is known except that he died in 1980, aged 82. Having died in the line of duty, Constable Jack William Avery was buried, his name is listed on the Met’ Police ‘Roll of Honour’, and – rightfully – he has a memorial to remember the sacrifice that he made. It’s great that we live in a country where an ordinary person doing their job can be immortalised for the courage and bravery they’ve shown, rather than always being ordered to applaud a lord, a general or a politician who (by the size of their statue) states that they deserve our thoughts, tears and respect. But too often, we remember the dead and we mark the fallen, but too easily we forget those who are still serving and struggling with the physical, mental and psychological trauma they have suffered and continue to suffer - beyond their loyal service - by fighting for our rights and freedoms. Constable Jack Avery was a hero, as was Private Frank Cobbett; the difference was that one was a man with a job, a house and wife-to-be, and the other was a nobody with nothing but a pad and a pencil. Every hero deserves to be remembered, so until there’s a plaque for Frank, his will be his memorial. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. We’ve got nine more weeks of your regular Murder Mile episodes as well as a big multi-part finale to bring us up to the end of the season, which has taken ages to research, and up next is Extra Mile after the break, which takes no effort at all; none, nothing, zero, zip, it’s as easy as pie, or eating pie. Yum! Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Liz Tibbutt, Roy Harris, Simon Sandells, Sher Bowie and Fiona McCulloch, I thank you all for your support, it’s much appreciated, as in these difficult times Patreon has become my main source of income. Plus a big welcome to anyone who’s new listeners to the podcast and a big thank you to those who continue to support it. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This is a hypothetical exploration into the possibility or impossibility of getting away with murder, which over four episodes covers motivation, methods, surveillance, research, eacape and clear-up, as well as the legal ramifications of planning a murder of a victim called Bob... who is fictional.
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER - PART FOUR: UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT Let’s pretend that I’ve committed a pre-meditated murder and the target was my old pal Bob. But don’t fret my friend, I’m sure you’ll get an invisible invite to the fictional funeral of this imaginary man. Was his killing perfect? Yes. Did it look like natural? Of course. Was it a bloody death in which Bob was pumped full of helium and popped like a large lardy balloon, or fed bum-first into a wood-chipper as his minced-up entrails were spattered along a wall in Morse code which read “this was an accident, honest”? No, I killed him in the dullest way possible, by lacing his pizza with an untraceable poison which was only toxic to his body… a salad leaf. Will this murder be talked about? Will books be written about it? Will the ‘salad leaf killing’ of Bob become the latest hit podcast series which true-crime fans will endlessly drone on about even though it’s not actually that good? No, but then, that was the point. As the hard part isn’t the murder, the real challenge is to get away with it. So, in this final part of this four-part series I shall attempt to ensure that I’m never suspected or arrested for the hypothetical murder of a fictional idiot called Bob… and soon, that cakey-Eva portrait will be all mine. Sigh! My name is Michael, I am a murderer, and this is How To Get Away With Murder. Part Four: Clean-Up & Escape. Dear friends. I regret to inform you that last week, Bob died. Boo hoo! Boo hoo! He was forty years old but he didn’t look a day over sixty-eight. He leaves behind a dirty sofa, the washing up and a basket of unwashed underpants. He will be sorely missed by Iqbal ‘Luigi’ Singh, the owner of Pizza Schmucks who may have to hock his diamond encrusted pizza cutter and sell his pepperoni coloured Bentley as with Bob’s pizza app’ now silent, Luigi’s cash-cow has gone to the big abattoir in the sky… literally. Bob died “peacefully” (in inverted commas) doing what he loved best; dribbling, snoozing and slobbing about, gorping at brainless shite on his telly box, while scratching his arse, adjusting his dangle fruits and feeding an endless conveyor of pizza slices into his gob using that ‘very same hand’. Urgh! His death was quick, natural and unremarkable, so much so that when the Police, Fire or Ambulance arrive, the main thing they will do is notify the next-of-kin, and not initiate a criminal investigation. If I’m smart, no-one should ever know that this was a murder, but sadly some killers really aren’t that smart. In fact, when they are finally caught, it’s not the diligence of a detective which leads to their arrest, often it’s their own stupidity and arrogance which trips them up first. For example:
So, what if Bob realised the Pizza Guy was me? What if he choked on the salad leaf? What if the tearing sound I heard was his sweaty blubbery bulk actually separating from the sofa, and being so shocked at the sight of him standing-upright – which was only possible as the calcified sweat down his back had formed a makeshift spinal brace and (although his leg muscles had withered like the two last chicken drumsticks in a party bucket) several decades worth of cola splashes had harden like seaside sticks of rock – as we wrestled to the death (with Bob angry but always keeping an eye on the telly as The World’s Craziest Celebrity Patio-Makeover Home-Video Accidents from Hell on Ice was on, and me, dodging drinks cups and urine pots, with one foot in an old spag’ bol’, another in a congealed bowl of custard and standing awkwardly, as being so close to my prized portrait of lovely Eva gently teasing me with a jammy mouthful of Battenberg, it is difficult to wrestle an angry sweaty man whilst you’ve got an erection), it was then that I accidentally slit his throat with a pizza cutter, and maybe kicked his bonce about the bedsit a bit, while playing keepie-uppie and using a lamp-shade as a basketball hoop? Now, that didn’t happen, but if it did? How do you dispose of a brutally massacred corpse in a regular domestic house? If you listen to too much true-crime, you may think “oh that’s easy”, but it isn’t. The average house isn’t equipped with the tools for a full body disposal; we don’t all own axes, chainsaws, flame throwers, wood chippers and two hundred gallons of sulphuric acid, and if we did, the Police would see that as pre-meditation. So, let’s get realistic. Can you dispose of a body in a house? No.
As planned, Bob’s death looks natural; he will be found slumped on his sofa, in front of his telly, with an endless conveyor-belt of food being fed into the huge chomping hole in his face. There are no signs of injury, assault, interference or poison, so they will assume that he choked. But how do I ensure that his death definitely looks natural, and that the Police don’t suspect that someone else was involved? Here’s a few possible suggestions which may work a treat:
To be honest, courtesy of some seriously (if entirely fictional) research and surveillance by himself, Bob’s ordinary clothing, his homelife and his lifestyle perfectly match his method of death, so nothing needs to be added… unless I wanted to dob someone else in for my crime. So, I could:
Think about this; The Golden State Killer was arrested using the DNA on a single disposable coffee cup, so I could easily scatter a half-eaten sandwich found in a bin, a smelly old sock left in a laundry or a manky ear-wax coated cotton bud at the scene to implicate someone else, but I won’t, as that would cause the police to investigate this as a murder, which is exactly what I don’t want them to do. But what if I have left some DNA behind; maybe a hair, a print, or a long line of frothy dribble and a splatter of love-hummus by the cakey Eva porn? What should I do to hide my filthy Mickey man-muck?
These are all terrible ideas, but they are the most obvious ways that murderers try to clean-up a crime scene. Each one could erase the evidence but they all point to the involvement of a third-party. But there are a few ways to eradicate any viable DNA at a crime scene without you even being there, or anywhere near, and they all involve time, air and – inevitably – the human-factor:
Right! Bob is dead, his death looks natural and his bedsit doesn’t look like a crime-scene. Yay! Well done me. So, now that all done-and-dusted, when should I call the Police? When?! Never! Here is a simple list of idiotic things which trip up almost every serial killer and murderer all the bloody time.
That means no heads, no hands, no teeth and no trinkets. Don’t nick a celebratory cheese sarnie from the fridge if I feel a bit peckish or try on his Batman underpants (as where-as once they seemed cheesy, now they’ve got a kitsch value), as everything I steal will lead directly back to me, as the culprit. So, as much as I want to, need to, and every ounce of my soul wants me to steal it, I have to leave behind the sultry cakey fresco of the lovely Hollywood siren Eva Green devouring a mini Battenberg in a way which makes me wish I had died and was reincarnated as a cake. Sigh! This is a waiting game, but if I’m patient, it may pay-off. My hope is that his legal guardians will either sell off, auction or bin his personal possessions, and then ‘cakey-Eva’ is legally mine. ALL MINE! But until then, I must weep. But what if I am suspect number one? What should I do? Here’s my top tips for when Police Constable Arsenal Guinness drains the last can, finishes his hand-shandy and gets down to some work… for once:
If I am arrested and charged with Bob’s murder, luckily the conviction rate for murder in England and Wales is pretty low. According to the Office of National Statistics, of the 712 homicides in 2018, only 163 suspects were charged, with an average conviction rate of between 17 and 33%, and even before the cases went to court, 3% of all suspects had either died or committed suicide, and post-trial, 79% of suspects were found guilty, 14% were acquitted and 4% were convicted of a lesser offence. But how many of these were well-researched pre-meditated murders for very worthwhile cause like some cakey-Eva porn, rather than some bloke gave me a bit of a funny look? Probably none. So, let us return to where we began, with one big question - how possible or impossible is it to commit and get away with perfect murder? We all assume (having consumed one too many true-crime shows which cherry-pick a few scant details of a six-year investigation and boil them down into a handy-half-hour chunk) that killing is a bit of a doddle. But for the average person like me or you, it wouldn’t be. Mentally we’d be a mess, physically we’d shake like a leaf and psychologically we’d be broken for life. Throughout every step of the planning, the research and the execution, we would stall, fumble, panic and even though I have the perfect alibi to aid my escape – that being a fat bald man in his mid-forties, I’m entirely invisible to women, most men but thankfully not dogs– I’d either have given-up, got bored, handed myself in, or been arrested for looking suspicious before I’ve even entered Bob’s bedsit. So, to conclude, unless you are a criminal mastermind, a remorseless killer, a fictional character, or the kind of arrogant self-obsessed douch-bag who doesn’t understand that every problem is solvable, every solution is negotiable and every positive action takes vastly more effort than a negative action - if you’re willing to put in the time to try and make it work - it’ll be better for everyone. Getting away with anything illegal (let alone a murder) is next-to-impossible, so why bother? Why waste the few years or decades you have left on this Earth fuming over something unimportant, when you could savour a simple life, being happy with what you do have, content with what you don’t have, and – best of all – that no-one (including myself, yourself or Bob) will end up dead. (Bob) “Hello, my name is Bob, I am Mike’s fictional friend who is ‘very-much-alive’, and I approve this message”. Oh, and if anyone is on the look-out for a rather lovely, non-dribble coated, man-hummus-free, cakey portrait of Hollywood sex-bomb Eva Green clutching a range of Mr Kipling’s finest cakes (swoon), then apparently they sell them on eBay for £10. I know! Who knew? Next time, I’ll do my research first. Thanks for listening folks. Tatty-bye. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Part Four and the final part of How To get Away With Murder. Next week, your regular Murder Mile episodes will return. A big thank you to my new Patreon Supporters who are Tony Inglis, Sarah London and Kicha Blackstone, I thank you all muchly. I hope you entered the very exclusive competition on Patreon and they you are now the proud owners of a very exclusive Murder Mile key-ring. Ooh. Plus a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely comments when you download the freebies (like ringtones, quizzes and ebooks) in the Murder Mile merch shop – there’s a link in the show notes. I read them all and they are all very much appreciated. Up next is Extra Mile. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This is a hypothetical exploration into the possibility or impossibility of getting away with murder, which over four episodes covers motivation, methods, surveillance, research, eacape and clear-up, as well as the legal ramifications of planning a murder of a victim called Bob... who is fictional.
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER - PART THREE: UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT Let’s pretend that I’m going to commit a pre-meditated murder and the target is my old pal Bob. But don’t fret dear friend, as the murder is made-up, the victim isn’t real and all of this is total bunkum. Do I know where to kill him? Oh yes. Do I know how to kill him? Meh. And is it a 100% fool-proof plan? Not on your nelly. But that aside, I could easily extinguish Bob’s pitiful little existence by attaching his nipple piercings to the National Grid, by stapling his lips to a drag-racer’s exhaust, or by slowly feeding him into a pasta-maker tongue-first. And yes, I have given this some serious thought. But the hard part isn’t the murder, the real challenge is to get away with it. So, across this four-part series I shall be planning and executing the hypothetical murder of a fictional idiot called Bob; soon he’ll be nothing but dust, I shall be one cakey-Eva portrait better off, and you shall keep schtum, right? My name is Michael, I am a murderer, and this is How To Get Away With Murder. Part Three: Murder & Method. Last week, we established that – owing to the complete and utter sadness of Bob’s pathetic little life; where the only person he talks to is his own shadow, that sitting on a different sofa is his version of ‘taking a vacation’ and ‘spicing-up his sex-life’ means that sometimes he’ll ‘use a different hand’ (not unlike my own, if I’m honest) – I have made the momentous decision (based on weeks of research and surveillance) to murder Bob in his small lonely little bedsit. On his pizza-speckled sofa to be precise, as that is where he feels safest, where he is isolate and – more importantly – if he actually left his flat, just once in his life, he’d probably die of fresh-air overdose and his neighbours would die of shock. Now I may be a potential murderer, but I don’t want to be responsible for a massacre, do I? Do I?! Admittedly, Bob’s bedsit may seem like a really dull place to say “tata” to his existence, given that so many infamous serial-killers have upped-the-stakes in terms of murder locations, such as;
Ah lovely. Now that may all seem very exciting, but there’s one teeny tiny problem with each of these murderers? They were all caught, trapped by their own arrogance and imprisoned by their own ego. By over-complicating a simple thing such as making someone dead, it was impossible for anyone to see either of these deaths as anything other than a murder… and where there’s a murder, there is always a murderer. So, to get away with Bob’s death, I need this to look like an accident or natural. Now, this is not going to be easy, as I am dead dirty. I am a real mucky Mickey McYuckfest and a filthy festering scuz-ball of absolute scum. Oh yes, that is a fact. In fact, you are too, genetically speaking; as with the average human being made up of roughly 10 trillion cells, as 16% of our bodies is skin, every year we shed around 8lbs (or 3 ½ kilos) of skin, we lose 27000 hairs and expel 4300 litres of sweat. Oh yeah, we are dead dirty. And give that our cells contain DNA which is uniquely-coded to us, I might as well go to the crime-scene and hand the Police a business card reading ‘Hi, I am Bob’s killer. Call me’. To avoid that, I need to erase any trace of myself before I go anywhere near Bob’s bedsit. There are a few ways I could ensure I leave no traces of my DNA behind
And besides, although I’d be unable to walk, talk, see or touch, any witness could easily identify Bob’s killer as “the wailing dripping chronically-bleeding Frankenmonster who left smoking bits of his fizzing flesh all across the floor and grumbled endlessly about how he wished he could have swapped skin with someone who had a nicer bottom, a six-pack instead of a barrel of blubber, and how he can’t go to the loo as that technically means he’ll be touching another man’s winkle”. Alternatively, there are some simpler options:
Of course, if I don’t want the Police to go searching for my DNA, I have one simple way to ensure that they don’t: don’t make Bob’s death look like a murder. So, obviously, him drifting-off into the forever sleepy bye-byes is good, but a hatchet to the head and daubing the walls with his entrails is bad. So, given that Bob rarely gets up from the crispy chocolatey outline of himself on his sofa, and leaves the inside of his one-room bedsit, how do I get in? Here’s a few do’s and don’ts which I plan to follow:
It was a no-brainer really, wasn’t it? That was like luring a faded reality TV star out of a rehab centre by posing as a tabloid hack and promising you definitely won’t take slightly slutty photos of them and are only interested in telling their “true story”, but… if they spill the beans on a real celeb and flash a bit of tit, butt of chuff to the camera, then their vapid uninteresting mug will suddenly move from just under the crossword puzzle to front page news. And lo, the Christmas panto roles will come a flowing. Hmm. Is that really how the tabloid media works, or doesn’t work? Sadly, yes. Any-who. To ensure that I’m not caught for my dastardly crime, I must ask “is there a way to kill Bob, but not actually be in the room when his clogs are forcibly popped and his bucket is firmly kicked”? Well, yes. I could use explosives (only I don’t own any), I could hire a hitman (only I don’t know any), I could launch a nuclear attack on his house (only I seem to have misplaced my membership of Kim Jong Un’s Apocalyptic Boom Club), I could pray for a tornado (only I’m not religious and the worst weather Bob’s street gets is a mild gust when he’s been on the sprouts), I could initiate some gangland violence between Bob and a local crew by telling them that he cussed their mommas (except the only gang in Bob’s town is the over 80’s sewing circle and - although they are vicious - all of their mommas are probably dead), and I could also engineer a gas explosion, drill a sink-hole under his floor and reroute the airport’s flight path to land on his house (only I have enough trouble turning my phone to silent when it goes off in a cinema), so although a simpler alternative is to accuse him of treason by rudely suggesting he dared to say that Princess Kate isn’t lovely (that’s illegal), that Prince Phillip isn’t a racist (that’s untrue) and to claim that he has conclusive evidence about Prince Andrew (which we know no-one will ever see), so although it may seem safer if I’m not there when Bob’s resigns from Team Life, how can I be sure that he’s actually dead and that I didn’t leave any incriminating evidence behind? I can’t. So, I’ll have to witness his death up-close. Boo hoo! Boo hoo! Note to self: buy some popcorn. Right! When’s the best time to cark the dozy little bleeder? Bob’s sleep pattern is screwed, as his body thinks that dawn is when the telly goes on and dusk is when it goes off, which it never does. So, even though the middle of the night would be the best time to murder most people – as we’re usually spark-out, dribbling, farting and dreaming of flushing our bosses down the sewer with the other little turds – there are a few moments when Bob is totally absorbed or distracted. Admittedly, when he’s asleep, he’s as useless and immobile as most British politicians debating a new law which could cripple a pauper, but doesn’t affect the MP’s expense accounts, second-home, or which hooker they plan to bang at the tax payer’s expense (like the shower of shits that many of them are). And yet, when Bob is awake, there’s not a lot going on to be honest; it’s mostly an open mouth, a line of dribble, some food in, some poo out, a grunt, a fart and a burp, it’s all automatic. But there are some TV moments which can affect his concentration span:
Not his life, his home or his health. It’s just him, his mouth and a warm slice of floppy dough drenched in tomato, salami, chicken, beef, bacon, sausage, and even something they ominously also refer to as ‘meat’, as well as the world’s stretchiest mozzarella. And yes, you are sensing a running theme here? So, can I make Bob’s death look like an accident? Possibly, but again, I am limited by choice, as Bob is the laziest person who has ever existed. Even his own body has given up; as his belly doesn’t rumble, instead it outsources all noises to someone else’s stomach; he’s spent so long lying on one side that the left hand-side of his body is technically taller than the right; and he looks so pale and deathly, he has been certified as dead six times… including once, while he was sitting up and talking to the doctor. But there are several accidents even Bob could conceivably have. Those out-of-the-question include:
In terms of a natural death?
I think we all know where this is going, so let’s just whizz through all of the possible ways that I can kill Bob, while avoiding anything messy, loud or obvious such as; shooting, stabbing, strangling, beating, bashing, slicing, dicing or mincing (that’s the method of butchery and not the slightly camp walk).
Which leaves me with one simple option; I become the Pizza Guy. It’s the perfect disguise, the perfect alibi and the perfect method, I turn up, clutching five free pizzas for being such a great customer and (as the perfect poison which fine for us, but is completely alien and toxic to him) I add humble salad leaf. A tiny insignificant sprig of nature, full of vitamins and minerals, which will be discretely hidden under his usual mountain of dead pig shavings, ripped-off chicken’s arms and a cow’s eyeballs and anuses mashed into a sausage-y paste, on a thick white wall of stretchy buffalo tit-glue. Yummy! It’s how he would have wanted to go. Besides, it’s so simple that – if I do this right – no-one will suspect a thing, as Bob’s so unhealthy that the Grim Reaper has his heart on text alert. And all it took was a bit of common sense, some research and an understanding of Bob’s routine, strengths and weaknesses. By next week, Bob will be dead and that lovely cakey portrait of Eva will be mine. Hmm. Admittedly, I have buggered this up by putting it out as a weekly podcast, so I’m just going to have to murder you all to cover my alibi. Sorry about that, but I’m sure you’ll understand, it is for a good cause after all. See you next week, maybe, when I shall escape and – I hope - never become a suspect. Bye bye. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Part Three of How To get Away With Murder. This continues for one more week, when your regular Murder Mile episodes will return. A big thank you to my new Patreon Supporters who are Christian Treppel, Lisa Yolland, Adele Mol, Eliisa Mark, Mandy Belshaw, Damian Ross-Murphy, Vanessa Casey and Jannike Molander, I thank you all muchly. You may even survive this podcast. Ooh. And thank you to Christine Mitchell for your very kind donation via the Murder Mile website. Plus a welcome to new listeners, a thank you to regular listeners and a thank you to everyone. Up next is Extra Mile. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This is a hypothetical exploration into the possibility or impossibility of getting away with murder, which over four episodes covers motivation, methods, surveillance, research, eacape and clear-up, as well as the legal ramifications of planning a murder of a victim called Bob... who is fictional.
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER - PART TWO: UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT Let’s pretend that I’m going to commit a pre-meditated murder, the target is my good friend Bob. But fear not, as the murder is hypothetical, the victim is fictional and none of this will ever exist. Am I prepared to kill him? Physically? Yes. Psychologically? Probably not. But that aside, I could easily end Bob’s life in a jiffy by sprinkling his chips with cyanide, gluing his head to a steamroller and stuffing an insane quantity of illegal fireworks up his brown mouse-house and lighting the fuse. Good times. But the hard part isn’t the murder, the real challenge is to get away with it. So, across this four-part series I shall be planning and executing the hypothetical murder of a fictional character called Bob; soon he will be dead, I will be free, and no-one (except you good listeners) will be none the wiser. My name is Michael, I am a murderer, and this is How To Get Away With Murder. Part Two: Target & Surveillance. Last week, we established that should Bob ‘accidentally’ stop living owing to his home having one-too-many cakey portraits of lovely Eva munching on a Mr Kipling (grr, I want it so bad), given the long and provable decline in our friendship, I would be the Police’s number one suspect. So, I need to plan such a perfect murder that the Police won’t even begin searching for a suspect, as they will assume that his death was either natural or an accident, but not foul-play. Most pre-meditated killers are tripped up by either by ego, arrogance, greed, or a basic mistake having failed to research their methods and their victims beforehand. For example;
Research is vital, but before I choose a weapon, a method or a location, I need to understand the one variable which makes every plan unpredictable – my target, Bob – I may think I know him, but I don’t. Everybody has secrets, both big and small, and it’s only when a loved one dies and we’re forced to sift through their personal belongings that we learn those little details about them that we never knew. It could be something small like a habit, a hobby, a hygiene issue, an illness, a trinket or a porn stash; maybe items they once bought, gifts they were once given or things they promised they had binned; perhaps letters from lost loves, photos of missed friends and diaries full of their deepest secrets and regrets whether an affair, a trauma, a criminal past, or a love child no-one knew existed, until now. It would be impossible to plan Bob’s murder – to find the perfect time, place and space to erase him from the face of the Earth – unless I knew the minutia of his life, and that will take surveillance. Here’s a few tips on how I shouldn’t research Bob. For example;
All of these techniques come with the risk of being spotted, and once I’ve been spotted, the research is as good as useless because – becoming unnerved and cautious by my presence - Bob may begin to adapt his regular timings and movements, and it’s during his usual routine that his guard is down. Sadly, at the expense of my surveillance, Bob & I don’t live, work or (owing to a little Eva-based issue) we don’t hang-out together, so my research would need to be more subtle than simply spying on him through eyeholes I’ve cut into a newspaper. So, here’s how I could discretely research my target.
Without thinking, the average person uploads every single detail about their boring little life as if they are the most fascinating person in history, when they’re not. Admittedly, being full of narcissists, eight-out-of-every-ten updates features yet another photo of their bloody face, but it also contains details about their friends, family, life, work, habits, hobbies, pubs, clubs and timings, as well as a guided tour of their home, live updates from their holiday – which burglars love as that’s like daubing “I’m away for two weeks, don’t steal too much” across the front of your house - and even the most cautious of people who brag “I never share any personal data online” can’t help but upload a photo themselves with their favourite pet, football strip, a bust of their hero and whilst holding their ‘happy 40th birthday’ cake, so their date of birth and other so-called ‘personal details’ aren’t exactly hard to work out. Oh, and private accounts? Ha! That’s about as inaccessible as opening a tin of beans with a can-opener. So, understanding the target. What will I learn by spying on Bob? I’ll learn things I already knew, I’ll learn a lot of irrelevant bumph, but I’ll also learn two vital details; his weaknesses and when he’s alone. Weaknesses. We all have weakness, it’s not a failing, it’s what makes us all so different and human. Some people can run fast, others do a weird waddle. Some are mentally sharp, others forget their own phone number. Some are brave, others think that plummeting from the sky with a bit of fabric to stop your body smacking into the earth so fast your grieving relatives have to scoop you up with a trowel is a stupid idea, and some of ‘the best people in the world’ have only two weaknesses – Eva and Cake – simply lace an Eva-shaped Battenberg with arsenic and I’m as-good-as-dead, but I’ll die a happy man. The only way I can get away with Bob’s murder is by knowing his weakness, this will allow me to lure him somewhere isolated, lull him into a false sense of security and ensure that I have the advantage. For example; you wouldn’t poison a loaf if the target had a wheat allergy (unless you planned to make them fart to death), you wouldn’t drown an underwater diver, force-feed the world hot-dog scoffing champion, push a wheelchair bound agoraphobic off the top of Mount Everest, or shoot a lead bullet at a man with a steel plate in his head… although, using a big magnet would be cruel but very amusing. The little details I can glean from Bob’s life tells me a lot about his weaknesses:
I could kill Bob in a multitude of ways which would appear entirely natural given my knowledge of his life, his health and his habits, but he may also have a few phobias I never knew about which could trip me up. Here’s just a few strange phobias which could limit any chosen method of murder:Bathmophobia - a fear of stairs, Belonephobia - a fear of needles, Utophobia - a fear of being alone, Ecophobia, a fear of the home, Koinoniphobia - a fear of rooms, Megalophobia - a fear of large things, Microphobia - small things, Noctiphobia - the night, Scoptophobia - being stared at, Trypophobia - holes, Venustraphobia – a fear of beautiful women (such as Eva) and – two phobias which could scupper my plans - Peladophobia, a fear of bald men and Thanatophobia, a fear of death. Gulp! These will be a nightmare to discover, but thankfully, the most useful details I need to prep’ for Bob’s impending demise are much easier to research, as – like almost all of us – Bob is a creature of habit. We all have routines, whether big or small, and regardless of who we are or what we do, our lives are unremittingly humdrum and predictable at various points of the day or night, which rarely change, and are set in place as part of our job, lifestyle, social circle, family life, medical needs, or by habit. For many of us, buying milk not from our local shop but from a different store one-street over is a big deal, but all of our lives are controlled by an innate structure which gives us a sense of stability. Such as:
No-one is truly unpredictable, our lives are flecked with patterns, habits and routines; from the friends we see, the places we go, the times we leave, the hobbies we enjoy, the food we eat, the clothes we wear and even down to speed we reply to some texts but not others, everything we do is predictable. Admittedly, the bulk of our day is spent queueing, complaining, doodling and bunking-off, with added tea-breaks, bouts of bitching and waffling on about the things we plan to do but never do. Sadly, for me, Bob does nothing, goes nowhere and talks to no-one, which limits my options on how to make his death look natural, as if he’s gorged on a fifty-foot fajita while changing the channel from the Dog Poop Investigators to Celebrity Chef Kung-Fu Karaoke on Ice… but everyone has their weaknesses. That said, given that in England and Wales there are 7700 deaths a week, only 14 of which are murders, it would look less suspicious if Bob died doing what he loved best or simply slipped away? So, if he dies “naturally”, I could just steal this portrait of the Hollywood Goddess with the Battenberg Fingers? Life is dangerous and the chance of surviving it is pretty slim. Every year, across the world; 17.7 million people die by heart disease, 9.5 by cancer, 1.24 by car-crash, 295000 by drowning, 270000 by hunger, 193000 giving birth, 120000 by fire, 26000 by terrorism and 9600 by natural disaster. Statistically, we all have a 1 in 180000 chance of being killed by lightning, 1 in 118000 will be mauled by a dog, 1 in 53000 will die by bee-sting, 1 in 7700 by sunstroke and 1 in 2600 will die chocking on their food. And even more bizarrely, 1 in every 15000 people die every year doing exercise, every year 3 million people die owing to obesity, 640 people die each year falling out of bed, 240 people are killed by falling icicles and one person dies every year bouncing on a trampoline. Ironically, with only 26 deaths over the last decade, it’s safer to go skydiving than it is to walk the street, to eat your dinner or to fall asleep. So, does Bob have role which makes him more likely to “accidentally” expire than most people during his every day duties? Here’s a few possible high-risk occupations which could quicken his demise: a painter as lead-based paints are deadly if consumed using a very large spoon… which he has done before when his fridge was empty, a carpenter but only if he mistakes a plank of wood for his head… which is possible, a chef because of knives and hot things… but that’s unlikely as it involves actually shifting his arse and Bob’s so lazy that a depressed sloth wearing a t-shirt which read ‘bollocks to life’ actually tutted at him for his laziness, so there are loads of high risk occupations – racing driver, scuba diver, arsenic deliver boy, tornado chaser, chainsaw juggler, cliff-based car brakes tester, a freelance trainee bomb disposal technician and food tester for a despotic war-lord – but as Bob does nothing but eat, sleep and watch telly, everything which involves him burning a single calorie is unlikely. And yet, Bob’s natural lethargy does open a window of deadly opportunities. I’m thinking…
Now I could consider allergies, as a fatal attack of anaphylaxis can be triggered by just the briefest hint of peanuts and sesame seeds, but as Bob has no allergies - except work, energy and effort - thankfully there are some everyday foods which are toxic and deadly to everyone. Such as:
Sadly, Bob has never seen a vegetable… ever, he’s so food-illiterate, he believes that when beef bleeds it bleeds gravy, that meatballs come from male cows and that all chickens are born McNugget-shaped. Admittedly, a single salad leaf could be toxic to his system, but there’s no way he would swallow that. Which brings us onto the next step, where to kill Bob? I mean, this is entirely pointless, as although statistically most people die at home and the majority die in their own beds, Bob is so lazy that he spends all day on the sofa, and when it comes to beddy-byes, he stays on the sofa as he’s too bone idle to pull-out the bed from under the sofa and fall onto that… as it means getting back up again. But anyway, if Bob wasn’t the human equivalent of a pot of blancmange, knowing that the best place to murder him is where he was isolated but felt safest, this is where I would choose and avoid:
I would also avoid any sewage plants, abattoirs, changing rooms, nudie booths, maternity wards and sperms banks, just because it will look really odd and will have people asking “why there? Weirdo!” In short, Bob will die at home, on his sofa, where he feels safe, warm and is usually fast-asleep with a trickle of syrupy dribble down his chin and a circle of cast-off Doritos on his chest, which suits me fine. He’ll be home, happy and unaware that he’s going to heaven… which he’ll hate as that means moving. So, before I go, there’s two steps I need to do to ensure that no-one suspects me. Firstly, I know Bob’s routine – eat, sleep, shit, repeat – his weaknesses and the best place to kill him, but there’s one other person I need to research too – myself. I can’t provide the perfect alibi for myself, unless I know where our lives cross and how I can discretely distance myself from Bob in the days prior to his sad and tragic demise. Boo-hoo-hoo. Luckily, I’m not the pizza delivery guy, who is the only people Bob grunts with. And secondly, no matter what, I must never photograph, film, internet search or write down anything about Bob’s death, and I must never EVER turn it into a blog or podcast. Oh, bollocks I’ve done it again. What an idiot! Find out how and if I can pull of the perfect murder in part three next week. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Part Two of How To get Away With Murder. This continues for the next two weeks, when your regular Murder Mile episodes will return. A big thank you to my new Patreon Supporters who are Michael Potter, Marg Tomnay, Cynthia Dahle, Glenda McCarthy and Gavin Cooke, I hope you’re enjoying the secret videos I’m posting this week whilst regular Murder Mile is off-air. And thank you to Kara Langford for your very kind donations via the Murder Mile website. Thank you everyone. Up next is Extra Mile. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This is a hypothetical exploration into the possibility or impossibility of getting away with murder, which over four episodes covers motivation, methods, surveillance, research, eacape and clear-up, as well as the legal ramifications of planning a murder of a victim called Bob... who is fictional.
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER - PART ONE: UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT Let’s pretend that I’m going to commit a pre-meditated murder; the target is my good friend Bob, the reason is profit, the location in his home and the time scale is the next four weeks. Do you need to call the Police? No, as the murder is hypothetical, the victim is fictional and none of this will ever exist. But could I kill him? Well, yes, of course. We are all very capable of taking another person’s life. I could easily end Bob’s life in a jiffy by lacing his Pot Noodle with lashings of arsenic, bashing his brain-in with a common house brick, plunging his annoying face into an icy lake, or by stuffing his lazy sweaty bulk in a mincing machine and hitting ‘turbo’ so his bloody chunks spatter up the kitchen wall. Oh joy! It seems so simple and physically it is, we are all animals after all, but the hard part is to not get caught. Across this four-part series I shall be carefully planning the hypothetical murder of a fictional character called Bob; in three week’s time he will die and in four week’s time I shall be free and never convicted. My name is Michael, I am a murderer, and this is How To Get Away With Murder. Part One: Motivation & Realism. Murder is moral quandary, simply getting over the emotional hurdle and psychological trauma of even contemplating another person’s death is harder than the physical act of murder itself… but that is the very first step any potential killer needs to consider in order to get away with murder. In episode two of this four-part series, we shall explore the research phase of a pre-meditated murder, part three explores the best techniques to limit the evidence, in part four we shall dip into the clean-up and escape from the crime-scene to evade capture, but this first part is about the most important but least understood aspect of getting away with a pre-meditated murder – motivation. Before we begin, what does the average murder look like? Well, I can tell you what it doesn’t look like. It doesn’t look like the majority of cases that any true-crime fan has absorbed before. Such as in:
Sadly, there’s a big discrepancy between reality and fiction, even if the murder case itself is real. What you see on the telly and hear about in podcasts isn’t typical of most murder cases. They are just a very small selection of the most engaging, compelling and sensational cases deliberately chosen to draw you in. Even the cases you hear about in the news are selectively chosen, as the role of the media is to inform but also to entertain you. They are there to tell you a story, but if the story is dull and mundane, they know they’ve lost you as a viewer or a listener, which they can’t afford to do. In all honesty, most murder cases are barely - if at all - covered by the press. Why? Because they’re not interesting, yes there’s a murder in them, but there’s no intrigue, no mystery and no angle. A story about an evil doctor murdering a patient for money will have coverage for months and years, where-as a young lad stabbed to death by a rival gang over a pair of trainers will be forgotten about in a day. Think about it; when was the last time you saw a drama entirely based around the investigation into why two homeless drug addicts stabbed each other to death over a £5 bag of skag, why a drunken yob beat a rival footie fan into a coma having knocked-over his kebab, or why a depressed single-mother with post-natal depression drowned her baby? When? Never. Why? Because they know that most people wouldn’t tune in. What we are consuming isn’t fact, it’s entertainment. So, what does the average murder look like? According to the Office of National Statistics, during 2019, in England & Wales (as that is where I live) there were 662 homicides in a population of 56.1 million people, which was broken down like this:
Unlike in TV shows or on podcasts, real murders are rarely premeditated or planned to the extent that the assailant even considers the ramifications of their crime or how they will get away with it. These are crimes of passion, they’re primal, they’re irrational and fuelled by raw uncontrolled emotion. Emotion is a key part of our personality, it’s what makes us who we are, it defines our character, and every moment of every day we wrestle with a myriad of emotions as that’s how a human being copes with the dilemmas, crises and incidents that life throws at us. Every day our emotions swing from anger to jealousy to lust to rage to greed to pride to hatred to pain to joy to boredom. We cope with issues, we learn from our mistakes and we move on to the next problem. But for some people, something tips them over the edge from being a normal rational person… to being a murderer. So, even before we discuss the who, the how and where of Bob’s impending but entirely fictional murder, we have to consider the most important detail – why. Why do I want to murder Bob? It’s a detail that most murderers fail to consider fully, as their actions are clouded by emotion, so as the red mist kicks in, their fists clench and their eyes widen, before they even know what they’ve done, someone is dead. But let’s explore some bizarre but common motivations for murder.
These may seem extreme, but they’re no more extreme than the very ordinary and everyday cases we’ve covered in Murder Mile. So, if we set aside the serial-killers for a second, consider this:
We hear about it in the newspapers all the time, that someone was murdered because of a misheard word, an unappreciated look, a perceived slight or unwanted attention. It could occur over something so insignificant, most of us wouldn’t consider it reason to kill, let alone a reason to argue or tut. Of course, there can be good reasons to kill; whether fighting for your country, serving in the line of duty, or protecting a loved one, yourself or others from danger? The vast majority of people don’t kill for the sake of killing, in truth, most people who become murderers just snap. Like that! And, let’s not forget that mental health problems can also play a big part. So, why should I kill Bob? I mean the reasons are limitless; he’s rude, he’s smelly, he never says “please”, he thinks his jokes are funny, he borrows money but never repays, he dashes out the second the bill arrives, he clips his toe-nails while watching TV, he flicks his bogies, he leaves his dirty dishes next to an open dishwasher, he buys himself a cakey-treat but not me, and cleans out the filthy from between of his toes with his sock. Yuck! Surely that’s motivation enough? If I was the judge? Yes, but not in this case, as this isn’t a crime-of-passion, this is a premeditated murder for profit, which I intend to get away with. So, here’s some possible motives for a premeditated murder for profit:
These are the top five motivations for a pre-meditated murder with a few others notable reasons close behind; such as status, territory, legal issues, personal disputes, a rite of passage and the erasing of a mistake, to name but a few. But my reason to kill Bob is a lot more personal, as is what I shall gain. Bob’s most prized possession – which I want – is a signed portrait of my beloved (if fictional) girlfriend Eva Green holding a Belgian Bun and eating a Battenberg Cake. And although he constantly taunts me with it, every day and in my dreams, he rightfully covets it with his life. To you, this may seem like a bit of meaningless tatt hardly worth killing over, but to me, I see nothing else but this. And in every murder, even those which are well-planned, the prospective killer’s judgement, morals and ethics are clouded by a single-minded need to attain what they cherish the most… and this is mine. So, if this cakey-photo of beautiful Eva is my goal, why kill Bob? Why not negotiate with him first? This is the first stumbling block in many situations, including murder, as an amicable solution could be achieved by talking, listening, asking, understanding and (as galling as it may be) by apologising. These are very simple steps which all of us could take, but again, our needs and emotions gets in the way. So, for sake of this fictitious beef with my imaginary chum over a cakey doodle of a Hollywood goddess (drool, drool, swoon), let’s assume I’ve tried every option… but Bob said “no”. Ooh what a git. Can you feel my anger rising? I’m shaking my fist and cursing the day he was born (which was a Tuesday). And I’m so furious, I’ve even used some blue words like ‘rogue’, ‘scallywag’ and ‘c**t’. Sorry, I’ve no middle ground when it comes to curse-words. You should hear me order a cup of tea? Filthy boy. Right! I have a good reason to kill Bob, but how easy will it be to actually kill him? In truth, it’s going to somewhere between very difficult and almost impossible. Why? Because I’m not a killer. I’ve seen it depicted in films, I’ve heard about in on podcasts and I’ve read about it in books, but I have never ended another person’s life and – like almost all of us - I probably never will. My experience is zero. Am I up to it? Probably not. Murder is not easy.
Luckily Bob isn’t real, he’s a fictional character created for a hypothetical scenario which results in his bloody and hopefully amusing death. Besides, even if he was alive, I don’t think anyone could logically consider him as a human, as Bob doesn’t like strawberry Angel Delight, he prefers butterscotch. Yuck! The physical act of murder isn’t the hardest part, and neither is the planning, it’s the psychological trauma which comes with it… not just before and during, but days, months and even years afterwards. Killing is next-to-impossible to do in a calm and rational way. Serial killers are uniquely able to do this as they have a distinct lack of empathy for their victims. Killing isn’t an emotional experience for them, it’s about a different type of need or loss; for Dennis Nilsen it was rejection, Harold Shipman had a misguided God complex, for Ian Brady it was about control, for Reg Christie it was to be desired, for Gordon Cummins he had sadistic urges to quell and for John George Haigh it was always about money. Serial-killers are selfish, arrogant and obsessive, they have an ability to be calm and calculating in a way that no-one else can and that is why they often (but not always) get away with murder. So, in order to achieve my goal, I need to become unemotional, calculated, calm and callous. But can I? Can I deal with the emotional and psychological trauma with comes with murder? The second I murder, or attempt to murder Bob, even if I go get away with it and am rewarded with this thing that I cherish the most; his life, my life and the lives of everyone we both know will be changed forever.
To get away with murder, I need to be cold and callous, which isn’t easy as our emotional responses to stress are hard-wired into our brains. And even if I could cope, I’m already screwed by the many interactions I’ve already had with Bob in the days, months and years before my hatred had formed. In almost every premeditated murder, the victim and perpetrator will have a long-established history together which leaves a detailed trail charting the highs and lows of their connection. For example:
What if things have already got heated? There may be legal letters, police reports, secret diaries, lists of abuse, documented sightings and worst of all death threats. My trail will be extensive, as will Bob’s. I could try to delete it all, but it would be futile, it would take a lifetime and everyone – from friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, police detectives and even Bob himself – would want to know why? Admit it! I am the worst person to even attempt to try and get away with Bob’s murder. I’m neither physically, mentally or psychological capable; my motive is weak, my experience is zero, my planning hasn’t begun, I left a trail charting the decline in our relationship (from years before the murder has taken place) and – even worse than that – I am a true-crime podcaster who has recorded a four-part series called How To Get Away With Murder in which I explain how I’m going to kill Bob. I am an idiot. And let’s not forget, simply by planning and rehearsing Bob’s murder, I won’t just be breaking one law, there are loads of smaller crimes I will have to commit in order to get that far: Such as:
So, before I’ve taken a single step to even plan Bob’s murder – way before I’ve casually flicked through a catalogue of industrial mincers, cherry-picked a strong enough acid to dissolve his flabby butt, or chosen a spot in my love-shrine for that much-coveted portrait of Eva munching on fistfuls of cakey-goodness (mmm) - the chance of me actually getting away with murder… is slim… very slim… which is why I need understand my target, his life and his routines. Find out how in Part Two. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Part One of How To get Away With Murder. This continues for the next three weeks, when your regular Murder Mile episodes will return, once I’ve finished the research. A big thank you to my new Patreon Supporters who are Anne-Marie Montgomery, Penny Richardson, Campbell Welsh and Sarah Cameron. As there’s no regular episodes this week, I’ll be posting you some interesting videos to keep you entertained. Up next is Extra Mile and a very special announcement. 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. Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. MUSIC:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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