Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #88: The Three (Possible) Murders of Vincent Patrick Keighrey8/4/2020 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Carroll House on Craven Terrace as seen from The Mitre pub. Vic's flat is top left
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-EIGHT:
Today’s episode is about the three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, a delightful elegant bachelor brutally tortured in his Bayswater flat. But whose story was true and why was he killed? Was it a robbery, a homophobic attack, or a sex game gone wrong? You decide.
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 Flat 58 at Craven Terrace is marked with a purple triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you 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.
TOP SET: studio photo of Vic, the hallway of Flat 58, the bathroom, and top right the flat as seen from The Mitre and bottom right, the White Hart pub before it was demolished.
MIDDLE SET: Top left, Carroll House as seen from The Mitre, bottom left; Carroll House and Brook Mews North where the White Hart was, middle top; 15 Craven Terrace where the Si-Bon Cafe was, bottom middle, the street door to Carroll House and right is Craven Terrace.
BOTTOM SET: these are all original (previously unseen) crime scene photos taken inside Vic's flat and Vic's body as discovered by the Police. Note: the electrical flex, the bruises to his face and his trousers and flies are undone.
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: The original police investigation file from the National Archives marked as Murder of Vincent Patrick KEIGHERY at 58 Carroll House, London W2. One file is held till 2045. - http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C556258 MUSIC:
SOUNDS
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE "LOVER'S" DEATH PACT. 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 the three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, a delightful elegant bachelor brutally tortured in his Bayswater flat. But whose story was true and why was he killed? Was it a robbery, a homophobic attack, or a sex game gone wrong? 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 88: The Three (Possible) Murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery. Today I’m standing on Craven Terrace in Bayswater, W2; three streets south of the bizarre suicide pact of Barbara Shuttleworth and Felic Sterba, a short walk from The Champion pub where Dennis Nilsen met the lover whose rejection led to a spate of serial killings, three streets west of the unsolved murder of Emmy Werner, and four streets east of the infamous “sad-faced killer” – coming soon to Murder Mile. Whereas north Bayswater is a bit of a dog’s dinner, south Bayswater has been through so many phases – whether as resplendent residences for the Regency elite, arty squats for Bohemian bums or derelict slums for dead beats, drunks and dole-dossers – it’s so desperate to be posh like it was in its heyday, that half the houses are owned by tax-exiles, flannel-dodgers, celebrity paedos, investment wankers, oil-bastards and the odd giddy granny who moved into her shabby council flat in the 60’s and is now neighbour to a Saudi Prince with fifty wives, five Ferraris, three Lambo’s, a gold toilet, a ruby anus, a questionable human rights record, an unquestionably small penis and an unpronounceable name. On Craven Terrace, among the Regency townhouses is an ugly little block of flats called Carroll House. It’s not pretty, posh or stylish. In fact, it resembles fifty shoe-boxes bolted together by a bored child, and although it looks too new to have a history, what happened here was dark, nasty and perplexing. As it was here, on Saturday 28th November 1964, that Vincent Keighery met his three (possible) deaths, and although the culprits were all convicted, which murder was real? (Interstitial) Vincent Patrick Keighery was gay. That may seem an unimportant and even an irrelevant detail to us, but the secret of his sexuality would define both his life and his death. Vincent, known as ‘Vic’ was born in the spring of 1914 in Ennistymon, a small market town on the west coast of Ireland. Home to roughly sixty families across ten streets spanning half a mile, although this tiny community consisted of traditional skills, it had nothing modern, but it did have five churches, as life revolved around three things – going to mass, knowing your priest and saying your prayers. With Vic’s father dying after the birth of his youngest sister, being the eldest of three and devoted to his widowed mother, even as a young man, Vic had the maturity to take on the role of a father-figure. Being tall and gangly; where-as many boys blossomed from scrawny brats into big tough lads who earned a crust in manly jobs such as farmers, miners or soldiers - plagued by chronic asthma – Vic was diligent but far too delicate for manual work, and yet, this ‘weakness’ would serve him well as a skill. Educated at Ennistymon National School under a curriculum of maths, English and religion; with two conflicting views drummed into his brain that (as a Christian) he must be kind, decent and tolerant of all mankind, and yet, all homosexuals were an abomination to God; whether Vic knew he was gay that early on is impossible to know, but he definitely knew that he was different and felt he had to hide it. Leaving school aged 14, the best education Vic got was from his mother; a solid hard-working widow who single-handedly raised a good family and built a flourishing business, having ran the ‘Glenbourne Hotel’ for two decades, eight miles north in the spa-town of Lisdoonvarna. Always happy and singing, Vic loved working alongside his mother. Admittedly, some duties he was too delicate to do, but being impeccably neat, he excelled as the hotel’s cleaner; so without fail, the towels were folded, the sheets were crisp, the room was aired and not a single speck of dust was seen. In 1941, aged 26, being declared unfit to fight for his country (owing to his asthma, his pacifist beliefs and his homosexuality), Vic worked as cook for the Ministry of Aircraft Production in Dublin. As a frail man, he felt different. As a Christian, he felt ostracized. As a gay man, he felt unwelcome. And now, as a ‘supposed’ traitor, as pleasant as he was, he knew that Ireland was no longer the place for him. Following his beloved mother’s funeral, the hotel’s collapse and having turned his back on a religion which treated him more like a leper (whose ‘sexual disease’ they said needed to be ‘cured’), having re-opened the ‘Glenbourne Hotel’ with his brother, in 1949, Vic moved to London and never returned. Twenty-three years later, Vincent Patrick Keighery was well cemented in London life; he had a good job, a stylish flat, a busy social life and a semi-regular boyfriend. He was good, honest and happy. And yet, for one of three tragic but equally-plausible reasons, he would end up dead. (Interstitial) 1964 (like most years before) had been a good year. For the last thirteen years, 51-year-old Vic had worked as the canteen supervisor for the Metropolitan Police. His obsession with cleanliness had earned him a career - as being a meticulous man in a pristine white suit, hair-net and gloves - he enforced the highest standards in the force’s canteens across the city. At work, he was fastidious but intensely private. Outside, he was flamboyant but cautious. Vic was a real character, a slim six-footer who stood-out as a harmless eccentric. Blessed with youthful skin, dark parted hair and thick arched eyebrows, although his Irish accent was now little more than a lilt, as he tried to leave his old life behind, he still looked like the cheeky little boy from County Clare. Dressed like a dandy, he always looked immaculate in sharp suits, starched shirts, bright cravats and fine hats, with gold cufflinks, shiny shoes and - between his fingers - a cigarillo lit by a very extravagant gold Flaminaire lighter. And being a gay bachelor with no family, he splashed-out his modest salary on small luxuries; like fine art, great wine and fancy foods, with trips to gallery, the ballet and the opera. But this posed a problem for Vic; looking wealthy (when he wasn’t) it made him a target for thieves, being gay (which he was) with homosexuality still illegal he risked losing more than just his job having been attacked before, and as an older gentleman with a penchant for the “common sort”, “dirty lads” or “rough little rogues”, although he was painfully lonely, he could also be his own worst enemy. According to his best-friend Kenneth Shuttleworth, Vic saw himself as a sophisticated upper-class gent. The problem was that being attracted to “a bit of rough” with calloused hands, coarse tongues and sweaty bodies, Vic took pleasure in turning a lout into a lush. Being so pristine – like a horny Pygmalion - before any sex ever took place, Vic always insisted his date bathed, dressed in one of Vic’ own fresh shirts and enjoyed an exquisite meal over a few fine glasses of Beaujolais. Unsurprisingly, as a frail man left alone with a burly stranger in his posh flat, having been robbed several times before, although Vic took precautions, it didn’t dampen his sexual desires… and that is how he met his killer. Seeking a nicer neighbourhood to live, on Saturday 14th November 1964, Vic moved from Kennington to Flat 58 at Carroll House in Bayswater, W2; a modern six-storey apartment block with a lift, good locks and a street door only accessed via an intercom. Being a top-floor flat with windows which overlooked Hyde Park, although compact, it was perfect for a single man who liked to entertain; it had a full fitted kitchen, a bathroom and a sitting-room, with his bed to one-side and a sofa for his guests. Having loaned £300 off his pal Kenneth to cover the costs, until pay-day, Vic would be almost broke. But being so meticulous, he itemised every penny spent and scheduled every second spare to ensure the move was swift, his budget didn’t swell and his stylish flat remained spotlessly clean and damage-free. On the 16th Ken & Vic decorated, on the 17th they let the paint dry, and with his furniture being delivered on the 19th , Vic organised for the carpets to be fitted on the 18th, but someone cocked up. At 10am, on Thursday 19th November 1964, one day late, a van was dispatched from the Patent Steam Carpet Cleaning Company on Latimer Road, W12 to Craven Terrace, W2; in the back was a dry-cleaned carpet, the job was listed as number 53562 and the driver’s name was John Simpson, known as Jock. With his furniture in, the paint dry and no carpets down, Vic should have been furious, but he wasn’t. Jock was a 28-year-old Glaswegian with fair hair, blue eyes and rough hands, who having served almost three years in prison for theft and burglary had struggled to find work, so six weeks earlier he’d turned his hand to driving a van, and although he lived apart from his wife and kids, he was exactly Vic’s type. For almost an hour, the two men chatted over a coffee in Vic’s small but lavishly-decorated pad. And although – always looking for a quick quid to make on the side - Jock offered to lay the carpet for £1, the next day, Vic laid it himself, as he regaled Kenneth about the handsome young man he had met. A few days later, Jock was sacked. One week later, Vic was dead. But why? On Saturday 28th November 1964, in his bedsit at 113 Coningham Road in Shepherd’s Bush, Jock and his two pals - 23-year-old William Dunning, known as Willy, a married labourer with one conviction for burglary, and 20-year-old Michael Odam, known as Layne, a single seaman with four convictions for theft, assault and drunkenness – formulated a plan. All were broke, but after a few pints, the three lads left their flat at 4:30pm, as according to Jock “I know a queer we could get some money from”. For Vic, it began as a very ordinary day; he inspected the police kitchen at the Camden section house, arranged a stock-check for Monday with William Hall, had a hearty lunch of Irish Stew, potatoes and bread pudding and left at 2pm. By 5pm, in Bayswater, he purchased a bunch of flowers, a bottle of Beaujolais, a pack of cigarettes and a refill for his lighter, as with no plans except to relax after a long week, tonight he would unwind with a good wine, a long snooze and a classical concert on the radio. At 5:30pm, by the street-door of Carroll House, the three lads rang the intercom for Vic’s flat. The plan was simple; Jock goes in, flirts a bit, finds the wallet, tosses it out of a window to Willy and Layne, Jock leaves and Vic doesn’t realise it’s missing till the morning. But with Vic not in, they headed a few doors down to the Si-Bon café at 15 Craven Terrace, where they ate egg and chips, as served by the manager. At 6pm, with Vic back from shopping, Jock rang the intercom, he was buzzed through the street-door, he ascended to the sixth floor in the lift, and was let in to Flat 58 by Vic, as witnessed by one neighbour. And outside, under Vic’s balcony, stood Willy & Layne, as witnessed by another. According to Jock… upon seeing the dry-cleaned carpet still rolled-up in the hallway, he offered to lay it down that night for £1, Vic agreed, but first they would have a drink. In the sitting room, the two men chatted, drank Vermouth and listened to classical music, as Willy & Layne waited outside in the cold. But the robbery was as wash-out as Vic’s wallet and chequebook was nowhere to be seen. Thirty minutes later, having been invited out for drinks by Vic, feeling a little too sweaty to be seen in a posh Bayswater pub, although Jock said he’d rather head home and scrub-up first, he accepted Vic’s offer to “have a bath here, I can give you a clean shirt”. At 7pm, they both left Carroll House and headed to the White Hart pub at 31 Brook Mews North, where they saw and spoke to no-one. At 10:30pm, they left the pub, returned to the flat, Jock cooked them both a meal of buttered chicken in a cheese sauce as they drank two glasses of Beaujolais, and at 11:30pm, Jock said goodbye to Vic, left Carroll House, caught a taxi back to Shepherd’s Bush and went straight home to bed. And that was Jock’s story. It’s little more than a failed robbery, backed-up by witnesses at the Si-Bon Café, the White Hart, Carroll House and fingerprints inside Vic’s flat. But there are several problems with this story; Why did Jock not mention Willy & Layne after he enters Vic’s flat? Why did Jock offer to lay the carpet when Vic had done it himself one week before? Why did Jock cook a meal of buttered chicken when (according to the autopsy) Vic’s final meal was Irish Stew? If this was a robbery, why didn’t Jock steal anything else? Why would the Police later find Vic’s wallet hidden in the kitchen cupboard and his chequebook under the carpet, if he hadn’t planned to invite anyone up to his flat that night? And if Vic did give Jock a crisp white shirt to wear, why was it later found by the bed heavily stained with Vic’s blood? Jock could be entirely innocent… only William Dunning, also known as Willy, told a very different story. At 4:30pm, that day, in their shared ground-floor flat in Shepherd’s Bush, as Willy & Layne had subbed Jock £1 to pay his rent, Jock said “I’ve gotta do a job for a friend, maybe I’ll let you have it later”. What the job was is unclear, but at no point did anyone mention a robbery, a wallet or a “queer with cash”. At 5:30pm, as corroborated by Jock’s story, with Vic being out, the three men ate egg and chips at the Si-Bon café, a few doors down but not within sight of Carroll House. At 6pm, with a job to do, Jock said “you two wait here while I see if he’s in”. By 7pm, he hadn’t returned, so having rang the intercom but got no reply, as the light in Vic’s flat was off, Willy & Layne headed to the White Hart pub. Inside, Layne said “Look! Over there! Jock’s talking to someone”, that someone was Vic. Not wanting to disturb them, they signalled Jock to the loo, where he promised to get them the £1. But by 10:30pm, as Jock had left the pub, assuming he’d gone back to Vic’s flat, Willy & Layne waited in the café. At 11:30pm, the café shut, so with the door to Carroll House open, they rang the doorbell of Flat 58. “Oh! Hello!” Vic cooed, seeing two rugged men on his doorstep. Willy asked “Sorry to bother you, but can we talk to Jock?”, peeking inside the small quiet flat. Vic said “I’m sorry but he’s gone”, just as Jock had stated, but being hospitable Vic ushered “…but please, come in, have a drink?”, so they did. Willy & Layne sat in the spotless sitting-room, unsure how to sit, what to say, or where to put the glass of “red stuff”, as Willy called it, “I think it was wine or port or summat”. With the boys side-by-side on the sofa at the foot of the bed, Vic grinned in the armchair and topped up their glasses. After half an hour, with Layne nodding-off, Willy asked “do you mind if I use your loo?”, Vic didn’t, so he left. Willy stated “he showed me to the loo, and came in behind me. He made a lewd suggestion, I pushed him, he put his hand on my face and one on my privates. I’d been interfered with as a boy so I’ve got a horror of queers. He went to kiss my mouth. I headbutted him. I don’t remember much after that, except Layne shouting at me. Then, we put the man in his bed, walked to Marble Arch and got a taxi home. In the morning, Layne said “you gave him a terrible beating, you nearly wrecked the place, he was out cold”. After that Jock came home, we all went out for a pint, and thought nothing more of it”. And that was Willy’s story. It’s little more than a drunk heterosexual fighting off the sexual advances of a drunk homosexual. In fact, they didn’t even know that Vic had died until four days later when the death appeared in the newspaper. But there are several problems with this story; if Jock was going to lay the carpet, why didn’t he take any tools with him? Realising Jock & Vic had left the flat, why did Willy & Layne decide to go to the White Horse pub, one street away, when The Mitre is immediately opposite Carroll House? Why did Willy & Layne not want to disturb Jock & Vic in the pub, if they didn’t plan to rob him? What is the chance of the street-door to Carroll House being left open? Why would Vic invite two strangers into his flat? If Jock wasn’t in, why would Willy & Layne go into a stranger’s flat? If Willy wrecked the flat, why didn’t the neighbours hear it and why did it not look a mess in any photos? And (more importantly) where was Jock’s bloodied shirt, as well as the towels, bedsheets and the electrical flex? In court, all three could still be found innocent, but following their arrest and believing that Jock had implicated them both in the murder, Willy & Layne came forth with another different story. At 4:30pm, all three left their Shepherd’s Bush flat. The reason? Robbery. (Jock) “I know a queer with some cash”. Jock had no issue flirting with Vic as “I’ve known gays, I don’t have a problem with them”. At 5:30pm, with Vic not in, they ate egg and chips in the café. At 6pm, with Vic back, Jock went inside the flat, Willy & Layne waited outside, but no wallet was tossed down. At 7pm, having bathed and dressed in a fresh white shirt, Jock & Vic went to the White Hart pub, followed by Willy & Layne. In the toilet, as a change of plan, all three agreed to rob Vic inside his flat, later that night. To not raise any suspicion, Willy & Layne would wait inside The Mitre pub and gain entry to Carrol House via the street door, which would be left open by Jock. The robbery would be unexpected and sudden. At 11:30pm, with Vic a little bit tipsy, Willy & Layne rang the doorbell to Flat 58. The second it opened, Layne threw a coat over Vic’s head as a distraction; they kicked him, punched him and bundled him onto the bathroom floor, as all three rained down a volley of fists and feet on the frail asthmatic, in an prolonged attack that the pathologist would describe as “severe and horrifying violence”. As the terrified man squealed in pain and lashed out in a blind panic, needing to shut-him-up, they stuffed his bloodied mouth firmly with a small towel, tightly bound his legs and hands with an electrical flex ripped out of the wall, and – as they ransacked every room, searching for his money - the less he talked, the harder they beat him - unaware that (having spent his last penny on the flat), he was broke. They kicked him so hard, he broke five ribs. They punched him so fiercely, his false teeth shattered. And with his face a swollen mess, his whole body bruised, and blood pouring from his eyes, nose and ears as his brain haemorrhaged, at some point - unable to breath – Vic went limp. Removing the gag, he didn’t scream. Untying the flex, he just slumped in a lifeless heap. And as they moved the bloody barely-breathing mess onto his bed, and tried to revive him, it was too late, as Vic was dead. (End) They wiped down the surfaces, they stole his watch, his lighter and a bottle of gin, locked up the flat, threw the keys down a drain and at Marble Arch, all three caught a taxi back to Shepherd’s Bush. When Vic failed to show-up for work, his colleague William Hall alerted the flat’s caretaker and four days later, his body was discovered. Inside, the Police found four sets of fingerprints, an electrical flex and a bloodied shirt. Aided by several witnesses who helped construct a photofit of the man Vic was seen with, aided by news coverage, a feature on the TV show Police Five and invaluable co-operation between the Police and the gay community; Jock, Willy & Layne were arrested and gave a series of confessions. All three were tried at the Old Bailey on 22nd March 1965, and with a unanimous jury finding them guilty of ‘murder whilst in the furtherance of a theft’, William “Willy” Dunning, Michael “Layne” Odam and John “Jock” Simpson were sentenced to death. But with the death penalty soon to be abolished, and England’s last execution having been carried out six months earlier, after an appeal on 12th April 1965 - during which their defence counsel had claimed that a key witness was unfit to stand trial - their executions were commuted to a life sentence, and all three served just twelve years. Vic was a good man; he was neat, kind and decent. He was highly respected in his job, he was adored by his friends, he was devoted to his mother and – having fled the bigotry of his homeland to be the man who he wanted to be – although lonely but with a lot of love to give, and a character who lived a good life, being drawn to the wrong type of boy, his life was cruelly cut short and he died for the sake of a pound. (Fade out… don’t go into credits music, just let the silence hang) But wait a minute… if there were three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, which was the real one? Well, as mentioned before, there are several problems with each of these stories, and even though the last one was used to convict all three men, something was missing. Whilst undergoing medical tests at Brixton Prison, Jock & Willy confessed to a fellow prisoner - Andrew Watson-Allen – their part in the murder. His statement was key to the prosecution’s original case, but as this witness had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act four times before, owing to a nervous disorder, even though his statement is clear and ludic, it was rejected at appeal. It read: “Jock told me that when Vic and he returned from the pub (where they had met Willy & Layne), all four went back to the flat together. Jock & Vic had a drink and then some “gubbing” took place, that is sucking a penis with one’s mouth. Jock said he had a lot to drink and fell asleep on the sofa. He was awakened by a struggling and grunting noises. He saw Willy & Layne, they had hold of Vic, he was stood beside them, his hands were behind his back, tied with a flex. Vic started to struggle, so Jock headbutted him to keep him quiet, but Vic wouldn’t shut up, so they beat him and stuffed his mouth. Suddenly, he went all still and Jock said ‘he’s had it, Vic’s dead’”. So, they robbed him and fled. Exactly what happened that night is unclear. But if this statement isn’t true? Why did the Police find that Vic’s belt, zip and trousers were undone? Why did the pathologist confirm that Vic had suffered extensive bleeding, bruising and a widening of the anal passage? And - if this was just a robbery - why were Jock, Willy & Layne all sent to Brixton Prison hospital to have their penises and anuses swabbed? Perhaps there really were four possible murders after all? Or maybe, there was just one. (Out) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, after the gap, I shall be opening and closing my mouth repeatedly, where nonsense will come out and cake will go in. Yummy! So, get your tea stewing now as it’s drivel time. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gemma Fisher and Mona von Petersdortf, I thank you. Plus a huge thank you to everyone in the healthcare profession, emergency services and all other services doing a sterling job to keep our countries afloat during these turbulent times. Thank you everyone, you deserve medals, respect and to be paid much more than you are. 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.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", 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
0 Comments
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian'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 Terrace on Richmond Hill where the "first date" of Kate Beagley and Karl Taylor began... and ended
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 EIGHTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger.
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 Terrace on Richmond HIll is marked with a green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Here's two little video to accompany this episode; the one of the left show The Terrace on Richmond Hill and the Roebuck pub, and the one on the right shows the BP garage in Shepherd's Bush where Karl drove Kate's car wiht her body in the boot. 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. 
The Roebuck Pub where they went for a drink shortly before Kate was murdered
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: Sadly, as there is now file in the National Archives on this investigation (as it's still very new) I had to rely on newspapers and yucky tabloid trash so there may (and almost vertainly) will be mistakes with the research, but I've tried my best with limited and dubious sources.
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE FIRST DATE KILLER
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 the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger. 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 87: The First Date Killer. Today I’m standing on Richmond Hill, the furthest west we’ve travelled, but a story which visits many places we’ve covered before; starting in a West End club (one street from where The Blackout Ripper met Greta Hayward), the killer living on Kemble Street (where Mary Ann Moriarty axed her abusive husband to death), part of the escape taking place just a few streets from home of Katerina Koneva and the murder itself, within sight off the Thames Towpath Murders - coming soon to Murder Mile. The Terrace on Richmond Hill is world famous. It may not look much - being a sandy gravel track, high on a hill, dotted with trees and lined with rows of wooden bench, all facing west - but with only wealthy townhouses behind and nothing in front, this stunning unspoiled vista of the River Thames snaking through the lush greenery of Richmond Park and Hampton Court is protected by an Act of Parliament. It’s a place of beauty, tranquillity and romance, where many people travel to soak up the sights and even - for those just passing it’s almost impossible not to stop, sit and silently watch the sun set. The Terrace is a place for couples. Here you will see it all; sweet old codgers doddering along, sweaty youngsters playing tonsil tennis, the recently-wed who blew fifty grand to notice discover it’s “same shit different day” and the three-month’ers who (having stopped rutting) realise they’ve got nothing to say, so all they do is hug and kiss every six seconds; as well as the married ones who only have eyes for their phones, the soon-to-be divorced seeking a high ledge for a shove, Tinder dates banging away in the bushes, and - of course – the best relationship ever, anyone with a dog, as it’s all about loyalty, belly tickles and (even though one of them has spent the day licking their arsehole) lots of kissing. This is also a great place to come on a first date, as you don’t need to talk, you just need to sit. And although, it’s pretty much a perfect place for love to blossom, even a romance can turn into a tragedy. As it was here, on Wednesday 30th May 2007, having met just days before, that Kate Beagley would begin her date with Karl Taylor, and this beauty spot would turn into a scene of horror. (Interstitial) Unlike so many tragic stories, Kate’s is not exceptional; she wasn’t cursed or crazy, idiotic or irrational, she was just an ordinary woman doing an everyday thing for a very normal reason. Without the benefit of hindsight, I doubt you would have done anything different, so take Kate’s story as a cautionary tale. 32-year-old Kate Beagley was a delight. Described by friends and family as being a brilliant mix of head and heart, she was smart and savvy, bubbly and bold, clever and kind, an independent lady who many described as the “complete package” – she was brilliant, beautiful, but also very down-to-earth. Born and raised in Hounslow, West London, Kate was raised in a close-knit family who stuck together through thick-and-thin; they taught her to be moral and decent, they encouraged her to be strong and confident, and – living in a big city – instead of filling her head with fear, they armed her with all the precautions a young woman should take, but ensured she had the confidence to live life to the full. If you’re wondering why I’m telling this, it’s because there is no reason why anyone should hate her. She had no big issues, no dark past and no secret life. She didn’t have debts, enemies or fears. She drank in moderation (but preferred to drive), she didn’t do drugs (but didn’t judge those who did) and she didn’t commit crimes (but didn’t preach those who had). She didn’t start fights, curse strangers or rub people up the wrong way. In short, she didn’t have a bad bone in her body. But what makes her different? Nothing. She was special to those who knew her, but unremarkable to those who didn’t; she didn’t stick out and she didn’t slink away, she was ordinary - just like you and me. Taking pride in her appearance, Kate was pretty but never vain, and although - being five foot six with blonde collar-length hair and a big beaming smile - she had been blessed by nature, but like most girls in their early thirties, being worried about her weight, she kept fit by doing cycling, running and yoga. With dreams of seeing the world, Kate graduated university with a degree in tourism. It was a perfect choice for her; as although she loved people, travel and having fun, being also sensible, level-headed and incredibly generous, Kate was a real people-pleaser who always put others before herself. As with most of us, her dream didn’t pan-out, so she ploughed her skills into a regular job as National Compliance Manager for the energy company Centrica over in Windsor, where she had been for about ten years. She was punctual, polite and recently promoted. She had a good team, a steady income, a shiny grey VW Golf as a company car and owned her own flat in Walton-on-Thames. And that was Kate’s life in a nutshell. She liked music and reading. She had a good life balance between family and friends. She was recently single and looking-for-love. She had a few minor worries over her mum’s health and her career, but having made some notes in the self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, she wasn’t unduly worried. And with her 33rd birthday soon, she had planned a city-break in Barcelona and a camping trip in Torquay. Just like you and me, she was ordinary, unremarkable, but special in her own way. With work over and the weekend here, Kate and her pals went out to the West End; where they drank, danced and laughed. That night Kate met Karl Taylor, and twelve days later, she was dead (Interstitial). Friday 18th May 2007 was the weekend before the Bank Holiday - typically for Britain - it was wet and gloomy, so the streets were empty but the pubs were packed with punters. For the girls, it was just a regular night out; they had good fun, no stress and lots of giggles, but – more importantly, as they drank booze and were chatted-up by blokes - they kept an eye out for each other. At 11pm, as the pubs closed, Kate and her chums headed to The C C Club at 13 Coventry Street, W1; a now-defunct West End nightclub between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. Hailed as “host to many celebrity parties”, with a strict dress-to-impress policy, a funky mix of R&B, hip-hop and (what was dubbed) “booty shaking choons”, having been here before, they knew it was safe place to unwind. As often happens, being an attractive bubbly young lady who exuded warmth, it wasn’t a surprise that Kate drew the attention of men - but taught to be savvy around strangers - she knew how to be engaging, polite and yet keep-her-distance until she was certain that he wasn’t a weirdo. One man who Kate was instantly attracted to was 27-year-old Karl Taylor; as a handsome young man with brown cropped hair, a neat designer beard and casual fashionable clothes, he looked good. As a confident, chatty and cheeky chappie, he had the gift-of-the-gab. Being small but athletically built, it was unsurprising to hear that he was a fitness instructor and a martial-arts trainer. But as he also did unpaid coaching for an under-12’s football team, she could see he was serious, but he had a soft side. There was clearly a chemistry between them, a spark, so as they both gave-off all the right signals, and her friends had no reason to disapprove, Kate & Karl exchanged phone numbers. That was it. With the night over, the girls drank-up, hopped into cabs and headed-off home, promising to text each other to say “I made it home safe”, which they did. It was a fun but unremarkable evening. Over the next ten days, Kate & Karl texted, flirted and having got to know each other a little bit better, they agreed to meet on 30th May 2007 – that was their first date together and Kate’s last day alive. Now, you know he is pure evil, but (without the benefit of hindsight) how would Kate know that? Well, she didn’t, so although she planned to have a nice time, being a savvy lady, she took every precaution. Wednesday 30th May 2007 was just a very ordinary day. Kate left work at 5pm, arrived home at 6pm, ate dinner, showered, changed from work clothes to smart casual, popped-in to see her parents and – having told her friends and family her plans for the evening - she left Walton-on-Thames at 7:30pm. Having chosen a mid-week date for this meet-up, as she wasn’t going to drink or stay out late, she opted to drive and agreed to pick him up half-way. The twelve-mile journey took forty minutes and at 8:20pm – as she often did on first dates – she texted her friend, it read; “In Chiswick to meet Karl”. At 8:30pm, spotting him dressed in a black tracksuit and dark fur-lined jacket, she picked-up Karl on Chiswick High Road, drove her silvery-grey VW Golf seven and a half miles south-west to Richmond Hill, and having parked-up under a light on a residential street, just down from the Roebuck public house, at 8:50pm Kate texted her friend, it read; “made it to Richmond”. To inject an air of romance into an awkward situation, Kate & Karl sat on a bench as they watched the sun set over The Thames. With thick leaves in the trees above and a weak glow from the streetlamps behind, The Terrace was dark, but being a public place full of people, she knew it was a safe space. At 9:08pm exactly, with most of May being a typically British drizzly wet wash-out, as the sunset was less of a fiery red orb and more like an old Aspirin dunked in a dirty glass of brown fizz, as the joggers and dog walkers left, so did Kate & Karl, as they headed a few yards away to the pub for a drink. At 9:31pm, CCTV captured the couple enter the Roebuck pub; being a very traditional if slightly old- fashioned British boozer, the bar was brightly-lit, the music was low and it was half-full of regulars. Kate & Karl sat at a table by the window, but it was clear that the mood was sullied. And as much as Karl kept talking, Kate kept texting, keeping her friends abreast of how badly the date was going. After just one hour, she had witnessed the real Karl Taylor and she did like what she had seen. The sweet, kind and charismatic man she had met in ‘The C C Club’ had gone; and in his place was a vain arrogant asshole who was only in love with himself, a self-professed ladies’ man who bragged about his many conquests, an emotionally-unstable boy who would be laughing one second and close to tears the next, and a shameless womaniser who – including tonight - had cheated on his girlfriend. At 10:30pm, having had enough, Kate finished her orange juice, politely told him she was going home, they left the pub and walked a few yards up Richmond Hill towards Kate’s car - the date was over. But Karl couldn’t find his house keys, and as he couldn’t leave without them, and she wouldn’t leave without him, doing the decent thing, Kate helped Karl retrace their steps to find his keys. Of course, we know they weren’t missing, we know they were in his pocket, but Kate had no way to know that. Using the bright beams of their phone’s torches, they scoured the path’s grey stone slabs, the sandy gravel track and the dark recesses by the bench where they had watched the sun set, but with no sight of his keys, they retraced their steps to where this awful date had begun… and where it would end. One hundred yards west is the more famous part of The Terrace; a stunning 18th century garden shaped by black wrought-iron gates, neat cultivated bushes and a series of sandstone steps leading to two ornate terraces. It’s beautiful, iconic and romantic. But at night, it’s also dark, silent and remote. For Kate, this detour was little more than a mild annoyance and being just thirty feet from her car, the road and a few houses, she felt she was safe. But with her head down, her eyes focussed and her ears listening out for the clink of keys, she had no idea who her date really was, or what he had in mind. While held at Wandsworth Prison, he claimed he had accidentally stabbed her as he tried to steal her car. He said “I don’t know what happened. She wouldn’t give her keys to me, then she started moving and shaking, the knife went into her wind pipe and she died”. Only we know that this was a lie. At the Old Bailey, his defence was that Kate was depressed, that she had told him her woes and (using the knife he only carried when he felt suicidal) that she had killed herself, later stating, "I realised she passed away. I lay on the grass. I was crying profusely". Only we know that this was also a lie. And although, in front of her bewildered family, he displayed how she had repeatedly stabbed herself in the neck with his knife, when asked why this fitness instructor who was trained in martial arts hadn’t disarmed her, he replied, "I didn't know this girl. I just didn't know what to do." But that too was a lie. The real truth was truly horrific… Having been distracted by a fruitless search for a set of missing keys, from inside the sleeve of his fur-lined jacket, he pulled a kitchen knife. Kate was subjected to a brutal and frenzied attack, it was over within a flash, but in those brief and terrifying few seconds, Karl had plunged the six-inch blade deep into her face, neck and head, a total of thirty-one times. So fierce was his hate-filled rage that he shattered her facial bones, split open her airway, splintered her spinal cord and – having severed her carotid artery and her jugular vein - Kate bled-out on the cold stone steps and died just moments later. Kate Beagley was a defenceless woman going out-of-her-way to do a good deed for a man she barely knew. She lived and died doing what was right, putting the needs of others over her own and to ensure her own safety – without the benefit of hindsight - she took every possible precaution. Karl Taylor was an arrogant, manipulative and highly dangerous monster who cruelly ended the life of a truly lovely person, all because this emotionally-shallow selfish lothario had been spurned by a girl. And as much as he claimed he was remorseful; he stole her car as callously as he took her life. By 10:40pm, as the dimly-lit street was still quiet, no sirens were heard, nobody passed-by and not a single curtain twitched in the houses opposite, being a cloudy moonless night, Karl dragged her lifeless body up the stone steps, bundled her hacked-up remains into her car boot and drove off. At 11:50pm, the silvery-grey VW Golf was caught on camera crossing Chiswick Bridge. At 12:20am, at the BP Garage on Shepherd’s Bush Green, the car pulled-in, Karl calmly phoned his girlfriend, joked with the other drivers and used Kate’s bank card to fill-up with fuel; her corpse was hidden by his fur-lined jacket and the thick spatter of her blood was masked by his black tracksuit. At 1:40am, 15 miles north-east, he arrived at Oxhey Woods car park; a dark isolated wooded-space used by visitors of the nature reserve, but being a weekday and after midnight, it was empty. There he stripped her of her clothes and her dignity, used water to wash away his DNA, dumped her dead body in the bushes and casually tossed the knife and her clothes from her car window as he fled down the M1 motorway. His only thoughts were for himself; not for Kate, her friends or her family. He didn’t call an ambulance, he didn’t call the Police, and he didn’t leave Kate anywhere where she could be found, and although knowing that she was dead wouldn’t be as traumatic as never knowing her fate, for the days that Kate wasn’t found, it gave her loved one’s false hope that she was safe. The next morning, when Kate failed to show-up for work, her colleagues knew this was unusual. When she didn’t reply to any calls, texts or emails, her friends grew concerned. And with her car missing and her flat empty, her family suspected the worst. Having been missing for 24 hours, Kate’s father (Alan) alerted the Police, and although her disappearance was initially classed as a ‘missing persons’, with her vanishing being so out-of-character, they escalated it to a possible kidnapping. Her friends and family checked everywhere, asked everyone and did everything, but Kate was nowhere to be found. For five days, Kate was missing… but Karl didn’t care. Just hours after her murder, as this supposedly remorseful killer sped around the streets of Harlesden – the car boot still soaked, his tracksuit stained, his fur-lined jacket bloodied – as the VW Golf’s wheels screeched outside of his friend’s flat, although Adrian Cardbow was fast asleep, he was rudely woken by Karl who cockily crowed “wakey-wakey, rise and shine”. It was early, very early, but being in high spirits, the callous killer was all smiles, as he wanted to brag to his pals and take his new car for a spin. As Kate’s colleagues stared at her empty desk, terrified for her safety and painfully missing their friend; Karl was whizzing about having a merry-old-time, as he zipped around in his brand new VW Golf; for trips out with his chum and shopping trips with his girlfriend, he even drove his nephew to playschool. To his passengers, it must have seemed strange that although Karl had he said he had bought the car, it was still filled with the previous owner’s stuff; like Robbie Williams CDs, Marks & Spencer’s vouchers, a self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, and a Nokia phone which (when it started ringing) Karl ripped out the battery, the SIM card and tried to flog it off to Adrian? Or maybe it didn’t strange. Either way, that night, they went out to the West End and drank, as Kate’s loved one’s barely slept a wink. But finding Karl Taylor wouldn’t be difficult; having only met him once in the booming darkness of The C C Club almost two weeks prior, collectively Kate’s friends recalled his name, his face and his job, with the Police searching Kate’s bank cards they found crystal-clear footage of the suspect buying fuel, and with Kate’s work mobile still in her flat and containing a text from Karl, he was arrested the next day. On Friday 1st June 2007, barely thirty-six hours after her murder, Karl was questioned. At first, he refused to give any answers and simply replied “no comment” to every question. Then, being vague and evasive, the claimed the date went well and she’d dropped him off in Twickenham. After that, he concocted an implausible story about her suicide, having gleaned her personal thoughts from some notes written in her self-help book. And finally, after several hours of cross-examination in what was still a potential kidnapping, he broke down and confessed to the murder of Kate Beagley… …all the while, still implying it was her fault - “She pushed me away. She was grabbing me and I stabbed her in the throat. I constantly and consistently cut her in the neck because she was going for my face". Later that day, Karl lead the Police to Kate’s car which he had parked on Leopold Road in Harlesden. Inside, they found DNA for both the victim and suspect; her blood still stained the boot, the steering wheel and his clothing; his fingerprints were found on her phone, purse and bank cards; along the M1 they found her torn clothes, the bloodied knife, the water bottle he had used to bathe her; and on the morning of Monday 4th June 2007, just five days later, among the nettles, weeds and broken branches of Oxhey Woods, the naked and decomposing body of 32-year-old Kate Beagley was found. (End) Karl Joseph Taylor was tried at the Old Bailey; he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder, he stuck to his story that Kate had committed suicide and (even used his time in the witness box) to brag about his success with women. But after an eight-month investigation, a two-week trial and overwhelming evidence, a unanimous jury took just two hours to find him guilty and he was sentenced to life in prison. From his prison bunk, always being arrogant-to-the-last, Karl wrote a letter to Kate’s grieving family, in which he called the prosecution ‘obscene’ and made himself out to be this case’s real victim; it read; "We live in a world where life is hard for all, and those who try and embrace good nature get rejected! Without any doubt what I did was wrong!!! But ask yourself this? Whose life have I really taken?” Kate’s dad paid tribute to his daughter saying "Kate was a loving thoughtful daughter, sister and friend, as devoted to us as we were to her. Our family has been devastated and life seems empty. I left her looking forward to an evening out but she was brutally murdered by the man she went to meet”. Kate had done nothing wrong, made no mistakes and took every precaution when she went out on a date. He could have been anyone; a nobody, a new friend or a future husband? But instead she met her death. So, although Kate’s story is a cautionary tale, I don’t mean for you should live in fear, but to live your life to the fullest, as Kate would have, because you never know which day will be your last. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, as always, we have some Extra Mile goodness after the break, so plop a bag in your mug, a splash of milk and two sugars, and get ready for some utter drivel from yours truly. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who this week are Nicola Zieba and Amy Hussain, I thank you. With a big thank you to anyone who shares Murder Mile in person or on social media. As this podcast is, let’s be honest, an acquired taste for only the best and most intelligent of true-crime fans, these personal recommendations are hugely appreciated. If you do one, please feel free to tag Murder Mile in and I’ll share it far and wide. 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.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", 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
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE EIGHTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is a romantic wartime tale about Barbara Shuttleworth and Felic Sterbe, who amidst the ruins of a bombed-out London found comfort in each other’s arms, and yet, something lead these two “lovers” to end their lives in a truly bizarre death pact… well, sort of.
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 Ralph Court at 210A Queensway is marked with a green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you 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.
L to r: the courtyard where Felic fell, the flat which he jumped from, the front and entrance to Ralph Court and an example of the balcony ledge he jumped from
L to R: photo of Barbara, a news article, the engagement notice of Barbara and Thomas and a copy of Felic's inventory
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: The original police file from the National Archives marked as Murder of Barbara Shuttleworth by Lt Colonel Felic Jan Sterba, who committed suicide, at Queensway, W2 on 30 July 1948 – http://discovery. nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258468 MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE "LOVER'S" DEATH PACT.
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 a romantic wartime tale about Barbara Shuttleworth and Felic Sterbe, who amidst the ruins of a bombed-out London found comfort in each other’s arms, and yet, something lead these two “lovers” to end their lives in a truly bizarre death pact… well, sort of. 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 86: The “Lover’s” Death Pact. Today I’m standing on Queensway in Bayswater, W2; one street south of the dry-run jewellery heist for the Charlotte Street Robbery, three streets north-west of The Blackout Ripper’s final victim Doris Jouanette, a short walk north of the site of the Hyde Park bombing, and a little dawdle from the untold truth behind the memorial to murdered Policeman Jack Avery – coming soon to Murder Mile. Queensway is a bit of a dog’s dinner; being uncomfortably wedged between the piss-poor gloom of Paddington and the pretentious arseholery of Notting Hill, like a fibrous poo stuck up a pensioner’s backside, this side of Bayswater is a mess; it has no idea what it is, what it was, or what it wants to be. It’s a chaotic mass of Georgian townhouses, yucky new-builds, nasty 1960’s shops and crumbling high-rise flats, as if the council gave the architect’s job to a sugared-up toddler throwing a tantrum with his Lego. But as a mix of wealth and culture, what you can buy for 99p at Akmal’s discount cash & carry is also flogged-off for five times the price next door at Susie’s Splendiferous Yummy Mummy Parlour, where the thick-as-shit wives of wealthy stockbrokers are duped into buying utter crap by adding an adjective to everyday items; like vegan bikes, veggie wigs, fair-trade farts, meat-free meat, leopard-print pants for the lactose intolerant, ethnically-sourced air for the gluten-free and – everyone’s favourite con – beaded prayer mats rebranded as “authentic ethnic yoga mats” as used by Madonna, once, when she made some mumbo-jumbo religious twaddle fashionable for six whole seconds. On the corner of Porchester Road, at 210A Queensway is Ralph Court; an impressive eight-storey red-and-brown bricked mansion covering half a square block, but with no access except by locked doors and a glaring concierge, through the huge black gates (there to keep the riff-raff out) it looks a nice place to live. And although, in its central courtyard, some residents sit and lose themselves in a tawdry tale, they are unaware that just yards away was spun a truly strange tale of love, death and suicide. As it was here, on Friday 30th July 1948, on the seventh floor of Ralph Court, that two “lovers” entered a strange suicide pact, where both of them would die, but only one of them knew why. (Interstitial) But Barbara wasn’t just looking for love, she was looking for “the one”. In Autumn 1922, Barbara Sylvia Shuttleworth was born in the quaint market town of Knaresborough, four miles east of Harrogate and nestled amidst the breath-taking scenery of the Yorkshire Dales. Her upbringing was idyllic, as happily playing with her pals among the vivid hues of the moorland moss, the lush green valleys and the crystal-clear lakes – which had inspired great writers like J B Priestly, W H Auden and The Bronte Sisters – far from the choking smog of the city, her childhood was untroubled. As the only child of John; a retired Captain and affluent stockbroker, and Gwendoline; the grand-daughter of Sir Roland Barran, a pioneer in the manufacture of ready-to-wear clothing, although the Shuttleworth’s were well-off, they weren’t the idle rich, but came from a heritage of the industrious working-classes who prospered, not by inheritance, but by hard-work and struggle. And whilst many good persons struggled to survive in the austere shadow of the First World War, John & Gwendoline Shuttleworth ensured their daughter had it all – she had health, wealth and happiness. Privately educated at the same finishing school as her mother - tutored in etiquette, deportment and social grace - Barbara was raised to be a lady who was polite, moral and charming. An immaculately dressed woman with brown permed hair, an illuminating smile and a towering elegant stance. But a finishing school is not a university, and although she was also taught history and English, living in an era where a woman’s role was to look pretty and stay quiet, their misguided belief was that if a lady spoke proper, stood upright and had a smattering of brains to make small-talk with a potential suitor, she would find herself a good man, marry well and would live a full and good life, as his wife. It was an old-fashioned notion that had led Barbara’s parents to wed… and subsequently divorce. By the outbreak of World War Two, as an avid-reader of history and poetry, 17-year-old Barbara had found her true passion in the London libraries. By the middle of the war, like most people, the barrage of bombs had become just an annoyance to this independent woman who sought a career and maybe (if she had time) a man. And by 1946, aged 24-years-old, still single but sifting a slew of suitable suitors who - regardless of their age, title or wealth, above all - had to be someone she actually loved, when the bombed bits of the House of Commons were rebuilt, the British Government established a very modern Research Department in the Palace of Westminster and hired Barbara as its assistant librarian. Barbara Shuttleworth was a well-balanced woman with a good career, a busy social life, a happy home life and – raised to be polite, moral and decent – she had her pick of the men who fell at her feet. One possible suitor was Lieutenant Colonel Felic Sterba… and he would love Barbara to death. (Interstitial) Although a military man, Felic was a man of his emotions… Felic Jan Sterba was born in 1897. His early life – just like Barbara’s - was idyllic. Home was a beautiful little farm at the foothills of the Tatra Mountains in the far south of Poland. So peaceful and tranquil was this tiny village, that even before a rickety funicular railway turned Zakopane into a popular ski resort – with its crisp fresh air, ice cold lakes and snow-capped peaks - it was famed as a health spa. As the youngest boy to three older sisters and the only son of a doting housewife mother who spoiled him rotten and a stern over-bearing father who scared him, like most children, Felic was the product of both parents – he was sensitive and thoughtful like his moma but intense and precise like his papa. So, as a physically tough but emotionally fragile little boy, whose sturdy body was hidden by a crisp starched shirt and whose penetrating gaze was magnified by thick-lenses glasses - burdened by a big heart and an overactive brain - he had a desire to be loved, but a need to be in control. On 30th November 1929, as a late bloomer, 31-year-old Felic married a pretty local girl called Maria, who he absolutely adored. Believing she was better than he actually deserved; to keep his wife happy, he built her a stunning timber cabin called Willa Sielanka in the Tatra mountains; as a meticulous man he crafted a solid career as a pilot in the Polish Air Force, ensuring she was never without; desperate to be a dad, on 19th July 1931, they gave birth to Andriej, a date he immortalised on a gold medallion worn around his neck, and - although cursed by a jealous streak and paranoid that this modest and faithful woman would leave him - he signified his undying love for his beloved Maria by inscribing her name and wedding date inside his gold ring and secreting a photo and lock of her hair in a gold locket. They had a lovely home, a good life and a happy family. He loved them both without question and the medallion, the locket and the gold ring, he would wear next to his body… until the day he died. (“Peace in our time”) On 30th September 1938, British Prime Minster Neville Chamberlain held aloft a sworn statement from German Chancellor Adolf Hitler, in which he assured the people of Europe that there would be peace in our time, but it was all a lie. On 1st Sept 1939 Germany invaded West Poland. By week two, war was declared. By week three, the Soviets had invaded East Poland. And by week four, with 70% of all Polish aircraft and armaments destroyed or confiscated, and with the country left defenceless, Poland had fallen and its people were now under both Nazi and Soviet rule. With the Polish Air Force obliterated, 43 year old Lieutenant Colonel Felic Sterba and the remaining pilots were forced to flee; by October 1939 he was in Romania, by December he was in France, and knowing that his wife and child would be safe in their remote mountain retreat - like most people – believing this whole hullabaloo would all blow over by the end of the year, he wasn’t unduly worried. But as the Germans drove West, the Allies were evacuated from Dunkirk and the Nazis paraded though Paris, with the enemy perched just 100 miles from the coast, on 30th June 1940 Felic fled to England He hadn’t seen his family in a year; every day away was torture, every mile apart was a stab in the heart, and although, as a prolific letter writer, the few letters which got through from his loving wife reassured her paranoid husband that they were alive, well and that she would remain forever faithful, as a tough military man who struggled to rein in his emotions, the only time he could be near his family was when he held his golden locket, medallion and wedding band. He was alone, lonely and broken. Two years later, as the war raged on, Felic was still stuck in England… …and then he met Barbara. As an Air Force veteran, Lieutenant Colonel Sterba was snapped up to train a new fleet of fighter pilots based out of Regent’s Park. With only wooden mock-ups for dry-runs, the training was mostly theory, but with the average rookie pilot’s lifespan being just sixteen minutes, time was short, turnover was high and - as a gruff no-nonsense officer - Felic demanded perfection. But the war-effort (for him) was just a distraction from the pain of missing his family and - when he was alone - he became depressed. For Felic, as he shuffled through London’s West End, all he saw was dirt, dust and death. After four years without his family, food tasted bland, time had no meaning and he drank to forget. Every day it rained… and then, the clouds parted, the sky turned blue and the sunlight shone. On 14th June 1943, whilst supping tea at the Lyon’s Corner House tearoom in Marble Arch, Felic met twenty-one-year-old Barbara Shuttleworth; she was bright, charming and beautiful, a breath of fresh air with a beaming smile who effortlessly breezed through the drab grey ruins of this bombed-out city; and as he became dizzy from the joyous sound of her songs and the sweet scent of her perfume - in a world so full of pain, chaos and horror - suddenly, the dead weight in his heart melted away. That night, in his diary, Felic wrote “met Basia”, the Polish word for Barbara. For Felic, she was a lovely girl who eased his pain, made him smile and shared his love of poetry. For Barbara, although she was a singleton with many suitors, as he was a decorated war-hero, a sensitive gentleman and a generous friend, he was a real catch for some lucky lady, and she was interested. Briefly, as often happens during war-time when love-sick soldiers are away from their spouses, a little bit of innocent flirtation blossomed into a romantic dalliance, but as she was half his age and he was a happily married man, it was never meant to be, so knowing that once these hostilities were over that he would return home to his wife and child, they would simply remain as just good friends. (Churchill) On 2nd September 1945 - with Hitler dead and the Nazis defeated – as a hundred thousand strong crowd of excited people erupted in jubilant celebration across Trafalgar Square, Barbara and Felic kissed and cheered, as after six long years of fear, the war was finally over… …but as the street party died down, for many allies, a new war had only just begun. With Germany split and a supposedly-peaceful Europe being sliced-up between the democratic West and the Communist East, Poland was placed under Soviet control. Having fought against a Nazi dictatorship and died to defend this country, the Polish forces rightfully felt cheated, as they were forced to exchange one brutal regime for another. So, as millions of soldiers kissed their loved ones and returned to their everyday lives, like many Polish troops, for now, Felic was stuck. On 9th September 1946, having been separated from his wife and child for seven years, Felic enlisted in the 50th Officer’s Holding Unit of the Polish Resettlement Corp - a detachment designed to ease his transition from military into civilian life - until it was safe to return to his country… but he never would. Over the next two years, Felic became lost; he was a soldier with no war to fight, a pilot with no plane to fly, a father with no child to raise and a husband with no wife to love. He has nothing. So as the hours, days and weeks passed-by, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, he would sit in his bedsit, alone with nothing but his thoughts. All he knew was the military life… and all he had left was Barbara. For Barbara, the end of the war meant business as usual. Her homelife was good; with her lovely floral townhouse untouched by the blitz, she still lived with her mother at 35 Bark Place in Bayswater and often saw her father in Knightsbridge. Her work life was solid; with the government busy, she had been promoted to senior assistant librarian in the Palace of Westminster. And having waded through a slew of potential suitors, her love life had blossomed, having got herself a boyfriend. He was charming, he was kind and he was sweet… but he wasn’t Felic. In his eyes, Barbara was his lover. In her eyes, Felic was her friend. Their relationship which was never meant to be and with their brief flirtation having come to an end five years ago, as much as Barbara had tried to distance herself from Felic – as a lady who was raised to be moral, charming and polite - it was hard for her to sever all ties with a sweet man who so broken. She had to end it… but how? At home, she’d be sent his letters. At work, she’d get his gifts. Outside her window, she’d see his face. And every night, sometimes twice, she’d hear his phone calls. He was a married man who was double her age and she didn’t love him… but he couldn’t see that. So, as much as it hurt her, Barbara broke off contact with Felic, hoping that silence would cause him to forget all about her … only it didn’t. Her silence only made him more obsessed. With no life, he had nothing else to focus on… but Barbara. In late 1947, paranoid that his wife had been unfaithful, and (ironically) seeing her as his only obstacle to being with his one true love, Felic applied for a divorce, informed Barbara by letter, but got no reply. In Christmas 1947, he made two gold medallions, inscribed with ‘FS’ for Felic Sterba, ‘BS’ for Barbara Shuttleworth and on the back wrote ‘London’. His he hung around his neck, but hers was never found, And as eight months passed in silence, being sat in his lonely little bedsit on the seventh floor of Ralph Court, he filled his diary with nothing about his life, just his many failed attempts to contact Barbara. Sunday 18th July, the entry read “phoned Basia”. Monday 19th: “was in Basia’s home, was wonderful”. Tuesday 20th: “phoned Basia”. And yes, she had made contact and let him in, as she had something important she needed to say, she just didn’t know how to say it without breaking his heart. Wednesday 21st: “phoned Basia”. Thursday 22nd: “Basia didn’t turn up, Mother ill”. Friday 23rd: “Basia didn’t phone”. Saturday 24th: “Basia didn’t phone”. Sunday 25th: “Basia didn’t phone”. Monday 26th: “Basia didn’t phone at 10pm, I was under her window”. And Tuesday 27th: “no news from Basia, I am afraid she is ill or doesn’t live any more. I am long time without news. Is it the end with us? I phoned and asked her if she is alive. I have to speak with her. In the evening, I was under her window”. That day, she had to speak to him to before he saw what her mother had prematurely placed in The Guardian, The Times and the Yorkshire Post newspapers, it read; ‘the engagement is announced between Michael Thomas Lupton, the only son of Mrs D W Lupton of Chester Row, Belgravia, and Barbara, the only daughter of John and Gwendoline Shuttleworth’. Felic didn’t see it, but she still needed to tell him this to his face, as - being raised proper – she knew it was the decent thing to do. Wednesday 28th: “phoned Basia, I think we will meet”; it was a small sliver of hope, and although the call was only brief, it buoyed his spirits as on Thursday 29th: he wrote “Basia promises, said she would come tomorrow at 1pm”, but Barbara had things on her mind. That evening, over a romantic candle-lit dinner in a lovely little bistro in Bayswater, a besotted Barbara clinked champagne flutes with her fiancé Thomas - it was a glimpse at their happy life ahead. Together, the smitten couple held hands, kissed and – to everyone who saw them – they were very much in love. After a two-year courtship, with the time being right, they were engaged, soon-to-be married, and – with the purchase of a little flat in Highgate almost complete – Thomas slid his lover the key to their first home together, and as she left, in Thomas’s own words he said “she was absolutely ecstatic”. …but Felic had made his decision. His last diary entry on Friday 30th July 1948 simply read: “Basia will come at 1pm. God knows how it will be. Perhaps we will perish? The end of the last chapter of you and me”. But only he would know that. For Miss Barbara Shuttleworth, the soon-to-be Mrs Barbara Lupton, Friday 30th July 1948 was a day like no other. It started pretty ordinary. At 7am she awoke; washed, dressed and ate an apple. At 8am, elegantly dressed in a blue-and-white cotton dress, a black hat and black shoes, she left home with a spring-in-her step, hopped on the Bayswater tube to Westminster, and by Big Ben, sashayed through the stiff suits on Parliament Street and breezed into No 1 Derby Gate, as if she was walking on air. As a librarian at the House of Commons, Barbara was like a ray of light in a grey room of gloom, but even more than usual, her colleague Pauline Bebbington said she seemed joyous but also nervous. Today was a big day. At 4:30pm - with a key, a tape measure and her mother Gwendoline - she would head to 29 Highgate West Hill in Hampstead and decide on the furniture and fittings of her new home. …but first, she needed to set the record straight. At exactly 12:45pm, with only a one-hour break, a thirty-minute journey to make and no time to dither, needing to be back at work by 1pm at the latest, she packed up, dashed-out, apologised to Pauline for missing their lunch date - “Sorry sweetie, let’s do it Monday okay?” - and caught a taxi to Queensway. Arriving at Ralph Court, just shy of 1:15pm, she exchanged a pound to pay the taxi with Charles Hadden the porter, took the lift up to the seventh floor, and with the red bricked mansion block being a u-shape around the floral courtyard, at the far end of the corridor, she rang the doorbell to flat 147. As a three-bedroom flat owned by landlady Margaret Reidl, who was out, she was greeted by lodger Mira Milivojevic who was just leaving, and as Felic - who had taken a sleeping pill the night before - still wasn’t awake, Barbara was let in, left alone, and there are no witnesses to what happened next. At 1:45pm, the cleaner Mrs Beatrice Benham arrived; she heard no sounds, she saw no people and assuming the flat was empty, she started cleaning the kitchen. Ten minutes later… (three bangs in quick succession, a short pause, a bang, a pause and another bang)… came from Felic’s bedroom. The courtyard filled with screams, the flat buzzed with panicked people, the porter tried to bash down the bedroom door, and with the police called at 2:03pm, they arrived by 2:07, but it was too late. Felic’s bedroom was a small bed-sitting room with a single bed, a desk, an arm chair, a wireless radio and a small balcony window overlooking the courtyard. Being a meticulous military man, it was smart, neat and sparse, but with every item listed on a very precise inventory, as if he was planning to leave. On a rail hung his uniform, all pressed and starched. On his desk were his medals, his family photos, a wedding ring, a gold locket and two gold medallions. On his bedside table was a glass of water, a pot of sleeping pills, his horn-rimmed glasses, his diary, a pen, a book of Polish poetry, an unopened letter to Barbara, a sealed letter to his son, the inventory of all his worldly possessions, and his Last Will & Testament. On the floor was a gun, Felic was missing and lying on his bed was Barbara. According to the Police Investigation, this is what happened. Felic had made his decision. As he and Barbara were “lovers”, either they would live together, die together, or if he couldn’t have her, then no-one could. That was his plan. But having had a fitful night’s sleep and taken a sleeping pill, he had overslept. So, although he dreamed of looking resplendent on his last day alive dressed in his crisp uniform, shiny boots and gleaming array of medals, at 1:15pm, as Barbara knocked on his bedroom door, he was dozy, tired and wearing just his pyjama bottoms. What was said will never be known, as no words between them were ever heard. But in an unopened letter to Barbara, he had wrote “Do you love me still, or is all over now? Are you in love with somebody else? I lost six years for you. I send for divorce in Poland. It’s your bad deed. Do you believe in God? If so, say your prayer. We will die together. You have broken my life. I will break yours”. Barbara had only planned to be here for just ten minutes, but she had been here for almost forty, and she knew if she didn’t leave now, she’d be late for work, to meet her mother and to see her new home. At 1:55pm, Barbara was sitting on the bed, Felic was standing by the door and from his desk he pulled a revolver; there were no shouts and no screams, just three quick shots, then a fourth and a fifth. With the gun muzzle flush to her hairline, firing at point-blank-range which flashed black powder burns between her left ear and eye, the first shot ripped through her left temple, eviscerated her left and right temporal lobe, and shattered the right temple, causing extensive haemorrhaging to her brain. Almost immediately, Felic fired a second shot. With Barbara still sitting upright but slumping forwards, a bullet smashed her third rib, pierced her left lung and the seventh rib of her back, leaving a deep red stain on her blue-and-white dress, just above her heart, and although he wasn’t dead, but paralysed, with her left lung having collapsed, her chest cavity filled, and she began to drown in her own blood. The third shot came within a second of the last, but this wasn’t for her, this was for him. With his suicide pact almost complete, to ensure a blissful afterlife with his beloved, he placed the gun in his gaping mouth, the barrel flat against his palette and with the muzzle pointing to his brain, Felic fired, the right of his skull erupted in a thick red mist, and with a heavy thud, he slumped to the floor. …but he wasn’t dead. Somehow, he had survived. Picking up the gun, into his mouth, he fired it again. But still, he didn’t die. Why? He didn’t know. He had felt the hot fiery flash in his mouth, he could taste the acrid cordite on his tongue, and up his bedroom wall, down his heaving chest, onto his trembling hands and soaking his pyjama bottoms was his blood, but he was still breathing and still alive. He fired a fifth shot, this time, into his heart… only he missed, and hit his left arm. With the gun being a six-shooter, he knew he would only have one shot left, one chance to end it all, so – desperate to die and be with Barbara – he put the muzzle of the gun flush to his temple… and fired. (Click. Click. Click) Only it was empty. There was no sixth bullet. And he had only one option left. At 1:55pm, having snuck up to the roof for a sneaky cigarette, Charles Hadden the porter heard several shots in quick succession, “I then saw Mr Sterba at his bedroom window, stood on the sill, half naked, looking down, he hesitated for a second, sank down on his haunches, then rolled off”. Felic plunged seven floors, roughly seventy feet and landed hard. His upper body smashed onto a brick wall, and his lower body hit the concrete slabs, one foot below. But miraculously, again, he didn’t die. At least, not there and not yet. The ambulance arrived at 2:08pm. Felic had sustained twelve broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, a broken left hip, foot and femur, both lungs collapsed, both kidneys and spleen ruptured and three bullet wounds to the arm, mouth and head, he was admitted to Paddington Hospital but died at 2:42pm. Three minutes later, having detected a very faint pulse, Barbara also admitted to Paddington Hospital. She was given blood, plasma and began to show signs of recovery, but by the time her fiancé Thomas had arrived, it was too late. At 8:40pm, Barbara Shuttleworth died with mother at her side. (End). Next to his bed, Felic had left his Last Will & Testament. In it he left almost everything to his ex-wife (Maria); his gold ring, his watch, his locket, his medallion, his bank balance totalling sixty-seven thousand pounds which was to be used for the education of their son and the deeds to their home in Zakopane, which he had legally signed over to her - ironically - on the day Barbara had got engaged. In a letter to his son Andreij, he wrote “My son. Please excuse me for the things which happened, but my life is broken. It happened, I don’t blame anybody, and I myself am not to be blamed. Be a good man and take me as an example until my fiftieth year of age. Afterwards I was a weak man and broken through hard fate. She is a bad woman, Barbara, she influenced me to my divorce, proceedings of which, though happy, I did not start. That is what it seems to me now. My life is broken. She is very bad, but I love her, therefore I take her with me. Pray for my poor soul. Your father. F Sterba”. An inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on 6th August 1948, and with the jury not even needing to retire to consider their verdict, it was declared that Felic Sterba had murdered Barbara Shuttleworth and then committed suicide whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed. Barbara Shuttleworth was twenty-six-year-old; she was a lovely girl, with good job, a happy family and a bright future, whose radiant smile illuminated rooms, whose charm made people truly love her and whose warmth and compassion for others lead to a really beautiful person to lose her life far too early for no reason. She was due to marry Thomas Lupton a few days later, but instead, she was buried. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, Extra Mile in next so pop your tea on the hob and a cake in your gob as it’s time to chow down and witter about nonsense. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporter who this week is Mhairi McCrae, I thank you. As well as a thank you to all Patreon supporters whether old or new, previous or impending, as well as everyone who leaves reviews, comments or shares this podcast with their friends. I thank you. 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.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", 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
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Twyford Avenue in West Acton where The Beast lived
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-FOUR: Today’s episode is the final part about the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva; by pure luck her killer had been caught, and what seemed like a one-off attack led to “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” and unravelled a catalogue of failure by the authorities in both Britain and Poland.
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.
As the exact location of the flat where Andrzej Kunowski lived and where the Korean student was raped hasn't been publicly revealed, I've added the location of Twyford Avenue, but not the exact number. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you 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: See Part One. MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART THREE OF THE BEAST.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is the final part about the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva; by pure luck her killer had been caught, and what seemed like a one-off attack led to “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” and unravelled a catalogue of failure by the authorities in both Britain and Poland. 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 85: The Beast – Part Three. Today I’m standing by bus stop K on the Goldhawk Road, W12; an eight-minute stroll from the former family home of Katerina Koneva, a nine-minute chug from her old school, three tube stops east of The Beast’s flat on Twyford Avenue, a full day’s drive from the Koneva’s homeland in North Macedonia, but nine hundred and sixty-four miles west from where this story actually began. Stop K is just a regular bus stop on an ordinary West London street; it has a single-sided Perspex shelter (barely big enough for three pensioners, a pram, a small poodle and half a posterior, but at least having only one wall the whiff of BO, eggy-breaths and bum-boffs doesn’t linger), it has a plastic wipe-clean bench (dotted with cigarette burns as if someone’s written “help me” in Morse code), a stinky bin overflowing with the salad from burgers and kebabs (meaning the bin’s healthier than half the kids) and a countdown clock which never works (so one minute here feels like a week in Groundhog Day). Twenty-three years after her murder, many of the family-run shops on Goldhawk Road (the barbers, the bakers or the tailors) have gone, and although it seems innocent enough, bus stop K still remains. As it was here, on Thursday 22nd May 1997, from the comfort of his regular seat, that a sadistic and predatory paedophile would watch twelve-year-old schoolgirl Katerina Koneva exit her bus and follow her home. His name was Andrzej Kunowski and he would be known as The Beast... (Interstitial) …but Katerina wasn’t picked at random, she was chosen, thirty years before she was even born. In 1956, in the Polish city of Warsaw, Andrzej Kunowski was born Andrzej Klembert, the only child of Elzbieta Klembert; an unmarried mother and a habitual thief struggling to survive behind the Soviet side of the Iron Curtain, as - having signed the Warsaw Pact alongside several states in the Communist Bloc including Albania, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, East Germany, Hungary and Romania to form an uneasy alliance with the Soviet Union - until the fall of the Berlin Wall, Poland would struggle. Conceived by accident, even as a baby, Andrzej wasn’t loved. With an absent father, few relatives and no brothers or sisters, although he had no competition for his mother’s affection, still it never came. Aged two, Andrzej was committed to the Warsaw orphanage; a bleak concrete prison full of unwanted babies and abandoned boys, but it wasn’t for something bad that he had done. As coming from a small family – with his mother a thief, his father a burglar, his grandmother a fraudster and his grandfather committed to a psychiatric hospital for sexual offences – as all of his family were in prison, the little boy had nowhere else to go. So, for seven months solid, all he did was cry; he had no-one to love, hug or cuddle him, he had been abandoned and he was too young to understand why. Upon release, Elzbieta fled to Mlawa (“Mwarva”), an industrial town north of Warsaw and married a builder called Stephan Kunowski; hoping to make a better life for herself. But by then, Andrzej had become obsessive and clingy; unwilling to let go of his tiny mother’s legs, he cried whenever she pushed him away, he threw hysterical fits anytime she ignored him and should his dark-haired mama dare show an ounce of affection to anyone but him, the unruly child would explode in a volatile temper, only calming once he was returned to her. And his school life was no better. As an anxious five-year-old, to Andrzej there was no difference between school and the orphanage, so as the little boy stood at the school gates crying for his mother, having been mercilessly teased for being short, messy and smelly, the bigger boys also branded him a “momma’s boy”. And although he was only little, being cursed by quick fists and a short fuse, these early fights taught him to stand-his-ground, to use force to get whatever he wanted and by gripping his bullies by the neck and squeezing - until they apologised or passed-out - he also learned to love the feeling that he could control others. As Andrzej grew, feeling unloved and inferior, he became fastidiously clean - with pressed shirts, shiny shoes and an excess of aftershave – as he directed his affections on the girls which appealed to him most; all who were petite girls with pale skin, small-features, a child-like frame and long dark-hair. At first, his intentions were not sexual, he just wanted to feel loved, but again he was rejected. As puberty hit, hormones raged and (unlike the bigger boys who had sprouted-up) being a little fatty stuck at five-foot-three, Andrzej became more solitary, isolated and insular; a chronic masturbator who spent hours silently sat in his bedroom, spying the streets and peeping in windows, obsessively seeking a very specific sort-of girl and fixated by tiny pale brunettes – not unlike his own mother. In 1969, aged 13, Andrzej was arrested for the first time; it was a small offence for the minor theft of a young lady’s handbag, and for that he was sentenced to six months in a juvenile detention facility. The crime was frivolous, irrational and spontaneous; he didn’t need the money, he didn’t want the item and (with much of his trauma stemming from his time in the orphanage) he was terrified of being locked-up, but the mugging of a young dark-haired lady wasn’t about financial gain, it was about control. And it marked the start of new and very violent phase in the life of The Beast (Interstitial). In May 1973, aged 17, having progressed from muggings and robberies to car thefts and burglaries, Andrzej was released from juvenile detention; his behaviour was good, his attitude was fine and having participated in a few programmes – including tailoring, for which his chunky little digits seemed too big for such fine work, but his skill was undeniable – the prison felt he had been rehabilitated. Only he hadn’t. This incarcerationiHi had only made his obsession worse, every day was a cruel reminder of his time at the orphanage - when trapped behind iron bars and concrete walls - all he could think about was the affections of his mother… and now, free but unable to have her, he would go after the next best thing. In June 1973, a few weeks after his release, he dragged his 13-year-old neighbour off his own street, into some bushes and raped her. It was daylight, she knew him and he didn’t wear a disguise. That may seem odd, almost bizarre, but everything which became the hallmark of his attacks (including the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva) started right here. As with each and every victim:
He was arrested, tried and (with two more girls having identified Andrzej Kunowski as their attacker) as a convicted rapist and highly dangerous paedophile, he was sent to prison for just three years. He served his time; he was released and - with his obsession now worse – his terrifying spree of the rape and strangulation of young women and little girls started immediately, were triggered without reason and never ceased; sometimes he attacked once a year, but often he attacked several times a day. What follows are only the rapes that a court could prove:
Why he hadn’t been caught still beggar’s belief? By the start of a New Year, with his attacks seeing no sign of abating, on 26th January 1978, in a single day, he raped three more women. Thankfully, owing only to luck, having recklessly left fingerprints at the scene, Andrzej Kunowski was arrested and finally – as one of Poland’s most prolific rapists and paedophiles – he was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. But even in an all-male-prison, his sexual assaults continued; on 24th February 1979, he forced a small dark-haired cellmate to perform oral sex on him, one week later he raped another cell-mate and – as a fine example of just how incompetent the Polish justice system was – somehow, on 25th April 1979, he escaped from prison. Six weeks later, he raped a 13-year-old girl as she walked home from school. He was arrested, re-escaped from prison and committed six further rapes before being re-arrested in 1983 and sentenced to thirty years in a maximum-security prison - from which he would never escape. And he wouldn’t. No, instead, they let him out. By 1989, following the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of Communism and to celebrate the election of Poland’s first democratically elected president - Lech Walesa – as part of an offender amnesty, the Polish government released hundreds of prisoners, one of whom was Andrzej Kunowski, having served just six years out of thirty. In 1992, he was released, he married, he fathered a daughter, he got a job as a door-to-door cosmetics salesman, and raped at least five more girls, the youngest was just ten. But the authority’s incompetence didn’t end there… Andrzej Kunowski was a violent, calculated and deeply disturbed psychopath who was unrepentant for his crimes, unsympathetic of his victims and unable to stop his spree of rape and strangulation; he was a repeat offender with no chance of rehabilitation, who over thirty years was convicted of more than seventy charges for rape, abduction, sexual assault and the attempted murder of young women, girls and children, leaving possibly hundreds of victims physically and emotionally scarred for life. So, given his history of lying, burglary, prison breaks, rape and paedophilia, it would be unfathomable to think that the Polish legal system would give him any leniency in his sentence... But on 24th June 1996, whilst re-imprisoned for further counts of child-rape, having falsely claimed that he needed urgent hip-surgery, a judge released him from prison, for three months - unsupervised. Over the next three months, he sold his flat, he packed his bags, he emptied his bank account and he applied for and received a tourist visa from the Polish government, and when those three months were up – having never had an operation or knocked on the prison gates asking to be let back in – only then did the Polish authorities realise that their most prolific and dangerous sex-offender was missing. His fingerprints, his photographs and his DNA were submitted to Interpol, so that every country in Europe could protect their people and catch this violent escaped criminal. Only he was never caught. His getaway wasn’t a high-speed chase, it wasn’t clever, brazen or covert… Instead, on the morning of Monday 14th October 1996, having bought a fake passport in a false name, Andrzej Kunowski boarded a coach in Warsaw. And armed only with a box of sandwiches and a bag of crisps, over the next twenty-four-hours, he sat there quietly watching his old life vanish into the distance, as (for a one-way ticket that cost just twenty pounds) he was waved through the immigration checkpoints in Germany, Belgium and France, unchallenged, until his coach boarded the ferry at Calais. In a catalogue of colossal errors, the Polish authorities had failed every woman, girl and child who had come into contact with one of their most prolific rapists… and now, he was on a boat to England. I would love to tell you that the British authorities spotted his fake passport. I would love to tell you that they suspected his false name. I would love to tell you that they saw his well-publicised face and with alarms ringing, dogs barking and guns drawn, he was dragged from the coach, searched, arrested and swiftly deported back to Poland before his tiny size five boots could set foot on English soil? I would love to tell you that’s what happened… but it didn’t. On the morning of Tuesday 15th October 1996, Andrzej Kunowski had his passport stamped, his visa approved and having arrived at Victoria Bus Station, he vanished amongst the crowds of London. But he didn’t go into hiding… instead he blended in. With the fake passport of a Portuguese national, false papers in the name of Jose Marco da Dias, an appearance which looked Spanish or Portuguese but was often mistaken for Greek or Arabic, and speaking in an accent many people could only describe as ‘foreign’, this new arrival didn’t stick out. With sad eyes, small hands and a smooth face, this fastidiously neat little man with starched shirts, pressed trousers and highly-polished shoes, who had needles and thread in his bag for his embroidery, and milk and biscuits for his nightly cup of tea, this new stranger didn’t seem a threat to anyone. So, the unassuming little man known only as Jose Marco da Dias acquired himself a ground-floor bedsit on Twyford Avenue, and (being a skilled tailor) found a nice little job at a dry-cleaners on Goldhawk Road, just a few feet from Bus Stop K and just one street from the home of Katerina Koneva. With no witnesses to her murder, what follows is based on the Police investigation and the testimony of the many young girls who survived those terrifying and brutal attacks at the hands of The Beast. Thursday 22nd May 1997 was just an ordinary day; it was warm, clear and dry. Since 8am, Andrzej sat at his usual spot in the window of the dry-cleaners; a neat little man on a neat little chair at a neat little desk - perched behind a tidy array of bobbins, needles and threads - as he watched the world go by. Being a pleasant chap, some people passed and waved, others popped-in for sewing tips, and where-as – with his chunky little digits seemingly too big for such fine work, but his skill undeniable - many handed him their most intimate garments which once clung to their bodies. His window seat was a perfect vantage point; as a tailor it had good natural light; being an occasionally monotonous job this busy street was never dull; and as a convicted paedophile, being perched within sight of bus stop K, the school-run was like a conveyor-belt of loveliness, as bus-after-bus of delicious little girls - in short skirts, white socks and tight blouses - were paraded before his eyes. And although he liked to look at them, most didn’t appeal to him, as he knew what he liked, he had a type. With his shift coming to an end, as the clock neared ten-to-four, with a reassuring clunk of his sewing machine, Andrzej finished stitching the hem onto the skirt of a school uniform, and packed up for the day. His plan? To go home, have a bath, a meal, a bit of telly and a sleep – the same as anyone else. But all that changed at 3:50pm, with the arrival of the 94 bus from Notting Hill Gate… and Katerina. In his eyes, it was a spontaneous decision by a chance encounter with a total stranger, as they all were, and although he hadn’t sought a little girl to rape, that primal urge (he had to act on that instant) was triggered by the sight of a pretty petite girl with long dark hair who reminded him of his mother. Fixated, staring and obsessed, unable to think about anyone else, he didn’t know her name, he didn’t care who she was, but – having chosen her – he needed to control her and hear her say “I love you”. Keeping a safe distance, as he watched the soft swish of her grey skirt and the bounce of her Virgin Airlines bag which was slung across her tiny chest by a thick red strap; her walk was quick, but not fast as if she was frightened but eager as if she had exciting news, and as he followed the little girl down Hammersmith Grove, Benbow Road and onto Iffley Road, she unwittingly led him right to her home. Behind the corner of Hebron Road, the front of 35 Iffley Road was completely visible. From this spot he saw her unlock the door, call for her “daddy” and get no reply; via a small glass panel above he saw her pop on the hall light, trot upstairs and – with the blinds of the bay window open - he watched as she went from room-to-room, calling “daddy” but still getting no reply, until finally in the front room overlooking the street, she slung her bag, popped on her TV and closed her bedroom blinds. From outside, three times, the home phone rang, which she never answered. Perhaps she had music on, perhaps the TV was too loud, or perhaps she was in the shower? But as she didn’t answer it, and no-one else did, as he broke in, he knew one thing for certain… that this little girl was all alone. What happened next to Katerina was never reported publicly, but as his method didn’t deviate in almost thirty years, it is based on the testimony of his last Polish victim, as well as many others. On 16th May 1995, two years before Katerina’s murder, The Beast had spotted 14-year-old schoolgirl Agnieszka Grzybicka (“Gryzbika”) hop off the bus, walk down her street and enter her home, all alone; she was a petite elfin-faced teen with a tiny body and long dark hair - just like his momma. Easily lifting the latch, The Beast crept in, the empty house was eerily silent except for the soft creak of his footsteps and the muffled hum of kid’s tv; with a little girl’s uniform slung on the floor and her schoolbag dumped by the door, it was clear – with no adults inside – there was no-one to protect her. So, having followed her solitary sounds, The Beast pushed open her bedroom door. Inside, the little girl was sat on a small pink bed, a dark-haired dot among a sea of soft toys and plush teddies – happily playing, as this was her safe place. Hearing the door creak, she turned, expecting to see her daddy, but instead - in her home, in the doorway, of her own bedroom - stood a stranger. Before she could say a word, The Beast shushed her: “It’s okay, I’m here to see your father. Is he in?”, confused she shook her head, her instinct should have been to shout or scream, but as the neat little man with sad eyes and a sweet smell didn’t seem threatening, when he said “then I wait here, okay?”, it seemed fine, as he sat beside her on the bed and made small-talk about dollies to pass the time. Having gained her trust, The Beast asked “can you keep a secret?”, she nodded, “good, I want you to kiss me”, he said as he stroked her long dark hair. The terrified girl froze, “come on, kiss me” he barked, but the little look-a-like of his beloved momma said nothing. And as his anger rose, “kiss me, now, love me” - as the petrified girl wept and shook her head - gripping her soft pale throat in his hairy little hand, The Beast repeatedly strangled and raped the little girl, taking her close to the point of death, again and again and again, in a sustained and brutal attack, lasting over an hour, until he was done. And then, as he would have done with Katerina (had he not been disturbed by her daddy), untying the cord which choked her, The Beast asked “you do love me, yes?”, the terrified teen nodded, “so kiss me”, which she did, and having got exactly what he wanted, The Beast left… and this little girl lived. Having fled the first-floor-flat at 35 Iffley Road, chased by Trajce and left Katerina for dead, he hijacked a black Fiat Uno, and in a plume of dust, sped off down the side streets… and was gone. Over the next five years, until the rape of the Korean woman, The Beast would vanish, but just like the Polish authorities whose catalogue of errors let a prolific paedophile roam free, so would the British. Speeding south, Andrzej Kunowski dumped the stolen car by Hammersmith bus station and caught the District Line tube home. Moments later, the Police found the car, recovered his fingerprints and although they proved a positive match to Katerina’s killer, they didn’t match anyone on the UK National Police Database. Of course, the Police could have checked with Interpol… but they didn’t. One month later, having been arrested for stealing a small amount of petty cash from Siddington Farm in Ledbury (Herefordshire) where he worked as a strawberry picker, for the minor offence of theft he should have been fingerprinted, but as the charge was dropped… he wasn’t. Having admitting to immigration officers that he wasn’t Portuguese but was Polish, even though he was using a fake passport in the false name of Jose Marco da Dias, in 1998 (one year after Katerina’s murder) he applied for asylum, and whilst his application was considered, he was allowed to walk free. As he had entered the country illegally, the UK Immigration Service should have taken his fingerprints. If they had, they’d have known that Jose Marco de Dias was an alias, that Andrzej Kunowski was his real name, that he was a wanted fugitive with a thirty-year history of child-rape, abduction and attempted murder… but they didn’t. Instead, during three years his asylum application was assessed, he worked a series of regular jobs in and around West London, he lived in a ground-floor flat just yards from The Japanese School (a prep-school for petite preteen brunettes) and – even though he was arrested in July 2002 for falsely claiming benefits – he was released, and underwent a heart bypass operation courtesy of the British taxpayer. On 14th August 2002, his UK asylum application was rejected, and although (as only a benefits thief) the British authorities ordered him to be deported back to Poland, he failed to show-up and they failed to track him down to his own flat. One month later, he brutally raped a South Korean student… …that attack, and only that attack, having left his DNA at the scene, finally led to the imprisonment of Poland’s most prolific child-rapist and the murderer of twelve-year-old Katerina Kovena. (End) Andrzej Kunowski was given a whole-life tariff, an indefinite sentence (reserved for the most serious offenders) which he served at HMP Frankland, one of the UK’s toughest maximum-security prisons. As a risk to women, children and even other prisoners, he was kept in solitary confinement, supervised 24 hours a day and – for the rest of his natural life – he would never see beyond the prison walls. Unlike in Poland, where he had broken-out of prison three times, The Beast would never escape HMP Frankland… but it wasn’t through want of trying. Instead, it was his own fat little body that proved to be his executioner, as on 23rd September 2009, 52-year-old Andrzej Kunowski died of heart failure. But even his death brought very little comfort to the Koneva family. In a statement, the family said “today I do not feel happy. I wish that I was not giving this statement and that Katerina was still here by my side. I am relieved that this evil man can no longer murder or sexually assault another young girl, but my daughter is gone”. Trajce and Zaklina have since divorced, the family continue to try to rebuild their lives, and each birthday and Christmas they take presents to Katerina’s grave, but every day is a struggle, a constant reminder of their beautiful little girl, cruelly taken so young – "I talk to her every day, and every night, I always say goodnight to my daughter." This episode is dedicated to the memory of Katerina Koneva and the hundreds of women and girls who were attacked by The Beast, having been failed by the authorities in Britain and Poland. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was Part Three of a three-part series on The Beast. Next week, we return to single-part episodes and – as always - after the break there’s more nonsense with Extra Mile. But first this. (add promo) Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Tracy Keech and Dark Master, I thank you, I hope you enjoyed your goodies and all of the extra online goodies you’ve received via Patreon. Also a thank you to Amy Hussein for the cakes, which mysteriously disappeared. Burp! 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.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", 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.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Shepherd's Bush Police Station
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 EIGHTY-FOUR:
This is part two of three about the shocking murder of Katerina Koneva; an innocent little girl who was brutally raped and strangled to death in her own bedroom by an unknown assailant, it was a devastating attack which would destroy a family forever, but not for the reasons you might expect.
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 Shepherd's Bush Police Station where the Police first suspect in the murder of Katerina Koneva was held, it's marked with a yellow triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you 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: To name a few:
MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART TWO OF THE BEAST.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is part two about the shocking murder of Katerina Koneva; an innocent little girl who was brutally raped and strangled to death in her own bedroom by an unknown assailant, it was a devastating attack which would destroy a family forever, but not for the reasons you might expect. 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 84: The Beast – Part Two. Today I’m standing on Uxbridge Road, off Shepherds Bush Green, W12; one street north of the home of murdered school-girl Katerina Koneva, half a mile south of Old Oak Road where Marta Ligman was shoved into a suitcase and drowned in the canal, a few yards from the First Date Killer’s bloody pitstop, and two stops south of the death of eight-year-old Peter Buckingham – coming soon to Murder Mile. Shepherds Bush is dreary and grim. What began as a quaint little village dotted about a crisp little green on the outskirts of London, has since been swamped by an ever-growing city sullied by the same old deadbeats sitting in the same old shops; whether fat waddling sprogs wheezing into a McDonalds, the permanently pissed piddling away their benefits in Paddy Power, shit parents letting their sweet little angels run-like-loons among the blisteringly hot liquids in Costa (because buying a coffee is easier than going to a park and cheaper than hiring a babysitter), and the usual rag-tag band of old bigots banging on the Wetherspoons doors at 6am, to celebrate their fiftieth year of “taking a sickie”, with a pint, a pie and a perusal of their favourite fascist tabloid featuring a headline about how the “benefits sponging illegal immigrants killed the Queen Mum” – all while whinging about anyone who’s brown, gay or “looks like a terrorist”, having started every sentence with the phrase “I’m not racist, but…”. Keeping tabs on it all, at 252 Uxbridge Road, just by the green and one-street north of Goldhawk Road is Shepherd’s Bush Police Station; a truly ugly Soviet-style building made of concrete blocks, where usually a panicked victim could pop in to report a viscous assault, but since the former Home Secretary and (now) Britain’s second worst Prime Minister in history (Theresa May) decimated our police force, closed almost every station and had the front office at Shepherds Bush shut, all that remains to inform the terrified is a little sign telling you to either call 999, report it online, or to go elsewhere. And although the cells at Shepherds Bush still house not only thugs, muggers, burglars, rapists and terrorists, it once it held the Police’s prime suspect in the murder of twelve-year-old Katerina Koneva. As it was here, on the evening of Thursday 22nd May 1997, following the initial investigation and just hours after her murder, that the Police began questioning their prime suspect. (Interstitial) The Koneva’s first floor flat at 35 Iffley Road was no longer a family home… it was a crime scene. As the sun began to set over Shepherd’s Bush, the silent thrum of flashing blue lights illuminated both sides of this quiet residential road, and where-as just hours before, babies had squealed, parents had chatted and children had played, it was bathed in the reverent silence of shock, disbelief and horror. No-one but neighbours had any reason to walk down Iffley Road, but now – being blocked by squad cars, sealed off by police tape and packed full of forensics – it was bookended by a throng of nosey people and irritating press with eager eyes, loose lips and the selfish flash of cameras, all hoping to snap an exclusive for their tabloid rag or a sick souvenir of their little detour to show-off to their chums. And although, within the cordon, those same neighbours who just hours before had been too busy with their own lives to aid a desperate father’s cries (“help me, help me”), now their curtains twitched as they impatiently waited to see their home on the telly (“ooh, there’s us, look”) and warmly opened their doors to any hack, hoping to become a pointless platitude on the nightly news, their selfish excitement at minor celebrity to be replaced by the dark realisation that a murderer was in their midst. Outside of 35 Iffley Road, over the black iron gate, the small brick wall and the tiny garden, through which little Katerina had last walked, stood a blue forensics tent; the dark front door was guarded by officers and the family home swarmed with strangers in black uniforms and white paper suits. Inside, the flat was untouched, everything was as they had left it that morning; with dishes in the sink, socks on the radiator and crumbs on the breadboard, just everyday items, as well as a calendar marked with days-out, duties and exams, and adorning any spare space were the cherished photos of this perfect little family of four, sweet little snaps of happier times never to return; like holidays, birthdays, Christmases and their former homeland in Macedonia – the country they had fled to be safe. In her bedroom lay reminders of this timid girl’s tragic life; her teddies on the bed, her idols on the wall and a little keyboard on which she’d dreamed of being a pianist. All scattered among the debris of her last moments alive; her school uniform, her English exam paper, her chair used to wedge the door shut, her daddy’s handprints on her chest as he fought to make his baby breathe, the kitchen knife he had dropped having failed to sever the strap of her much-loved Virgin Airlines bag, it tightened so tight that her last sight was her frantic daddy struggling to cut the suffocating tourniquet which strangled her, and in the centre of all this horror and pain – with her cardigan dishevelled, her white t-shirt bloodied and her tracksuit bottoms all ripped and torn – lay the tiny little body of Katerina. At 5pm, as the paramedics stood down, the tiny girl was pronounced dead and the family home was declared a crime-scene - although his daughter lay lifeless on her bedroom floor – he wasn’t allowed to hold her, kiss her or cradle her, as she was no longer his baby, now she was evidence. Later that evening, after her distraught father was led away, a hushed silence fell across Iffley Road, as in a small black bag, her miniscule frame was loaded into a discrete black van, and as the ambulance crept away at a solemn speed, the residents of this quiet little street were left with an unnerving thought that even behind the walls, doors and locks of their own homes, no-one would ever be safe. A few hours later, in the cells of Shepherd’s Bush Station, the Police already had a prime suspect for the murder of Katerina Koneva… but the man behind bars wasn’t The Beast. (Interstitial). For the Police, most murders aren’t a mystery… The most obvious suspect is usually the guilty party. In almost every murder, the suspect is often a friend, a family member, a colleague or a rival of the deceased. In family murders; usually the husband kills the wife, the wife kills the husband, the father kills his daughter or the mother kills her son, but rarely is it the opposite, as most murders feature a strange Oedipal twist. The murderer is usually someone with something to lose or gain (whether money, pride or status), who has a direct connection to the location, who often owns the weapon, who commits the crime in the heat of passion – murders are very rarely premeditated – and the prime suspect is quickly arrested as it’s almost impossible to leave no trace of yourself behind. There’s no conspiracy, no mystery and no very few surprises. When questioned, Trajce had claimed that Katerina had been attacked in her bedroom by a stranger. But stranger-related murders in your own home are incredibly rare. You don’t kill someone you don’t know, in a place you don’t know, for no reason. So, although this grieving father would blame his daughter’s death on a mystery man that the press would later dub as ‘The Beast’, in these early stages of the investigation, the Police’s prime suspect in the murder of Katerina Koneva was her own daddy. Of course, it’s easy to sit there and condemn the Police for their decision to suspect an innocent man; having only listened to one episode of a podcast written by a person who wasn’t even there, twenty-three years after the murder and based on the culmination of a six-year police investigation; the details of which (as all podcasts do) have been cherry-picked and condensed into an easily-digestible thirty-minute chunk, so the story appears clear and logical… but the Police didn’t have that luxury. So, as Trajce stood alone in a Police cell - still shocked by the scenes he had witnessed and traumatised by the guilt that (had he not chased The Beast) he might have saved his baby – dressed in nothing but a white paper suit, taped at his wrists and ankles to preserve any evidence, although he knew he was innocent, to the Police, his story seemed implausible and aspects of this case just didn’t make sense. If he was innocent why did none of the neighbours see anyone but Trajce and Katerina enter the flat that afternoon? If the culprit was a burglar, how did he get in and why was nothing taken? Why were only his and her fingerprints found inside the room, on the knife and on the red strap used to strangle her? Why did no-one hear her scream but everyone heard him shout? If this was a premeditated murder, why did the killer not bring a weapon? If this was a crime-of-passion, why would a stranger choose to murder a twelve-year-old schoolgirl in her own home? And how would a stranger know that on this particular day, Zaklina would be out, Trajce would be late and Katerina would be alone? We know he was innocent and the Police would later prove it, but being held in a police cell with his daughter’s blood on his hands, he looked like a guilty man… to his wife Zaklina and their son Christian. "Zaklina started shouting ‘What have you done?'. She was kicking and screaming at me. All I wanted to do was hug my wife and cry with my family. I had lost my little girl—but my wife was attacking me and my six-year-old son was looking up at me with hate in his eyes. I remember banging my head from wall to wall in my cell, I couldn’t believe what was happening. They thought I had killed my Katerina”. A thorough Police investigation would exonerate Trajce and prove the presence of a stranger. The size five boot prints proved the culprit was a short stocky male, matching the man Trajce said he had chased. Finding no other fingerprints inside the bedroom, the Police suspected the culprit had worn gloves, but having removed them to flee this first-floor flat, the attacker had left several sets of short fat fingerprints on the window sill, glass and ledge. With no obvious signs of a break-in, as the front door initially looked untouched, although burdened by stubby-fingers, the attacker was clearly skilled with locks, highly dextrous and adept as a burglar. Using her strap to suffocate her and her pen to fix the tourniquet, this unique combination of found-items fashioned as a garrotte showed that he was a very calm and confident strangler. And as nothing in the flat was stolen or smashed, he had only one motivation - the violent rape of a young girl. A day later, although the sight of a man brandishing a knife and the theft of a black Fiat Uno seemed unrelated, seeing the news report on Katerina’s murder, four eye-witnesses came forward and gave a description of ‘The Beast’; he was stocky, five foot six inches tall, with dark receding hair, of Greek or Arabic appearance and as no-one could identify his accent, they simply said he sounded ‘foreign’. Police had his fingerprints, a vague description, a few grainy frames of CCTV footage and a strand of his short dark hair found on Katerina’s cardigan. But it wasn’t enough. What they didn’t know was who he was, where he was now and why he had targeted Katerina? And as the Police hunted for The Beast, although Trajce was innocent in the eyes of the law, he wasn’t in the eyes of his family… Once the forensics team had left and the first-floor flat was no longer a crime-scene, as this was still their home, what remained of the Koneva family moved back into 35 Iffley Road. Everything was as they had left it; the dirty dishes, the drying socks and the breadcrumbs, only now their happy home was sullied by a series of cruel reminders; bare squares where carpet once was, black powder prints on white surfaces, a speckling of bloodstains on the bed and the memory of where her little body lay. The grief of losing their beautiful baby in such a tragic way would prove too much for them all, and as tensions and resentment mounted, the fragments of this little family of three began to implode. "My son told me repeatedly that he hated me. I was so angry, full of rage and guilt, I would argue all the time with my wife. It was small things that would set us off—anything which reminded us of the pain of losing Katerina. I frequently told my wife I hated her. I felt like I had gone mad with grief". Three years later, Trajce and Zaklina separated, Christian disowned him and being wracked with the guilt at his failure to save his daughter’s life, Trajce attempted suicide several times; "I wanted to die. I was in so much pain from losing Katerina, I thought I deserve this pain and I have to suffer". And although their grief would never end, sadly the investigation would. Despite house-to-house enquiries, no-one could identify this 5-foot 6-inch Greek or Arabic male. His unique criminal profile didn’t match any known offenders. His fingerprints and DNA didn’t appear on either the Police or Immigration databases. And even after an extensive inquiry and three separate appeals (in 1997, 2001 and 2004) as well appearances on the BBC's Crimewatch, the trail went cold. One week after the murder, with no fresh leads, the press moved on. Two months later, Princess Diana was killed in a car-crash and the people forgot that Katerina existed. Two years later, the senior officer in the case was moved onto the high-profile murder of TV presenter Jill Dando – and as investigation stalled, the culprit disappeared and the case went silent… …but a beast will always be a beast, and with his appetite for young girls never sated, he would go in search of another victim. On Sunday 22nd September 2002, five years later and four miles west of Shepherd’s Bush, an unnamed South Korean woman - who had arrived in England just three weeks prior - was trawling the adverts in a local newsagent’s window near Ealing Broadway Station, looking for a cheap flat or bedsit to rent. She was a twenty-one-year-old student, but being blessed with youthful skin, long dark hair, elfin-like features and a slim petite frame, she was often mistaken for a little girl. With her English limited and struggling to decipher the adverts, it was then that a man approached and offered to help; he was mid-to-late forties, short, stocky, dark-haired and Greek or Arabic, with an unplaceable foreign accent. But he didn’t look like a maniac or a monster, a bastard or a beast, he seemed like a good Samaritan doing a nice deed for as a lady in need. She had no reason to be scared; his eyes were sad, his hands were small and his face was smooth, and although he wore a black wig to hid his disappearing hairline, it wasn’t a disguise, he was just a fastidiously neat little man with starched shirts, pressed trousers and highly-polished shoes, with needles and thread in his bag for his embroidery, and milk and biscuits for his nightly cup of tea. His kindness seemed genuine, his calmness reassuring and his demeanour unthreatening, so when he said he knew of a cheap bedsit nearby, she knew she would be okay. Hopping on the Central Line and taking the tube one stop east to West Acton, they walked down Noel Road onto Twyford Avenue; a respectable treelined street full of kid’s bikes and family homes, and on this busy residential street, in broad daylight, he calmly led her into his ground-floor flat. As expected, it was basic; a solitary bed in a single room of a communal flat; there was a kettle, a telly, an ironing board, a rail of neatly pressed shirts, a black bag full of useful tools and photos of his mum. Being a small room, there wasn’t much to see and - after a minute - there was nothing more to say. She went to leave but he wanted her to stay. As his door wasn’t locked, he’d asked politely and as the other tenants could be heard moving about in the flat above, she assumed she would be safe… …but (little did she know that) she was alone with The Beast. Without warning, he attacked; with his full fifteen-stone of bulk bearing down on top of her, he pinned her to the bed and began to stroke her hair, kiss her lips and lick her face. As she squealed, he shushed her. As she struggled, he smothered her. And as she screamed, he began to strangle her, squeezing her neck harder, and – unable to shout, move or even breath – moments later, she passed out. When she awoke, her hands were bound, her mouth was gagged and over the next three hours, The Beast subjected his tiny little sex-toy to a truly horrifying ordeal, as she was repeatedly choked and raped, choked and raped, choked and raped, taking his semi-conscious victim to the brink of death each and every time he violated her, until he was done. And then, as if nothing had happened, he kissed her, cuddled her and - only after she said she loved him and promised to call him the very next day - he let her go. Obviously, she didn’t call him back… …instead, she went straight to the Police, and giving them his name, his address, his description and his mobile phone number, The Beast was arrested that very same day and charged with sexual assault, false imprisonment and multiple counts of rape. Tried at The Old Bailey, in his defence, he arrogantly claimed that the sex was consensual, a thank you for helping find her a bedsit. But following her brave testimony, a unanimous jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to nine years in prison. Nobody knew this, but The Beast was finally behind bars, and without this vicious attack, he may never have been found. Having entered the UK illegally, he knew how to stay under the radar; he went under a false name, he used fake papers, his bedsit was by verbal agreement, he worked for cash-in-hand as a tailor in a West London dry-cleaners and his only criminal conviction in the UK was for petty theft. They didn’t know it but Police had been looking for him for five years, but the witness descriptions of him were wrong; he wasn’t five foot six, he was five foot three, he wasn’t mid-to-late forties but forty-one, and he wasn’t Greek or Arabic. In fact, the ‘foreign’ accent the witnesses described was Polish. His name was Andrzej Kunowski; to them, he was a nothing, a nobody, a one-time opportunist. But being a recently convicted criminal and a registered sex-offender, his details, DNA and fingerprints were uploaded onto the National Police Database, the DNA Database, the UK Immigration Service and Interpol, and they proved to be an exact match to a cold case. The soles of his size five boots were unique, the swirls of his fingerprints were perfect, and - although his hair that day had been neatly trimmed - a single miniscule strand of his short dark hair had become trapped between the weave of Katerina’s cardigan, as she was strangled and raped in her own home. On 29th July 2003, Andrzej Kunowski was charged with the murder of Katerina Koneva. In March 2004, he was tried at the Old Bailey, and although he claimed this was a case of mistaken identity – using the eye-witnesses description of the killer as being taller, older and Greek or Arabic – his fingerprints, his DNA and the testimony of the Korean student were irrefutable, and based only on the evidence presented before them, a jury of eight men and four women took just three hours to find him guilty. Passing sentence, Judge Beaumont declared “you took the life of a child who was beginning to enjoy what this country had to offer. It was a life of great promise and you ended it with great violence and terror”. Andrzej Kunowski was given a whole life tariff, meaning he would never be released. (End) Having collapsed in court at hearing the horrifying injuries inflicted on her daughter’s body, Katerina’s mother Zaklina said “I hope this evil murderer burns in hell. Knowing he is in prison is not enough. I hope he suffers every minute of the rest of his life”, her one consolation being that this sadistic rapist and paedophile could never attack a little girl ever again. And although Trajce would state that they had “beaten the devil” and this conviction would help heal the rift between husband and wife, it was a hollow victory; their daughter was dead, the family were split, and all they had of their beautiful little daughter was photos, memories, a gravestone, and the dreams of what she could have been. Had Katerina lived, she would be thirty-five years-old; maybe married, with two kids, a nice home, and a successful career as a teacher or pianist, and spending her spare-time travelling the world and filling her much-cherished Virgin Airlines bag with souvenirs, perhaps – one day – she may have returned to her now-peaceful homeland in Macedonia - the place her family had fled to ensure she was safe… …but instead she was buried in a small grave in Mortlake Cemetery. With the Beast in prison, the case was over, and the investigation was finally closed. But to ensure a fair trial, one piece of evidence had been deliberately withheld from the jury – his criminal record. And what began as a DNA link to a hauntingly similar attack, unearthed a story of the systemic failure of the authorities in Britain and Poland, which let a sexual predator, a sadistic paedophile and “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” attack again and again and again. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part Three of this three-part episode of The Beast continues next week. If you’re new to Murder Mile, don’t forget to stay after the break as there’s more fun with Extra Mile. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Dan Jackson, Victoria Norris and Jillian Payne Johnson, I thank you and I hope you enjoyed your goodies. And as always, thank you to everyone who listens to Murder Mile and shares it with their friends. 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.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", 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". 
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|
