Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Elsham Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W14; three streets north of the Labour Party lothario, four streets east of the Devil’s Child’s home, a tube stop south of The Beast’s last killing, and three streets west of the boy with the bongos who went bang - coming soon to Murder Mile. Set on a quiet tree-lined street beside Holland Park, Elsham Road features a wealth of early Victorian five-storey terraces in sandstone brick. It’s a pretentiously middle-class street where no-one goes on “holidays”, they “winter”; everybody has a cleaner as they’re too busy to put their own bins out, and instead of going to their doctor, they “rebalance their Shakras” by shoving a crystal up their jacksies. It’s a street with a falseness to it, as its people try desperately hard to be who they wish they were. On the 14th of October 1941, the ground floor and basement flats at 71 Elsham Road were owned by Theodora Greenhill, a widowed mother of considerable means who was looking to sell up and move on. That day, a convicted burglar and a homeless thief arrived on this street looking for a flat to rob, and even though he was a man who certainly didn’t belong there, she let him in, and he took her life. But why did he kill her? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 261: Dr Trevor’s Greed. To say that Theodora Greenhill was an impressive woman would be an understatement. Born on the 2nd of December 1875 in Anglesey, North Wales, Theodora Jessie Weblyn was raised in an era when women were barely educated, were denied a career, had less legal rights than cattle, and life dictated that their sole purpose was to cook, clean, procreate and tend to their husband’s needs. Regardless of how far from a supposedly civilised city she was raised - where the metropolitan elite were supposedly 30 years ahead of the rest of the country - she couldn’t vote, smoke in public, enter a pub alone, or wear trousers; like many women she couldn’t have a bank account, she was denied a career, and even the home she lived in was her husband’s property – as a woman was only a belonging. Upon her death, the press described her solely as “a widow of an Army Officer”… …but seen as a trailblazer, Theodora was so much more. As the second youngest of four daughters to Jessie & Walter Weblyn, maybe it was a desperate need to stand out from her siblings which gave her such an independent spirit, but Theodora was different. Not content to marry simply because it was expected of her, guided by her father’s love of sport (being the co-owner of the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News), she became passionately involved with horse racing, carriage pursuit, and later – as technology changed everyone’s lives – motor sport. In the late 1890s, Theodora moved from Anglesey to London. Situated at The Ranelagh Club in Barnes, South London, the Ladies' Automobile Club ran a series of driving competitions in which small petrol-driven horseless carriages competed in races and time-trials, in an era when automobiles were seen as a fad, safety wasn’t considered. and the first Model T Ford was almost a decade from being built. At the Ranelagh Automobile Gymkhana, held in July 1900, the first ladies’ race was held. Consisting of a single lap of barely a mile long around the 130-acre site at Barn Elms, 25-year-old Theodora Weblyn won the race in a 6hp Daimler ‘Parisian’, having reached thrilling speeds of 23.7 miles per hour. That may seem slow to us, but back then, people still believed that driving faster than 30mph was fatal. Theodora was a pioneer in racing, and in her life, she was equally as independent and free-spirited. On the 9th of January 1902, she married Rupert Tattersall, and by Spring 1904, their daughter Katherine was born. But with the marriage lasting only seven years owing to his adultery, in 1907, a court granted her a divorce, an allowance and the costs paid of her home at 10 Westbourne Mansions, Kensington. Now with two children, Virginia aged 3 and Katherine aged 6, although a census describes her as the ‘head of the house’ and ‘a woman of private means’, having fallen in love with Major Hubert Greenhill of the Dorset Regiment, in the spring of 1913, they married and later had another daughter, Sylvia. As a strong confident woman with no sense of fear, she gifted her daughters with her drive and passion so each went on to live rich and fulfilling lives. In March 1926, following the death of her husband, she made the decision not to remarry, and having inherited his Army pension, a widow’s allowance and with their house now legally under her name, this is where she would live for the rest of her life. By 1939, 71 Elsham Road was the perfect place for a 63-year-old widow and her youngest unmarried daughter Sylvia. Set on a quiet middle-class street far from the bustling crowds, the two shared this maisonette with a kitchen, bathroom and living room in the basement, and the bedrooms above. And with the three upper floors occupied by three single women - Mrs Bishop, Miss Melly and Miss Pick – the communal front door was often left unlocked, as they never had any trouble with strangers. Theodora wasn’t a shrinking violet who needed a man in her life, she wasn’t lonely, she wasn’t in need of love, and she wasn’t a pushover. She was an impressive self-reliant woman of means who was about to make a big change in her life, by moving away from her home, her street and her city. The first evacuation of London occurred following the outbreak of the second world war in September 1939. Millions fled the city, but having lived though the Zepplin bombs of the first world war, several pandemics, an adulterous husband, being widowed and giving birth three times, even after 8 months and 5 days of unrelenting blitz bombing, Theodora saw it as her duty to stand firm to Hitler’s onslaught. But with her eldest daughters having left, and imploring their mother and youngest sibling to flee to the safety of the country, seeing it as no time for stubbornness as the Luftwaffe had continued their bombing spree of unprecedented slaughter, Theodora began packing up her belongings and - with a shortage of homes as large parts of the city were reduced to rubble - she sought out a lodger. Sladden & Stewart were the estate agents tasked with finding a well-mannered middle-class man or woman to rent out Theodora’s flat. The lodger, preferably a man with a rank or a title, but certainly someone with a noble profession was preferred. That day, the estate agents found her a doctor… …and yet, the man who would murder her was nothing short of a career criminal. Harold Dorian Trevor was a 61-year-old convict who had dedicated his life to theft and lies. As a vague man with an unspecified past, little is known about his life and few records exist to corroborate the litany of dishonesties which passed his lips. In truth, he never had a job, his education was slim, most of his life was spent in prison, and with no profession, what he achieved was nothing to brag about. Where he grew up was uncertain, as although he had connections to London, the North of England and even the Welsh coastal town of Llandudno, a fake middle-class accent disguised any hints of truth. His attire gave away few clues, as although his tall gaunt frame alluded to his working-class roots, he dressed like a gentleman of money, wearing a fawn overcoat with a fine silk scarf, walking with a neat cane, a monocle upon his right eye and perched upon his thinning grey hair often sat a top hat. He came across as respectable, but the facts were far from the truth. Harold was small-time thief, pointless and petty, he wasn’t the kind of thug who would batter a bloke over his head for the sake of a bag of coins or burst into a bank with a sawn-off shotgun. He wasn’t a yob, he was a cowardly pilferer who snuck into houses when the owners were out, and used his charm to distract an old lady so he could swipe her purse from the side and then be gone before they noticed. His first offence was on 13th of May 1896, when 15-year-old Harold Atkins (as he called himself) was bound over for stealing a purse. After that, often within weeks or days of being paroled, he’d steal bags, hats, gloves and purses (anything which wasn’t nailed down) and always under different aliases. On the 21st of October 1899, he served his first conviction of 18 months at Pentonville Prison, followed by 18 and a ½ years in prison across the next twenty years. Released from a 5-year stint in 1918, by the December, he had married 31-year-old Cicely Taylor. But did marriage make him a better man? No. Unwilling to work and having got a taste for the finer things in life, by this point, he had lived the life of an imposter for so long, it was suggested that he had forgotten who the real Harold Dorian was. As a man who had come from nothing, he would become something through lies and deception. With his preferred targets being mature middle-class ladies, he would ingratiate them with his manners and charm, he would profess to be an architect or a surgeon, and – as a rank or title in that era forgave all kinds of crimes – he used many respectable aliases like Sir Charles Warren, Lord Herbert and Dr Trevor. In 1919, having gravitated to stealing more expensive items, he served 5 years for jewellery theft. In 1925, he served a further 5 years for cheque fraud. And in 1936, found guilty of 30 cases of larceny and deception at the Old Bailey, Harold Dorian Trevor was sent to HMP Parkhurst for another 5 years. From 1899 to 1936, in the 37 years he had been a criminal, he had spent 35 of these behind bars. He wasn’t great at what he did, but described as a “gentleman thief”, he didn’t appear in the newspapers as the items he stole were often insured, and he was far too cowardly to perpetrate an act of violence. Under the palatable middle-class alias of Dr Trevor, being once again broke, Harold would wheedle his way into the home of Theodora Greenhill under the ruse that he was looking for a flat to rent… …but as his first ever act of violence, why would he kill her? (Cliffhanger) On 3rd of October 1941, 61-year-old Harold Dorian was released after five years in Parkhurst Prison. With the world reduced to rubble, it wasn’t only the city which was broken and frail - so was Harold. As age had weakened his strength, prison food had slowed his pace and the bluff of crap chats with cons had almost eviscerated his charm, although he was still a man who coveted the finer things in life, his wife had disowned him, his friends were gone, and every citizen was very wary of strangers. As part of his parole, having hopped off the boat from the Isle of Wight, and made his way by train to London, he registered with his parole officer, and spent several nights at the City Temperance Hostel. Poverty was a dirty word to Harold Dorian, and with dinner comprising of a watery stew and being forced to sleep on scratchy sheets in a cramped room which slept twenty assorted drunks and hobos, three days later, a well-spoken man booked into Flemmings Hotels in Half Moon Street in Piccadilly. He ordered a fine meal, he slept on soft sheets, he had his clothes cleaned, and he left without paying. The next day, at the St Martin’s Hotel on Upper St Martin’s Lane, a ‘Mr Trevor’ did the same. It was an old con he had trotted out many times before, but his parole officer was keen to make him go clean. Living off a handout of 10 shillings, on Tuesday 7th of October, six days before the murder, he was told to report to the Labour Exchange to find himself a job. But what job could he do? He was a 61-year-old greedy ex-con who hadn’t done an honest day’s work in his adult life. So, unable to go straight… …he did what he knew. With the war and rationing in full force, even though millions had been evacuated from the city and lived in fear of their deaths, Harold would never shed a tear for these lone frightened ladies, as even as their neighbours’ homes were blasted apart around them, he only thought of what he could steal. On Thursday 9th of October at 11:30am, Mr H D Trevor called at the estate office of Harrods, and said to be “looking for a flat for myself and my daughter”, an appointment was made with the owner. Arriving at 8 Sloane Street in Knightsbridge, as the impressive residence of wealthy widow Mrs Bertha Haydock; he rang the doorbell, he politely greeted this lone woman with a reassuringly soft voice, as was good manners he handed her his visiting card which listed him as ‘Dr Trevor’, and as they chatted, this seemingly respectable man browsed the rooms as his eyes wandered over the items he’d steal. At around 12pm, he asked “may I bother you for a glass of water?”, and with her having headed to the kitchen to fulfil his request, telling her “I’m just going to see if my daughter had arrived”, he left. Five minutes later, as he hadn’t returned, she went in search of him. It was only then she realised that her handbag was missing; inside of which was her purse, a cheque book and a diamond ring. That was his technique; a little charm, a deposit, an honest distraction, an excuse, a snatch and a hasty retreat. By Monday 13th of October, he’d spent every penny he’d stolen from Bertha, so using the same ruse, at 2pm, ‘Dr Trevor’ arrived at Sladden & Stewart estate agents and was given four addresses within walking distance, 42 Holland Road, 6 Norland Square, 9 St James Gardens and 71A Elsham Road. With each home owned by a lone widow, their guest would be greeted, during a chat he’d ask for a glass of water, having agreed to move in, they’d write him a receipt for the few guineas as a deposit, and having made his excuse, they’d later discover a few items missing after a visit by ‘Dr Trevor’. He would steal what he felt these wealthy widows could easily replace… …and yet, none of them were ever threatened or hurt. Tuesday 14th of October 1941 was typical of most days, as a little light drizzle tempered the fires after a night of bombardment. In the ground and basement flat at 71 Elsham Road, 65-year-old Theodora Greenhill was packing up for her move, lugging heavy boxes with ease, all while immaculately dressed. With her daughter Sylvia and the ladies in the flats above out, Theodora was alone when the doorbell rang. Theodora “Dr Trevor?”, Harold “Indeed Madam, here is my card”, Theodora “please do come in”, as by appointment, at 11am sharp, she let in the top-hatted and monocled guest into her home. To her, he seemed polite, frail and harmless. His middle-class accent was slightly affected by a regional twang, but having both been partially raised in North Wales, so was hers. And although his attire made him stand out, his calm mannerisms and his uncomplicated ways made him easily forgettable. It didn’t bother her as she showed this stranger about her flat, and it didn’t seem odd as his eyes spied her possessions on display, as alone she walked him from room-to-room. He was as unthreatening as melting ice, and she was a forthright ex-racing driving who – if she had to - could easily put up a fight. Harold claimed “I agreed to rent it at 3 ½ guineas a week. She excused herself and went down to the basement to write a receipt”. Having left him alone for a few minutes in the drawing room, within swiping distance of his sticky fingers lay a pair of gold rimmed lorgnettes, a cheque book, a handbag, and some treasury notes. “I wanted to steal them, but didn’t”, he said, then his memory went blank. “For a reason I can’t fathom”, he’d claim, “I took an empty wine bottle from the hall” and snuck down to the basement. Facing the wall, Theodora was standing at her bureau, as with a fountain pen in her hand, she wrote him a receipt, which read “received from Dr H D Trevor, the sum of...” (glass smash). The glass bottle smashed into 27 pieces, which knocked her out cold, but with no skull fractures or brain damage, she was bleeding, but still alive and breathing. He had never hurt a woman before, until now. But why? Was this desperation, or greed? Harold would claim “I suddenly found myself seated in the downstairs kitchen”, and yet, in his state of supposed delirium, he ransacked her bureau, found her cash box, took the 3 ½ guineas he had given her as a deposit and then went searching for more. Over the next two hours, as Theodora lay motionless, as if this was his last heist, he took a large trunk she had begun packing, and loaded it with whatever goodies his greedy little mitts could grab. Such as two fur coats, several silk dresses and slips, a metal clock, a bottle of bay rum, two rings, two handbags, five brooches, a portmanteau case, seven handkerchiefs and a sponge, totalling £100 (£5900 today). He was methodical as he took anything of any value, but it was then that something would spook him. (Phone) At 12:33pm, Sylvia called to see how the appointment with Dr Trevor went, only her mother didn’t pick up. At 2pm, Katherine called, as returning from New York that day, she planned to drop by later, only likewise, the phone went unanswered. And with Sylvia calling at 2:10pm as Katherine was concerned, sometime during these hours, with a woollen stocking, Harold chocked the life out of her. He’d claim he couldn’t remember strangling her, just as he couldn’t recall putting a handkerchief over her face to stop her glaring eyes from staring, as they remained as fixed and open as her gaping mouth. In a swift second decision, the thief had become a murderer for the sake of a few items which wouldn’t last him the month. But arrogance can be a powerful fuel to the fires of greed, so as her body lay limp, he hailed a taxi, got two labourers to help him carry the trunk, and headed to King’s Cross station. Katherine arrived at 2:30pm, just minutes after this killer had fled… …and as she entered the flat, she screamed, finding her mother dead. Being as emotionally cold as the corpse he had left behind; Harold didn’t once think about his actions. By the station, he pawned off her wedding ring for £2 and 5s, and fled to Birmingham, where he stayed at the Midland Hotel; sleeping on silk sheets, gorging on five course meals, and ordering room service. Dressed in a new suit, a bowtie and a trilby hat, he sold off the rest at an antiques dealer in Mosely, as well as a portmanteau case etched with Theodora’s initials, and under several aliases, he stayed at the Royal Hotel in Sutton Coldfield, the Carmell Hotel in Colwyn Bay, and the Rothbury Hotel in the Welsh town of Llandudno, a place he seemed to have fond memories of from his distant childhood. Arriving at 3:10pm, the investigation was headed up by Chief Inspector William Salisbury. The murder of Theodora Greenhill would be as swift as any crime he had solved before. With a trunk of possessions missing, the motive was robbery. With no defensive wounds, the attack was swift, silent and unprovoked. And although the name he’d used was an alias, his identity wasn’t exactly a mystery. On the desk, although bafflingly he’d spent four hours ransacking the flat, he’d left behind the receipt she was writing, which read “received from Dr H D Trevor”. Upon the same desk was his visiting card in the name of Dr H D Trevor, which was one of several aliases he had used during his prior convictions. When questioned, the taxi driver, the estate agents and the labourers who helped him with the trunk, all described him as “early 60s, 6-foot tall, slim build, grey short hair with a scar over the left eye”, and on 15 shattered fragments of the wine bottle which he had used to stun Theodora, they had found fingerprints for a 61-year-old burglar, thief, conman and now murderer called Harold Dorian Trevor. With his details issued to the press and police, four days later, he was spotted in Llandudno. PC Thomas had only been a reserve policeman for two weeks. He was so new to the job he didn’t even have a uniform. But recognising the suspect from a news article he’d read that day, he apprehended him at a phone kiosk in Queen Street, and the so-called ‘Dr Trevor’ was charged with murder. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey, Harold Dorian pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder. Across the two-day trial, being a born liar, he would claim that he was never there, he would vehemently deny strangling her, he would claim total memory loss, he would state he had been certified insane aged 13, he would ask for the case to be dismissed owing to malpractice by his lawyers, and he even accused the police of getting him drunk on the train to London and demanding that his confession be inadmissible as evidence. For his baffling defence, he gave a list of witnesses who could prove his alibi, none of whom could be found, and although he presented as mentally unstable, Dr Grierson, Senior Medical Officer of Brixton Prison gave evidence that although his behaviour was erratic, “he was sane and fit to stand trial”. On the 29th January 1942, having been sentenced to death, ever the egotist, he professed to the court “I sincerely hope that each one of you gentlemen of the jury will remember these words. These words are…. that I only hope that you, each one of you, as you will someday stand before a higher tribunal, you will receive a greater measure of mercy than has never been meted out to me in this world. I am not afraid of anyone, or of what anyone can do. My life up to the age of 62 has been all winter”. Held at Wandsworth Prison, with his appeal rejected, he sent numerous letters to the Home Secretary complaining about his unfair treatment, his bed and his cell, ending his petition with “I have not touched my food for 24 hours, and have barely snatched 8 hours sleep in nearly five weeks”. Never once expressing any remorse for his crimes, any compassion for his victims or an apology to her family. At 9am, on 11th of March 1942 at Wandsworth Prison, Harold Dorian Trevor was executed by hanging. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY: On Saturday 23rd of June 1979, a decision was made for two prisoners to share a cell at wormwood Scrubs prison. One was convicted of a driving offence, and the other was a psychopath convicted of murder.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing outside of Wormwood Scrubs Prison on DuCane Road, W12; one road south of the death of Lena Cunningham, four roads north of the child rapist Bernard Cooper, the same street as the infamous police massacre, and a short walk from ‘The Squawk’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Designed by Edmund DuCane, Wormwood Scrubs Prison was built in 1875 on scrubland named after a herb used to eradicate parasitic worms, which – of course - our painfully biased tabloids love to draw a comparison to, as these flag-waving bigots spew their bile to its readers that “most of these convicts are foreigners, and your taxes are paying for it”, even though many of the arseholes who run our tabloids are foreigners, whose own income is registered overseas… so they pay no taxes. Oh the irony. As 1 of 32 Victorian prisons still operational in England and Wales, after 149 years, Wormwood Scrubs still houses just over 1000 Category B male prisoners for crimes ranging from theft to rape to murder. With a mixture of single and shared cells, careful consideration is made when mixing prisoners charged with different offences. On Saturday 23rd of June 1979, a decision was made for two prisoners to share a cell; one was convicted of a trivial matter, and the other was a psychopath convicted of murder. It’s a tragic case which occurred 45 years ago this week, and although it was said that “lessons should be learned”; with higher crime rates, increased population, aging prisons, chronic underfunding and overcrowding, it’s a system in a rapid state of collapse, and the situation is only going to get worse. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 260: Cellmates. Paul Lehair was an ordinary lad struggling to find his feet in an ever-changing world. Born on the 26th of October 1958 in Manchester, Paul was one of seven siblings to his mother Irene, a hardworking woman who strived as best she could, especially following her divorce to her husband. Like many young boys leaving school aged 16 with a basic education but no plan, he dabbled in a range of low-paid and semi-skilled jobs such as being a housepainter and a cook in pubs and cafes, but with big dreams and no cash, none of these tickled his thirst for adventure or his entrepreneurial spirit. Being 6 foot 5 inches tall, almost a foot taller than most males in the 1980s, some assumed that Paul was a tough guy, but weighing just 14 stone, he was tall, thin and said by many to be “a gentle giant”. He wasn’t a bad lad, he was just a little bit cheeky and easily distracted, but he got on well with people. In 1978, aged 19, he moved to London, he got a bedsit in Tottenham, and tried his hand at any work which paid him a wage, but being broke, he stole. Even Paul’s mother would say “he wasn’t an angel, he was a petty thief”, but he wasn’t in a gang, he wasn’t a hoodlum, he wasn’t escalating to bigger crimes, and he also wasn’t an idiot who banged on about “the life” and thought that dealing weed would lead to him being feared and respected like Al Pacino in Scarface, only to end up in a pine box. Paul was just a bit lost, he’d made some stupid mistakes, and he knew it. On the 16th of June 1979, he’d shared a joyous day back in Manchester as his mother Irene had married his stepfather Clifford, it was a fresh start for this struggling family. Rightfully, it was a happy occasion, but Paul’s dalliance with crime would turn his life (which had only just begun) to disaster and tragedy. On Tuesday the 19th of June 1979, Paul was recalled to Tottenham Magistrates Court. A few weeks earlier, he had been convicted of his first offence, and having taken a car without the owner’s consent, being uninsured and having stolen a penknife worth 50p, he was given a suspected sentence. In short, all he had to do was commit no crime within a mandated period of time, and he wouldn’t go to prison. Keeping his nose clean, as Paul hadn’t been to prison before and didn’t want to, he tried his best. But being unemployed, unable to pay the £20 fine (£250 today), that non-payment resulted in a breach of his suspended sentence, and even though the magistrate himself regarded the crime as a “trivial offence”, with the law being the law, he was sentenced to six months at Wormwood Scrubs Prison. As a first timer, a stint inside could have shaken him up, made his re-evaluate his choices, and set him on the straight and narrow to a stable life. It all depended on what experience he had in prison… … and who he shared a cell with. On the 2nd of March 1978, politicians in the Houses of Parliament debated the state of British prisons, stating “the prison population, which is over 41500 shows no sign of falling, and with overcrowding in local prisons (like Wormwood Scrubs) it is a matter of continuing concern. I hope that some relief will be afforded by building schemes which are expected to provide 4700 extra places by 1981–82”. After decades of underfunding, even back then, these crumbling prisons weren’t fit for purpose; many cells squeezed three or four inmates into a space built for two, punishments by staff had led to many high-profile riots, and with unsanitary practices like ‘slopping out’ (where each morning, prisoners had to carry and empty their own bucket of faeces elsewhere, as the cells didn’t have working plumbing) still enforced until 1996, Paul was about to enter a world which would be alien to a modern youth. With his hands and feet manacled to the chair, as the prison van pulled off DuCane Road, Paul would have been terrified by the large fortress-like gates of Wormwood Scrubs. Designed in white stone and brown brick like castle turrets, they declare “from here, you will never escape”, and although as a first offence - with good behaviour - he would most likely be out in three months, for Paul, that was true. For all prisoners, whether first offenders or life-long lags, day one starts with an induction. In the reception room, he was disrobed of his clothes, his possessions, and given a prison unform as he was no longer an individual but an inmate. Stripped of his name and identity, he would be known for the rest of his term by his prison number, as he had lost all of the privileges that a free man enjoys. With his fingerprints and a photograph taken, any contraband was removed from his person, officers took his details, a doctor assessed his medical and psychiatric needs, and he was given a two property boxes of bedding, clothes, a ‘first night pack’ of tea, milk, sugar, soap and a sometimes a toothbrush. Unlike in films where newbies are stripped bare, burned with lice powder and thrown in a cell as old lags taunt them by chanting “fresh fish”, in 1979, as today, Wormwood Scrubs has a ‘first night unit’. After a shower, a meal, and a fitful night’s sleep away from the main block, it was here that Paul was observed, and being a nice chap who could handle himself, a decision was made over his cell mate. As days and nights in prison can be long lonely affairs, it was vital that Paul got on with his cellmate. For Paul, the hardest part was to be the isolation and the monotony. Moved to the Young Prisoner’s Wing as he was under the age of 21, his cell door was unlocked at 8am, three times a day he ate a barely edible meal in his cell (costing 28p per day), and given one hour for exercise, as a newbie with no work or education to occupy him, at 6pm, he was locked-up in a cramped cell until the morning. By day, surrounded by bored criminals with violent pasts and undiagnosed mental illnesses, this baby-faced boy was an easy victim to bully, rob or beat-up for food, ciggies or to pass the time. But by night, with the door locked and no way to get help except by screaming, he was at the mercy of his cellmate. Debated in Parliament, Fred Silvester, the MP for Withington in Manchester would raise Paul’s case to the then-Minister for State, Leon Brittan, saying “I understand it would be most unusual to allocate a young man on a first sentence for a minor offence to the cell of a man with pronounced and well-known violent tendencies. In this case, almost immediately, the decision was taken to mix Paul Lehair with a prisoner called Vincent Smith - in other words, to mix a minor offence with murder”. The right people were asking the right questions in the right place about the issues of prison overcrowding… …but by then, it would be too late, as Paul was already dead. His cellmate was 20-year-old Vincent Richard Smith. Born on 13th of March 1959, Vincent’s life started badly and got progressively worse. Abandoned at a few weeks old and gripped by a feeling he was unwanted, although a couple adopted him and gave him love, hope and a better future, this early trauma left him anxious and disturbed. Sent to a school for maladjusted boys, Dr Elmo Jacobs said “he had a history of psychiatric problems since he was eight” and having left home as he hated his adopted mother with a vengeance, he turned to crime and was incarcerated for most of his teenage years. Diagnosed with "a severe psychopathic personality disorder”, in 1973, aged just 14, he attempted to take his own life while in police custody. Vincent was a confused young boy with no mentor or moral barometer. Burdened by a violent streak, he lashed out without warning, he attacked those he liked, and claiming he heard voices, he struggled to make sense of whether what he did was right or wrong, or what he saw was real or imaginary. In February 1977, aged 18, Vincent escaped from Feltham Young Offenders Institute and hitched a lift to Oxford. Six weeks later, in the early hours of 30th of March, in an unnamed park (said to be Oxpens Meadow), he claimed that 51-year-old Nicholas Feodorous sat, began chatting him up, and then “he touched my bottom”, Vincent said, “I told him not to, and said, if he did, he’d get a bang in the mouth”. Believing the boy was playing hard to get, Feodorous fondled Vincent again. As promised, he punched the lecherous sex pest in the face, but now thinking this was a kinky little game, Feodorous’ hands kept groping him. “I lost my temper” Vincent said recalling the sexual assault “and I steamed into him”. Dragged off the bench, with no control over his pent-up fury, Vincent punched and kicked the bleeding man as he tried to flee. Constricting his neck until the last breath seeped out of the dying man’s lungs, as he collapsed, still trying to fight back, Vincent stamped on the semi-conscious man as he lay helpless on the ground and booted his head like a football. Barely alive, but still somehow flailing, for nothing more than malice, Vincent pulled out a pocketknife, and slashed and stabbed him in his legs and back. But after three or four wounds to his throat, Vincent said “I knew had gone too far”. Pulling his body down to the river, Vincent stole his money and fled back to London. But being racked with guilt having taken a life, returning to Feltham, he gave himself up, and was arrested for murder. Vincent Smith was given a life sentence for the killing of Nicholas Feodorous… …but why did that, and his adopted mother, lead Vincent to murder his cellmate? (Cliffhanger) Questioned by the police, in a second statement, Vincent gave a very different account of the murder of Nicholas Feodorous. As a gay man seen getting off the train after a night out, making his way home through the park, Vincent admitted he planned to rob him, and “I was thinking about killing someone. It always appealed to me to watch someone die, so seeing this bloke, I said it was going to be him". With a replica gun, Vincent robbed him of his wallet, and then unleashed a volley of fists and feet for his own sadistic pleasure. Smashing his victim over the head with the butt of the gun, as he lay collapsed and bleeding, Vincent stole the man’s drink, took a swig, laughed at this cowering lump, and then “I laid into him, kicking, punching and stabbing him. I then picked up a brick and smashed in his head with it”, and as the skull cracked open and the man’s brains spewed, Vincent suddenly stopped. “I got bored”, the instant fix of killing a random stranger for no reason had lost its thrill as dead was dead, and a dead man neither screams nor fights back. “Suddenly I didn’t find it as funny anymore”, so having stabbed this lifeless body once more, he dragged it over to the river, and walked away. Tried on the 7th of October 1977 at Northampton Crown Court, 19-year-old Vincent Smith would claim that the second statement which implicated him in an unprovoked murder was a lie, and that the first statement about Nicholas sexually assaulting him was true. With no witnesses and much of the crucial evidence having washed away in the river, his word had to be taken as fact. Psychiatrist Dr Peter Noble concluded “it is impossible to form a clear view of his state of mind at the time of the offence. I thus do not feel able to quantify the extent to which his responsibility was impaired at the time". Found guilty of wilful murder, Vincent was sentenced to life in prison… but if the law had the evidence to prove ‘diminished responsibility’ (as the second statement had suggested), Dr Noble said “Vincent would not have been put in a regular prison, but somewhere like Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital”. Vincent Smith was diagnosed with a psychopathic personality disorder, but without Section 60 of the Mental Health Act being considered at his trial, upon his first day initiation – along with all of the other new prisoners – he was assessed by the prison doctor who determined “his mental disorder was not of such a degree to warrant psychiatric detention”, and he was sent to the Young Prisoner’s Wing. Some said, he belonged in a secure hospital, but the law disagreed. Placed in a drab, cold and lifeless cell for 23 hours a day for the next 20 years, with nothing to occupy his mind but four blank walls in a space measuring just four-square metres, prison is a particularly brutal place for even the most mentally stable, but it’s worse when you’re already mentally disturbed. In April 1978, he attempted suicide, and was placed on report for the attempted assault on a guard. Again in November 1978, he had to undergo an operation owing to self-inflicted wounds to his wrists. In January 1979, he was placed in segregation having been suspected of bullying. And although he was described as aggressive, a report states “his behaviour is not uncommon amongst his age group”. Across the bulk of 1979, Vincent was placed in a single cell, but beginning to settle, he briefly had two cellmates in the later part of that year, and it was said “they had got on fine”. At the start of June 1979, with Vincent having attacked a prison officer with a fork, having been released from segregation, as the Young Prisoner’s Wing was fit to burst, it was decided that a new cellmate should join him. That prisoner was Paul Lehair. There were several reasons why Paul was placed in a cell with Vincent. Both men were aged 20. Unlike Vincent, Paul was mature for his age and hadn’t been institutionalised. Being a foot taller than Vincent, it was thought that Paul could handle himself if he had to. And as a Category B prison, in which the Young Prisoner’s Wing was overcrowded, with almost 100 inmates under 21 serving life sentences for rape, manslaughter or murder, it was likely that Paul’s first and only cellmate would be a lifer. Released from the ‘first night unit’, Wednesday 20th of June 1979 was Paul’s first day on the wing. Unceremoniously introduced with a curt “Smith, you got a new cellie”, as the door slammed shut, Paul found himself face-to-face with Vincent. They knew nothing about each other, and as far as they knew they had nothing in common, and although Paul tried his best to chat, Vincent didn’t want to know. By day, they distracted themselves with routines. But by night, being locked-up from 6pm to 8am, they heard each other breath, they smelled each other’s odour, their bunkbeds creaked as they tossed and turned all night, and with no screen to hide their blushes, in front of each other, they had to shit. Thursday was no better as Vincent barely uttered a word. By the Friday, it had got worse, as Vincent’s silence had turned from disinterest to inaudible mutterings. Paul tried his best to make friends, and although Vincent had been nice to his last cellmates, there was something about Paul that he disliked. It all came to a head on Saturday 23rd of June 1979. There were three incidents reported. The first was a small spat in which Vincent called Paul a “dirty bastard” and accused him of not washing. This was deemed no different to most cells, as when men are banged up together for 14 hours straight, even the closest of cellmates sometimes get a bit tense. The second was when Vincent made remarks to other inmates stating “he disliked Paul and had hostile intentions towards him”, but again, as a common occurrence in any prison, it wasn’t reported to staff. Vincent asked to move cells and this request was agreed to. Not being as straightforward as it seemed, as almost every aspect of prison life must be signed off by layers of bureaucracy – with paperwork to be triplicated, inmates to be moved, and space to be made – with the quickest they could give him a new cellmate being Monday (in two days’ time), the report states “Vincent was happy with that”. Arrangements were being made, and Paul was told that he was to be moved, which was a blessing. Later that afternoon, Vincent asked a trustee in the prison office for a letter opener. When asked why, his answer was cryptic, as he chillingly replied “you’ll find out in the morning”. Rightly, he wasn’t given it, but with this inmate not wanting to be a grass, it wasn’t reported to the staff until it was too late. At 6pm, the cell doors were locked, as both men sat quietly on their bunks. At 10pm, lights out meant that every cell was only illuminated by moonlight. And for the next ten hours, both men would silently suffer each other for what should have been the penultimate time, but would in fact be the last. (silence, night sounds, prison walla) Sunday 24th of June 1979, at just before 8am, a buzzer echoed the walls, as Vincent asked to use the wing’s toilet as his slops bucket was full. Being a reasonable request, the guard agreed, but as Vincent walked away, he casually said “oh… there’s a stiff in my cell”, and in his bed, Paul was found dead. Paul’s mother wasn’t allowed to view her son’s body. When asked, the Police told her (perhaps to give her some sense of peace in her grief) “that the way it happened, he felt no pain”, but having spoken to the undertaker, he said “it was obvious there’d been a struggle and Paul had fought for his life”. During the night, possibly while Paul was sleeping, having bunged up the observation hole in the door so any warders couldn’t see in, he launched a violent and horrific attack on this defenceless man. With thick black welts about his frozen face, and deep purple bruises about his neck and chest, Vincent had tied Paul’s wrists and ankles with ripped strips of his pyjama bottoms, and pulling it taut and twisting his pyjama top tight so it fashioned a makeshift noose, he strangled Paul until his body went limp. An inmate in a neighbouring cell said “about midnight I heard a yell and a choking noise”, but being a strange place where the night echoes with all manner of unsettling sounds, he didn’t raise the alarm. There were no witnesses to this murder, but even though Vincent was the only person other than the victim in that locked cell that night, his callous confession would convict him - “I killed him. I do not know why. The geezer was only serving six months. He did nothing to me. I am very sorry I did it”. Interviewed by Dr Jacobs (a forensic psychiatrist), when asked why he murdered Paul, he claimed “I didn’t mean to. I woke from a dream, and saw what I thought was my adopted mum, and I lost it”. After 20 years, his hatred for her was still so great, that in a haze of half-sleep, that ‘something’ about Paul that Vincent disliked welled-up inside of him, and he killed Paul as - apparently - they looked alike. But was this real, imaginary, or an excuse to be sectioned? (End) On 28th January 1980, having pleaded ‘not guilty’, telling the judge “I am sorry for what happened, but I cannot help myself”, Vincent Smith was found guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, and this time, he was committed to Broadmoor with no time limit. Finally the law said he belonged in a secure hospital, but Paul’s mother disagreed, saying “he isn’t crazy, he’s pure evil”. Assessed by Dr Bowden, it was concluded that Vincent was a dangerous man, and with regards to the earlier murder of Nicholas Feodorous, “that psychiatric evidence at the first trial was flawed". Dr Nobel whose lack of evidence of ‘diminished responsibility’ led to Vincent not being sectioned, later revised his report by stating “with hindsight it is of course regrettable that he was not sent to Broadmoor”. At his 1997 appeal, Vincent’s conviction for that murder was quashed and replaced with manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, he remained at Broadmoor for the rest of his life. Later changing his name to Charlie Smith, on the 1st of December 1989 and again on 2nd of November 1990, under the 1976 Adoption Act, he lost a further appeal to have his birth certificate released. As Sir Stephen Brown, who presided over the Family Division of the Appeal Court said “he is a double killer with an abnormal personality and in view of the circumstances of the second killing”, that of Paul Lahair, “the identification of his natural mother could be tantamount to signing her death warrant”. In August 2006, Vincent Smith died in prison. At the first Christmas after Paul’s death, as if the bureaucracy of the law hadn’t hurt her enough, his mother received a letter from Tottenham Magistrates Court. It was a summons addressed to her dead son, demanding the payment of the unpaid fine of £20, a fine which had led to her son’s death. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE: In the evening of Friday 1st April 1949, in the top floor flat at 32 Davisville Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W12, 38-year-old wife Mary Cooper was found murdered under her bed by her 14-year-old daughter. It seemed like an ordinary domestic, but a much darker secret was hidden behind those doors, one which would lead to this murder.
THE LOCATION:
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Davisville Road in Shepherd's Bush, W12; four streets east of the Shoe Box killer, two roads south of where Reg Christie euthanised his dog, two roads south-west of The Beast, and one road north of the coldblooded killer with nothing to lose - coming soon to Murder Mile. 32 Davisville Road is an ordinary house on an unremarkable street. Built in the Victorian era, this three-storey house was once separated into flats, and behind each door, many secrets may lurk, especially around “the old S. E. X”; such as dad’s dirty DVD of Suzy Melons meets the Whopper Chopper, mum’s “special pets” other than the dog being two rabbits, a moose knuckle and a black mamba, a daughter who denies being on the pill but every time she pees a swan goes infertile, and a teenage son with so many tissues under his bed, that if you knocked off the legs, it would be the same height off the floor. Everybody has secrets, but some secrets are so dark, that it makes sense for them to remain hidden. In the spring of 1949, the top floor flat at 32 Davisville Road was home to 40-year-old Bernard Cooper, his 38-year-old wife Mary and their two children. To many, they seemed like a typical but dysfunctional working class family who were struggling to make ends meet, and although Bernard’s crimes were known, a much darker secret was hidden behind those doors, one which would lead to a murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 259: ‘The Lone Hand of Terror’. The first three months of 1949 reflected the changes in post-war Britain; although the Second World War was over in principle and clothes rationing had ended, men aged 18 to 26 were still required to serve 18 months in the armed forces, NATO was coming into effect, Britain had announced it was developing plutonium, and that January, an anonymous national survey was carried out among 4000 British people about their sexual behaviours and attitudes. It remained unpublished for 50 years… …and thankfully, one of those who didn’t appear in the study was Bernard Cooper. Born on the 17th of September 1908 near Radford in Nottingham in the East Midlands, Bernard Alfred Peter Cooper was one of three siblings to Percy & Florence. As a catholic, days after his birth, he was baptised at All Souls Church, and although poor, he should have had everything he needed to succeed. But with his parents seeking a better life in a foreign land, his childhood was fragmented and lonely. Bernard recalled “my schooling was very poor, and I learned little”, as on 14th of October 1916, while a raging war burned Europe to the core, the Cooper’s set sail on the Orita, a passenger ship as part of the Pacific Steam Navigation Co, and one week later, they arrived in the Chilean port of Punta Arenas. Raised in the southerly region of Patagonia, Chile must have felt a little like home to 8-year-old Bernard with its lush green hills, its wealth of catholic churches and the endless sheep farms (which became a key part of its brief economic boom), but as a stark contrast to England, it had glaciers and penguins. Given its proximity to Antarctica, some referred to it as ‘the end of the world’, and for Bernard it may have been, as being raised in a Catholic school in Chile and not speaking Spanish, he would state that “everything I know I learned when I left school”, and with his parents separating, that meant his father. In 1921, aged 13, Bernard arrived back in England, and with 13 being the age at which British education ended if you were poor and working class, he learned his trade as a house painter and decorator from his father. At that point, he could have done well, but there were other things that he learned to love. When a child is young, they all need a good role model, someone they can learn from, and get a grasp of the difference between good and bad or right and wrong, only Percy was far from a perfect parent. At breakfast, Bernard would crack open a beer and had no qualms about pissing his wages up the wall. Burdened by a high sex drive, he openly admitted “I visited prostitutes at least three times a week”, which he did throughout his whole life. And although being the spit of his father – 5 foot 7 inches tall, medium build with brown hair, blue eyes, a long nose and bushy eyebrows – it was uncertain where he got his violent and cruel streak, but there was no denying who had taught him his criminal ways. On the 1st of August 1924, 46-year-old Percy Cooper and his 16-year-old son Bernard were hired as decorators by Mr Cowley, the landlord of Lavendon Inn in the village of Lavendon, Northamptonshire. In the beer cellar, they helped themselves to drinks and stole from a bowl £17 15s & 1d (£1350 today) which belonged to the Green Man Loan and Dividend Society, which helped struggling families with small loans to get through their week. With Percy guilty and undeniably remorseless of his crime, he was sentenced to six months in prison, but seeing something good in “the lad” (as they called him), they reduced Bernard’s sentence to two months, and sought him work while Percy was locked up. There was no denying that Percy was a bad influence on his son… …but Bernard seemed to make amends when he went his own way. In 1927, aged 19, as was the law for single men, he was conscripted as a Private in the Queen's Royal Army, and although it was a steady job and regular income where a better role model could teach him some discipline, unable to take orders, he was cautioned and dismissed for bad behaviour three times. When questioned, he claimed he joined the Navy in 1942, only this was a lie to hide different crime. On the 8th of September 1930, at Branksome Police Court in Dorset, Bernard was sentenced to three months in prison for stealing gloves from a taxi. Having only served one year and two months in the three years he had been in the Army, he was court marshalled and dismissed from all armed forces. By 1931, as a convict, a remorseless thief and a habitual drunk who spent more time with prostitutes than any prospective wife, owing to his cruel streak, by the time he moved to London, he was single. So it is with much sadness and misfortune, that – for whatever reason, maybe poverty or desperation - a young lady fell in love with him, and what may have seemed liked the start of something good… …would end with her brutal murder. 21-year-old Mary Fordham of Islington was a good woman seeking a good man to live a nice life and start a family with. Being far from a catch, what she saw in him was uncertain, but becoming pregnant in October 1933, the right thing to would have been to marry her - only for now, it was not to be. On the 6th of July 1934, they gave birth to a daughter who (for her decency) I shall call ‘Susan’. As a tiny tot who was no bother to anyone, she deserved to live a happy life full of joy, toys and treats, but just three months into her life, back to his old ways, Bernard was sentenced to 18 months for burglary. Mary strived as best she could, only their marriage was ‘never a happy one’, as whereas she struggled and strived to make ends meet mostly as a single mother, he spent 10 of their 17 years together, sat on his arse in a prison cell, learning even more pathetic ways of stealing only to end up inside again, or half-heartedly being a husband and a father who squandered their money on women and drink. In October 1935, with Bernard released from prison - possibly not because she wanted to, but because they’d also had a son born in an era where they’d be cruelly branded as bastards – Mary & Bernard married. Mary was now tied to a thief, a drunkard and a womaniser for the rest of his life… …and although he would cruelly murder her, he was capable of something much worse. Barely six months into their marriage and two years into ‘Susan’s life, on the 2nd of April 1936, again Bernard was sentenced to 18 months in prison on the charges of theft, burglary and common assault. Three weeks earlier, on 12th March 1936, Bernard broke into Park House, a country estate in Harrow-on-the-Hill, which was the residence of Swedish diplomat, Johan Stille. With Johan’s party having died down and his guests having gone to bed, that night – when any good father would have read their daughter a bedtime story, tucked her into bed and checked-up on her every time she had a bad dream – Bernard broke in via a side window, and as taught by his father, he stole goods and drank their drink. Being sat in the sitting room and lounging on their sofa, as he quaffed three bottles of expensive wine, being cocky and remorseless, he wrote a series of notes to the owner which he left dotted about; the first read “you can call the police if you like, but they will not catch me", the second read “you sure know a good drop of drink" as he slugged back another glass of Chateau Margaux, and third, insultingly it read “I must say you all snore like pigs. Thanks”, which he signed as “The Lone Hand of Terror”. Bernard didn’t have an ounce of compassion for his victims, he never did, and as he stumbled about, with his staggering legs bouncing off every table and toppling every ornament to the floor, Lawrence O’Shea, a guest of Johan Stille grabbed the burglar, a scuffle ensued, and Bernard hit him across the face with a fire poker. Requiring a few stitches, Lawrence was released that day. But being arrested, at Wealdstone Police Court, Bernard was convicted of burglary, plus another count of housebreaking. Only this wasn’t his worst crime. Another lengthy spell in prison did him no good, and having lost contact with his father, as well as his younger siblings, all he had now was Mary and their children, who deserved much better than him. In 1937, while he was serving his sentence, desperate to live a better life, Mary left him and took their children with her. She’d had enough of his drinking, his crimes and his cruelty, he wasn’t a husband or a father who claimed he was providing for his family, as the only person he thought about was himself. The longest he had lasted in a job was three years until he was dismissed for drunkenness, ever since then, he never fully committed to being a legitimate decorator, but he promised that he would change. In January 1938, upon his release from prison, as the Second World War loomed, Mary took him back. A month later, he was arrested for the possession of a firearm, theft, burglary, resisting arrest, and the attempted murder of a Police Constable in Paddington. On 8th of March 1938 at the Old Bailey, convicted of the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm, he was sentenced to seven years in prison. Aged just 29-years-old, Bernard Cooper had committed several serious offences for which he showed no remorse. He was evil, and yet, the burglary of a diplomat, the attempted murder of a policeman and the later murder of his wife weren’t the worst crimes that ‘The Lone Hand of Terror’ would commit… …that was yet to come. (Cliffhanger). By 1942, as many British cities burned and were blasted apart by Luftwaffe’s bombs, Bernard said he’d enlisted in an Anti-Tank Unit of the British Army only to be honourably discharged four years later, but this was all a lie. In truth, he was in Brixton Prison serving seven years for almost killing a constable. Released in 1946, he moved in with his wife Mary, their 11-year-old daughter and 10-year-old son into the top floor of 32 Davisville Road. Already a troubled marriage, their relationship was strained as this wayward father and husband had missed most of their lives, and although he would blame his actions on drink, a bout of herpes, and having his left cheek scarred and being knocked unconscious for three days by a falling window frame, his real criminality and cruelty begun under the tutelage of his father. In 1948, again having served three months for burglary, upon his release, he squandered their money on pints and prostitutes, and yet, it was then that he committed his most abhorrent of crimes. ‘Susan’ was only 14 years old, a young girl in the blossom of womanhood with her whole life ahead of her. In their own home, which should have been a place of innocence and happy memories, he raped her, he raped his teenage daughter for the sake of his carnal lusts, ruining her mind and scarring her body. As a pitiless man who was worth nothing, having forced and stripped her, he treated his own offspring like one of his badly paid whores, and with the feted stench of drink on his breath, her first experience of what should have been with a boy who she loved was instead an incestuous rape by her own dad. It was a secret she was forced to keep silent about, only nature is impossible to silence. In October 1948, with ‘Susan’s belly swollen by a foetus which had been fathered by the monster who had fathered her, with a rape allegation having over him, he admitted his crime to his wife Mary, the pregnancy was terminated by a surgical abortion, and with no arrest, it’s likely this was kept secret. It was an impossible decision for Mary to make. Bernard was an evil man who’d done the unthinkable. With nowhere to run to, no money of her own and two children to care for, when he promised “I’ll never touch her again, if you take me back”, the best of the worst options was to agree. But with all three still living in the same flat, she knew that she couldn’t keep her eye on him all of the time. Bernard tried to resume his decorating work, but failed. He tried to earn a living anyway he could, but failed. He promised her he had stopped seeing sex-workers, stating “I’ve been faithful to you all this time, except for what happened with ‘Susan’”, but the more he failed at life, the more he drank. At the start of March 1949, unable to trust this loathsome paedophile who was a liar and a drunk who lived in the same three-roomed flat as the wife he had begun to assault and the daughter he had raped and traumatised for life, Mary accused Bernard of interfering with ‘Susan’ again, which he denied. In Bernard’s own arrogant words, she nagged him and nagged him and nagged him, as (rightly) every time his lascivious eyes drifted towards the sullied frame of her once virginal child, it made her furious. Everything came to a head on the evening of Thursday 31st of March 1949. With ‘Susan’ asleep and sharing her bed with her cousin Gwendoline, the simple act of having to sleep next to the man she despised must have sent a clammy shiver down her spine, and although (for the sake of her children) she had tried to keep the peace, it had all become too much for her, that night. The argument was a hushed one, which with whispered curses, awoke no-one who was already asleep. That day, Bernard had been slowly seething, as Mary had accused him of having sexual intercourse with his own child that morning, which – of course – he denied, and there was also no evidence of. In the early hours, Bernard would claim “I tried to keep my temper, but I lost it”. Slapping her across the face, in fury, he grabbed her silk stocking from the chair, stating “I tied it round her neck meaning to silence her”. Only wrapping it twice, pulling it tight and tying it with a double knot, even as her nails desperately clawed at her darkening throat which bled her neck red, weakening, she couldn’t untie it. “I knew what he was doing” Bernard said, and as her eyes protruded, her tongue jutted forward and her last ever breath was held a prisoner in her crushed throat, he said “I realised that I had killed her”. During the night, Gwendoline said “I thought I heard screams”, but believing it was either a nightmare or had come from the street outside, she headed back to sleep, unaware of what had happened. And as a remorseless man, he removed the wedding ring from her finger, and having pushed her slowly cooling body under their matrimonial bed, Bernard went back to sleep, until the morning sun rose. Friday 1st April 1949 was a day beset by gloom. In the top floor flat of 32 Davisville Road, as an ineffectual father, ‘Susan’ got herself ready for school, made a packed lunch for her brother, and the two headed off, being told their mother was ill in bed. With Bernard keen to get her out of the flat, Gwendoline said “he said that Mary had had bad night”, having been injured years before in an air-raid, “and asked me to take a letter to her sister in Croydon". It took her two hours to get to her aunt’s house, but when she opened the letter, the page was blank. Bernard fled with a wedding ring, a £1 note and some cigarettes. At 3pm, the children returned to a silent flat. There father had gone, which wasn’t unusual, but there was also no sound of chatter, no reassuring smell of an evening meal, and no hug from their mother. The familiarity of a seemingly happy home was gone and replaced with a cold empty feeling of dread. Later that evening, seeking signs of where their mum may have gone to, ‘Susan’ checked the bedroom, and under the bed where a suitcase would usually have been placed, she found her unceremoniously stuffed like discarded rubbish, still in her nightdress, her hair in curlers, and a look of abject fear etched upon her contorted face, as rigor mortis had fixed her features with that terrified expression forever. ‘Susan’ was haunted for life by three things; the rape, her father’s eyes, and her mother’s dead face. Detective Inspector Jennings of Shepherd’s Bush police headed up the investigation. With his one suit missing, and no other suspect, a description of Bernard Cooper was put out to all stations, docks and airports, and with a long nose, bushy eyebrows, a black scar down his face owing to a head injury, and the little finger of his right hand unable to contract, he should have been easy for the police to spot. That evening, being found incapably drunk in Islington, a slow-witted constable arrested him, let him sober up in a cell, and having forgotten to check the list of ‘wanted felons’, Bernard was released on bail. Fleeing to Ashford in Kent, with no remorse, he pawned Mary’s ring, and again was arrested as a mere drunk and was bailed when he had sobered up, as the cops headed for a hattrick of cock ups. On the run, or more accurately a sozzled stagger, on 6th of April 1949, a full six days after the murder, PC Johnston of the Kent Constabulary spotted Bernard outside of the Girls’ County School in Ashford. Why he was there? He never revealed. But having ran out of money and drink, he proudly proclaimed, “you have heard of me. I strangled my wife in Shepherd’s Bush. I have been on the run ever since. I intended to give myself up at Dover but didn’t”. And finally, The Lone Hand of Terror was arrested. With all the cockiness in the world, Bernard declared “I will be perfectly frank about it. I did it, and I will tell you all about it in due course”, but not before he had a little sleep. As a pointless man who had achieved nothing but misery, he may have expected a dose of adoration being a sadistic killer with a self-coined nickname. But with the sensational trial of the acid bath murderer, John George Haigh, having hogged all the limelight, the crimes of Bernard Cooper were relegated to the inside pages. As of today, he remains forgotten. But that didn’t stop the tabloids from printing their own bile to sex up the case, by writing “Mary become hysterical, so he strangled her with her own stockings. He asked ‘Susan’ to run away with him but she, sensibly, said no”, for which there was no evidence. (End) Charged on the 7th April 1949 at Shepherd’s Bush police station, he said nothing, except to ask “the 25 shillings and 6 pence found in my pocket, I would like that back”, as all he cared about was money. Assessed at Brixton Prison, Prisoner 2853 Cooper showed “no signs of insanity, and despite a lack of intelligence, he is not a defective. There is no evidence of epilepsy, and he is declared fit to stand trial”. Further assessed by a psychiatrist, his report states “he admits that all his convictions were done when he was drunk, so drunk that he could not remember them”, which was the same convenient alibi he had used several times awaiting trial for theft, assault, and attempted murder, as were his subsequent head injuries, “but it is our opinion that his story of drunken forgetfulness was completely untrue”. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 18th of May 1949, it took the jury just eleven minutes to find him ‘guilty’. With Mr Justice Hallett summing up, “it is perfectly simple, but none the less dreadful, that this is a case of plain murder without any excuse for it whatsoever”, and with Bernard giving no evidence, even his own lawyer had to open the trial with the following words, “nothing I can say can prevent you from disliking him because of what he has done”. And for his heinous crimes, he was sentenced to death. On Tuesday 21st of June 1949 at 9am, having been given communion by the bishops of Stepney, within the execution chamber at Pentonville Prison, 40-year-old Bernard Alfred Cooper was executed by the hangman Albert Pierrepoint. Weighing 153lbs, his body was dropped 7 feet and 3 inches, and with a dislocation of the 2nd and 3rd cervical vertebrae resulting in the complete separation of the spinal cord, left to hang for an hour, the world became a better place when The Lone Hand of Terror’ went limp. ‘Susan’ lived a short life, and plagued by trauma, she died in Autumn 1978, aged just 44. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #258: Three Tiny Specks (Dr Joan Francisco & Anthony Diedrick)12/6/2024
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHT: On 26th December 1994, at 1pm, the body of 27-year-old Dr Joan Francisco was found in her basement flat at 13 Ordnance Hill. With the prime suspect being her ex-boyfriend, his conviction should have been imminent. Only this isn’t just a story about obsession, this is the tale of a family’s five-year battle for justice, with the evidence being missed owing to a fatal mistake.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a black coloured symbol of a bin above Regent's Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Ordnance Hill in St John's Wood, NW8; three streets west of the first failed assassination by Carlos the Jackal, two streets north of the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper, and four streets east of the seedy sex scandal of lusty Lord Lambton - coming soon to Murder Mile. Ordnance Hill is a middle-class street full of four-storey Georgian terraces. With many split into flats, it seems odd that anyone would move into basement flat, as their only view would surely be feet. But maybe that’s its selling point; basement flats are foot-fetishist’s must, where they go crazy for cankles, flip-out over foot cheese, go “phwoar” over corn plasters, or get a major boner for bunions. Oooh hot. Everyone has obsessive tendencies, and for many, it’s nothing but a bit of harmless fun… …but for one man, his obsession for a woman (he claimed) he not to love would lead to murder. On 26th December 1994, at 1pm, the body of 27-year-old Dr Joan Francisco was found in her basement flat at 13 Ordnance Hill. With the prime suspect being her ex-boyfriend who had a history of stalking her, his conviction should have been imminent. Only this isn’t just a story about obsession, this is the tale of a family’s five-year battle for justice, with the evidence being missed owing to a fatal mistake. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 258: Three Tiny Specks. Joan was an exceptional woman. Born on the 27th of January 1967 in Westminster, West London, Joan Sarah Francisco was one of three sisters to their father (Alfred) and mother (Venus). With her parents having come from the sun-kissed Caribbean island of St Lucia in the 60s to the endless drizzle of London, having dedicated their lives to giving their children the opportunities denied to them, all three of their girls flourished and succeeded. Blessed with brains, a convent education, and their parent’s hard-working ethic, both of Joan's sisters Margrette and Celia eventually sought out the bright lights of Los Angeles where they practiced law, whereas (like her mother, a former nurse) Joan was drawn to the benevolent profession of medicine. Described as bubbly and eternally likeable, Joan trained at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead where she often worked as a locum, specialising in gynaecology and obstetrics she was also trained at the famous Cedar Sinai Medical Centre in LA, and having obtained her doctorate, by 1994, Dr Joan Francisco was working at the Queen Charlotte hospital in Hammersmith, and with her said to be “at the top of her profession”, she had planned to move to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. Working 100-hours-a-week, although her career was hectic, she excelled as in every field … …but like most people, her love life was sometimes a little bit rocky. In 1987, while 20-year-old Joan was a medical student, she fell in love with 27-year-old Anthony Gilroy Diedrick. Born in Paddington, Tony was doing a degree in computing at the University of Westminster, he came across well, being clean-cut and driven, but what too often shone through was his arrogance. In total, they dated for about a year, and although Joan was initially lured by his looks and his charm, as bright woman who didn’t suffer fools gladly, it was the support of her family which helped her make the right decision. Sometimes all it takes is a loved one to be brutally honest, as when her sister Celia met Tony, with amazing foresight, she forewarned Joan that her boyfriend was “a ticking time bomb”. As an inveterate philanderer who always cheated on her, and whose aggressive streak had resulted in him pushing her off a bike and smashing a light bulb which injured her eye, by the winter of 1988 to 1989, Joan ended the relationship, with Tony (defensively) claiming “I wasn’t that keen on her”. But Tony wasn’t the kind of person who took rejection well, as with his fragile ego bruised, although anyone with a modicum of self-respect would have shrugged off this snub and moved on, across the next months as much as Joan had made it abundantly clear that it was over, he refused to accept it. In February 1989, Joan complained to the police that he was harassing and stalking her. As a wastrel who drifted between aimless jobs, he followed her from the hospital by Wormwood Scrubs to her parent’s home on The Ridgeway in Acton. But with this being 8 years before harassment was made an offence, and almost 30 years before staking was criminalised, there was little the police could do. Growing ever more distressed at his persistent pestering, everything came to a head that same month, when seeing Joan with her new boyfriend at her family’s home, boiling with petty rage that the woman he claimed not to love was seeing someone else, he smashed a plate glass window of the patio door and threatened to kill her new boyfriend - as if that act of moronic violence would woo her back. With Tony admitting his guilt to criminal damage, Justice Hallett who presided over the later trial said “it’s not surprising she wanted nothing to do with you”, and although the only punishment he received was a police caution, this brief dalliance with the legal system made him open his eyes to the truth. Across the next five years, they didn’t see or speak to each other, and this lack of contact helped their lives to flourish. Joan qualified as a gynaecologist, and having graduated as a computer programmer, Tony went on to have other unhappy girlfriends, and over time, he began to forget about Joan. The two had moved on to greener and brighter pastures… …but all it took was a glimpse of Joan for his warped obsession to re-emerge. Being born, raised and educated within streets of each other, a brief interaction by chance was bound to happen, but whereas Joan only harboured feelings of revulsion and fear, for Tony, he wasn’t filled with a need to seek her forgiveness for his actions, or rekindle their love, he wanted to possess her. In February 1994, neighbours spotted him hanging around her parent’s home in Acton, spying through the window, and – as a truly sad and pathetic man with nothing better to do – again, he followed her. Knowing that any contact would give him hope that their relationship might be rekindled, Joan had considered taking out an injunction against him, but again, she hoped that by ignoring him that he’d eventually get bored and leave. Only the more she ignored him, the more obsessive he became. By the autumn of 1994, his obsession was consuming his life. In his flat on Fermoy Road, police would later find a homemade listening device so he could eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, a body heat detector so he could tell if she was in and what she was doing even if her curtains were shut, and not only had he listened into her bedroom at night, also, he had spied on her as she got undressed. By the end of October 1994, Joan left her parent’s home in Acton and moved into her own basement flat on a quiet leafy street at 13 Ordnance Hill in St John’s Wood. Desperate to keep herself safe, she made her home phone number ex-directory, and she only shared her address with a chosen few. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find her, but his twisted persistence knew no bounds. Calling every hospital and discovering that she was working at the Royal Free Hospital in Belsize Park, on one occasion, he called the switchboard 10 times to find out if she was on shift. In conversations with his friends, he denied being obsessed with her, even though she was the only thing on his mind. And he resorted to sending letters to her mother to find out where she lived, but no-one would speak. He was obsessed (not with Joan but) by the fact that he couldn’t possess and control her, and as this object of his desire vanished into thin air, far from his grasp, the more this made him need to seek her. At the trial, he could claim that “I had no meaningful contact with her since we stopped dating”… …only somehow, he had found out where she was living, and soon, she would be dead. By the November of 1994, Joan was staying with film producer Anthony Henry in Bolton having met him on a flight back from LA, and across the month, she worked as a locum in Southport. He knew she wasn’t in her basement flat at 13 Ordnance Hill, as from the corner of Acacia Road and St John’s Wood Terrace, he spent many evenings and nights watching her unlit unoccupied home for signs of life. Knowing almost nothing about her friends, her career, her plans and her boyfriends drove him wild, and whether someone let slip or he had scrabbled for scraps of details by going through her bins, it’s uncertain how he knew that Joan was leaving for Los Angeles on the Boxing Day of 1994, but he did. Before the start of the next part of her career at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, Joan had planned to take a month-long break with her sisters in California, but as Tony’s paranoid brain leaped to the illogical conclusion that she was leaving Britain, although she had only just moved into the flat, he believed that he had to act now… …or he would lose her forever. (cliffhanger). Sunday 25th of December 1994 was a typically cold wet Christmas Day. As planned, Joan spent it at her parent’s home in Acton, they shared presents, as a gifted pianist she entertained them with a rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, it was fun, it was calm, and there were no dramas. Joan chatted on the phone to her sister Margrette, who said “see you tomorrow”. Only tomorrow never came. Having kissed her mother goodbye, Joan headed back to her basement flat on Ordnance Hill. With her flight to LA leaving the next day at 2pm, having pre-arranged to see her parents at 10am, she had a lot to get done that night. So dressed in her knickers and a red t-shirt with the words ‘Beverly Hills, California’ upon it, she finished packing and - planning to be away for a month - she cleaned the flat. That night, being full of festive cheer, Joan’s only distraction was the weather, as with the rain soaking the street, and the dark clouds hanging low, the gales were looming which risked a delay to her flight. Inside her flat, lost in her own thoughts, Joan vacuumed the carpet… …unaware that, through the window, someone was watching her. Monday 26th of December 1994, Boxing Day. Not a flake of snow had settled, but as a sodden gloom hung over the city, thankfully the predicted 70 mile-an-hour winds had missed West London, and with only minor delays at Heathrow Airport, none of the planes to LA had been cancelled, including Joan’s. Only it was a flight which Joan would never catch. Her mother realised that something was wrong when she failed to arrive at her house, and then, when her home phone just rang and rang and rang. At 1pm, growing concerned, Police broke in via the locked front door, and at the foot of the stairs, her body was found. When questioned, not one neighbour had heard a sound as their new resident was murdered, as few knew her name or the circumstances which had plagued her for the last few months. With the front door locked from inside and the back door left open, Detective Superintendent Phillip Bebbe initially believed that it may have been a burglary which had gone wrong, but what baffled him was that no cupboards were opened, no drawers had been ransacked, nothing had been taken, and although Joan was only dressed in a knickers and a red t-shirt, there no evidence of a sexual assault. Somehow her killer had got in, and with footprints across the back garden implying that was how he’d fled, it was likely that Joan had opened the front door to him, suggesting that maybe she knew him. At some point, the two had a confrontation. At some point, a violent struggle had ensued. At some point, knowing they were never to be, he had pummelled her face with his fists, as if to say ‘if I can’t have you, then no other man can’. And in the ultimate act of possession, at some point, wrapping the vacuum cleaner cord around her neck, he choked the last breath from her lungs, and ended her life. The last thing she’d have seen was the eyes of the man who claimed “I wasn’t that keen on her”. With no fingerprints found at the scene and no witnesses to the incident, the police were at a loss. Eight years earlier, DNA fingerprinting had been successfully used to solve a crime, so although it was still in its infancy, Joan’s knickers and t-shirt were sent to forensic expert Dr Ann Priston for analysis. Being fresh on, the t-shirt was clean. Several sections were tested, but they only matched Joan’s DNA, and with three tiny specks of blood on the inside believed to have dripped from a wound to her mouth, even the latest innovations of forensic science couldn’t find a trace of the man who murdered Joan. Or it would have done, if a cruel assumption hadn’t been made. Joan’s family believed there was only one suspect, Tony Diedrick, Joan’s ex-boyfriend and her stalker. A few days after her murder, he was arrested and questioned at length. He denied knowing where she lived, but the police knew he was lying. He gave an alibi as to where he was that night, but the police had 19 witnesses who saw him loitering outside of her flat that night. And although his statement was littered with lies, the evidence against him was circumstantial; no-one saw him knock, no-one saw him enter, and with no fingerprints, witnesses or DNA, they couldn’t prove that he had been in her flat. Ten months later, after an exhaustive investigation and endless false leads and dead ends, the inquest declared that Joan had been ‘unlawfully killed’, but the coroner Dr Paul Knapman stressed that “more evidence was crucial in order to catch the killer… and if found, it’s likely a person could be charged”. Everyone associated with the case knew that Anthony Diedrick was the culprit, from the police to the family to the coroner, but the definitive proof was missing. After the inquest, even Detective Inspector Michael Bennett said “Everyone on the inquiry is 100 per cent certain they know who the killer is”. But with no new evidence, the investigation stalled. And yet, still, her loved one’s fought on. As a close-knit family, still grieving from their loss and seething that the only suspect was living his life and walking around having (literally) got away with murder, Joan’s sister Margrette would state “the police are supposed to bring criminals to justice and nothing was happening, but justice had to take place, so it meant I had to do something. That was the scariest part. At some point I realised something had to be done and”, as a lawyer “I was the only one who could do it. I couldn't depend on the police". Seeing a programme on the 1993 murder of Stephen Lawrence in Plumstead, Margrette hired Caron Thatcher, one of the lawyers in the case, and in March 1998, they took the evidence to a civil trial. Unlike in a criminal trial, the standard of proof at a civil trial is lower, therefore it didn’t require new evidence to be presented. Across the two-week hearing in March 1998, this was an unprecedented case in which (for the first time) someone was to be sued for a murder they hadn’t been charged with. Forced to relive the trauma, seeing the crime scene photos containing her daughter’s strangled body, Venus said "she must have called out for me and I wasn't there to help her. She was lying on the floor with that vacuum cleaner cord around her neck, she must have been pleading and crying out". Not being legally bound to attend the hearing, the accused (Tony Diedrick) gave no evidence, at which the judge said “I find it incredible that he would not seize the opportunity to declare his innocence”. And although, maybe it was his arrogance which compelled him not to… …that was also part of his undoing and the beginning of the end. On the 24th of March 1998, Joan’s family made legal history when they successfully sued her alleged killer. Awarded £50,000 in damages plus £17,000 in funeral costs, the money wasn’t the victory, but the fact that – after the Crown Prosecution Service had refused to prosecute him owing to insufficient evidence - a High Court Judge “was satisfied on the balance of probabilities” that Diedrick had stalked and harassed her, that he had no alibi for the day of the murder, that he was watching her that night, and “believing she was about to set off for America, he entered her home… struck and strangled her”. The judge decreed "I consider those factors make it a very strong prima facia case. This is a dreadful judgment to have to pass on any man... but I find the assault and battery alleged, in effect the murder, to have been proved". Anthony Diedrick had been successfully sued in a court of law for damages. They had won the civil case… but the criminal case would be a very different matter. In a criminal trial, you have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, not based on the balance of probability, so having re-examined the evidence put forward at the civil trial, on the 16th May 1998, the Crown Prosecution Service said that “as no new evidence was forthcoming, the original decision not to prosecute stood”. Rightly, Joan’s mother was furious, stating “I can’t find words to express my anger and dissatisfaction. I am utterly disgusted and disappointed with the CPS for thinking so little of the life of a human being. We will fight on until Joan's killer has been put behind bars and justice is seen to have been done". That month, with the Met Police being embroiled in a racism row over Stephen Lawrence’s murder, the family met Met’ Police Commissioner Sir Paul Condon and he ordered a fresh investigation in her murder, and (four years on, with new advances in DNA testing) that the evidence was re-examined. Re-submitted to the forensic expert Dr Ann Priston for analysis, the same red t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Beverly Hills, California’ was tested. But this time, a crucial piece of information was given. At the time of the murder, Joan was wearing the t-shirt inside out. Therefore the three tiny, almost pin prick sized specks of blood which were found on the inside and were mistakenly believed to have dripped from her bleeding mouth, were actually on the outside of the t-shirt. Using a more advanced DNA test which hadn’t been available in 1994, the blood around the neck was proven to be Joan’s, but the three tiny specks of blood had to belong to her killer. Arrested on the 15th January 1999, held at Marylebone Police Station, blood samples were taken, and Tony Diedrick was proven to be the murderer of Dr Joan Fransisco. When asked - if he hadn’t seen her since 1989 and her t-shirt had been washed hundreds of times in the six years since – to explain how her t-shirt contained traces of his blood on the day she was murdered? He said “I don’t know”… …and yet, the only possible conclusion was that he was her murderer. (End) In a three-week trial, held at the Old Bailey, in late September and early October 1999, Tony Diedrick pleaded not guilty to murder. With both the defence and prosecution in agreement that the three tiny specks of blood on her shirt was his, there was only a 1 in 170 million chance that the DNA wasn’t his. But still he tried to plead his innocence, denying that he was obsessed with her, claiming "I did not set out to do it" but also stating "I can't explain why I did it", which made Joan’s family worry that (still with no proof that he had been in her flat) he could still be acquitted, and again, he could walk free. With the jury deliberating for four hours, on the 12th of October 1999, a cry rang out in Court Room 2 when the verdict was read: “on the charge of murder, how do you find the accused?”, (pause) “guilty”. After almost five years, a coroner’s inquest, a civil trial, CPS battles, a failed investigation and a forensic test which was fatally floored, Joan’s family had done the unthinkable and successfully brought their loved one’s killer to justice, when everything else had failed and everyone else had given up. Anthony Diedrick was sentenced to life in prison with a minimum 15 years before parole is considered, during which, as an arrogant man, he accused Joan’s family of lying. He was due for release in 2014. Summing up, Mr Justice Hallett said "You claim to have loved her. I am not convinced you know the meaning of the word. You were obsessed with her, but you could not have her. You stalked her in a mean and despicable way, knowing that if she knew what you were up to, she would be terrified". Of Joan’s family, the judge praised their dignity and determination. And feeling that they could finally put Joan to rest, in her honour, they set up a foundation in Joan's memory to train black doctors. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN: At 8:30am on Monday 12th of November 1923, in the nursery of Flat 1 of West Kensington Mansions in Fulham, the bodies of Sonia Katzman aged four, and her 10 month old sister Jean were found, along side their nursemaid Dora Sadler. Dora loved Sonia, but did she love her too much?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a dark green coloured symbol of a bin beneath the words 'West Kensington'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on North End Road in Fulham, W14; four streets west of the tragedy of Mr & Mrs Park, three streets north-east of Lyn, Jan & him, a tube stop south of killing of a super spy, and one street north of the terrorist who forgot who he had planned to blow up - coming soon to Murder Mile. A short walk from Fulham Broadway sits West Kensington Mansions, a seven-storey red-brick mansion block containing close to eighty mid-Victorian flats. For more than a century, every neighbour has had to endure each other’s noise; whether the grating wailing of ungrateful brats, the rutting of amorous newly-weds, the daily bellowing of “I hate you” as love leaps to loathing as the honeymoon goes from hell to “Oh! Hello!”, with walls so thin, when the loo flushes you can hear what your neighbour’s eaten. One sweet detail is that the old signage still lingers over each entrance, telling you which flat is where. But what it doesn’t tell you are the terrible tales of what happened beyond those front doors. Back in 1923, Flat 1, a basement flat on the north-west corner was the home of Mr & Mrs Katzman, a middle-class couple with two young daughters. Keen to provide full time care for Sonia aged four and Jean aged just 10 months, they hired a nursemaid who loved their children… but maybe too much? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 257: “Passionately fond of Sonia”. Love can be as destructive as hate… which the Katzman’s were unaware of. Born in 1894, as a boy, Benjamin Katzman was one of hundreds of thousands of Russian Jews who fled the pogroms, carrying only what they could carry and taking with them only those who might survive. Arriving in England, a place of freedom and seemingly less persecution than in his homeland, although an outsider, like so many, he’d use his skills as a milliner to make a better life for himself and his family. Like many good men, having built a prosperous business, he set his sights on marrying a good woman and was instantly smitten with Rebecca Specterman. Born in Spitalfields, as a British born Jew (who like Ben) spoke Yiddish, Bessie & Ben made a perfect partnership and soon marriage was on the cards. Living just a decade after the Victorian era, they were a remarkably progressive couple, as not only did Ben run a fashionable hat shop, but so did Bessie, with hers being on the same street as their basement flat at West Kensington Mansions. But when it came to marriage, they were a very traditional couple. Married in October 1915 in Whitechapel, Rebecca Specterman became Mrs Bessie Katzman. To keep their flat clean, to iron their clothes and to make meals for this busy couple, they hired a housemaid called Minnie, and discovering she was pregnant at the start of 1919, Bessie also sought a nursemaid. In August 1919, Bessie & Ben welcomed into the world their first born - Sonia Sarah Katzman, a sweet girl with fairish brown hair and apple blossom cheeks who was the spitting image of her parents. She was healthy and well, happy and joyous, and blessed with a loving family, her life would be good. With Bessie working fulltime, just days after the birth, she went to Hunt’s Registry Office seeking a nursemaid. And although Bessie said “I did not receive a good reference for her”, she liked her, they got on well, and by all accounts, they’d struck gold, as the nursemaid clearly loved her daughter Sonia… …but did she love her too much? Born on 21st of May 1886 in Queens Park, West London, Dora Sadler was one of five sisters and four brothers to Mary, a housewife and George, a stationmaster. As the eldest, Dora saw herself as another mother to her younger siblings, especially in 1907, when Vera, the last of the family’s brood was born. As a button-nosed child, Dora adored Vera, so it was no surprise (given the era) that with limited options, Dora became a nursemaid with her livelihood devoted to caring for children. So, it’s tragic in a way that someone so loving and devoted to the welfare of the most vulnerable, would never marry, had no known lover, and never had a child of her own. But maybe that was part of the problem? Something was wrong with Dora, it always had been, according to her family. On the surface, she was the epitome of a professional nursemaid; polite, wholesome and cheerful. If a child in her care cried, she knew exactly the song to sing, and how to soothe them back to sleep. But being prone to mood swings, although fervently sober and never a drinker, this “passionately loving person” was said by those who knew her to be “erratic”, “quarrelsome”, “moody” and “possessive”. Her younger sister Mae described how “she would get into a violent temper over nothing, only to then come back a week later as if nothing had happened”. Fuelled by emotions rather than logic, aged 17, having blown up into a petulant rage over something said to be trivial, she swallowed a bottle of spirits of salts (a caustic cleaner made of hydrochloric acid) which burned the insides of her throat. Surviving, in 1911, she worked for Mr & Mrs Salomon, a Jewish couple in Hampstead. From 1912 to 1915, for Dr & Mrs Rawlence of Southampton, who later stated “we had to dismiss her on the grounds of insanity”, and although they didn’t elaborate, both being doctors “it was our opinion that she was insane”. And in 1916, struggling with insomnia, she was sacked as a nursemaid in Selsey “owing to her violent temper and her abnormal jealousy”, which – again - resulted in a failed suicide attempt. By the August of 1919, having worked in Sloane Square, Dora Sadler became the Katzman’s nursemaid, who described her as “loyal, loving, devoted to our child”. In short, they couldn’t have asked for more. Working from 8am to 8pm, her diligence ensured that Bessie & Ben could run their businesses, then return home to a child who was clean, well-fed, healthy and happy. Across the next three years, Dora proved to be a blessing for the Katzman’s, then in January 1923, their second daughter was born. Her name was Jean, and like her older sister, even though she would always have a stronger bond with Sonia, Dora adored Jean as if she was her own child, being at her beck-and-call whenever she cried. If she’d had children of her own, Dora would have been a wonderful mother, as she was patient, calm and caring. But – again - that was part of the problem, that she wasn’t the mother of these children. And when it came to sharing the children who she saw as her own with their real mother… …Dora’s jealousy shone through. Following Jean’s birth, Bessie made the decision to shut-up her hat shop and become a full-time mum. But after three years of caring for Sonia, and now sleeping in the nursery to give Jean her night feeds, Dora loved the children with all her heart, but in equal measure, she hated Bessie with all her soul. Bessie said “during the years I engaged her, she looked after Sonia and Jean well from the time they were born, but she wouldn’t allow me to advise her, or even to be a mother to my own children”. She found Dora to be “a perfectly sane person who always acted in rational ways”, but as Dora disliked Bessie being in what she saw as her home, she began to treat her like an unwelcome stranger. For the first time, “Dora became quarrelsome over the silliest of things”, getting upset, then quickly calming. Struggling to find a housemaid who could cope with Dora’s temper, since Jean’s birth, several had quit and by the November of 1923, even the ever-reliable Millie had needed to take a week-long holiday, so with no housemaid there, Dora had to do those jobs too, which she resented. At around the same time, Dora stopped going home to see her siblings, saying the three-mile journey was “too great for the children”, and so, from that moment on, she slept beside them in the nursery. Dora’s behaviour was irrational and inconsistent, so it’s hard to tell if her hatred of Bessie was jealousy. In those final months, Dora was heard expressing her hatred of Jews, which was odd, as almost all of her former employers were Jewish, and she had never spoken any antisemitic words in their presence. But like a darkly familiar presence which had plagued her teenage years, and possibly the later stages of her previous employments before she was dismissed, a deep depression had crept back in, and with Dora having uninterrupted access to the children, day and night, Bessie would say “she tried to turn Sonia against me, and in consequence, Sonia did not show me the love a mother would expect”. A cloud hung low over the flat at West Kensington Mansions. Dora wasn’t cruel, just sullen. She wasn’t violent, just dismissive. And although for the third time, a few months before, Dora had threatened to take her own life, telling her friend Edith Jones “I am fed up. I will put my head in a gas oven”… …this wouldn’t be her only threat. That summer, Ralph, Bessie’s brother had bumped into Dora outside of the West Kensington Cinema. Seeing both Sonia & Jean looking so neat, he remarked “oh my, don’t the children look lovely… like father and mother”. Seeing a black look creep over Dora’s face, she glared “if I thought they would look like either of them, I’d do them in”, meaning to kill them, “because I am sorry they are Jews”. Being Jewish himself, he told his sister Golda, but always seeing Dora as a kindly woman who only had the best interests of the children at heart, “I did not take any notice of this. I did not take it seriously”. It could be a coincidence, but around the same time that Dora began to mentally decline, Vera, the baby sister who she doted on, collapsed in the street dying of an abscess of the brain, aged just 17. Her middle sister Mae said, “this seemed to affect Dora terribly” and left her with an ache in her heart. In an odd sort of way, Vera was like her own child… …but was this loss the trigger that led to Dora’s suicide, and a double murder? (Cliffhanger) By the October, growing ever more exacerbated with her nursemaid’s disobedience, Bessie dismissed Dora, but having said that she wouldn’t go as “Sonia would fret”, Bessie believed her and she was kept on. Dora wasn’t bad, she was a great nursemaid who the children loved, but she disliked Bessie. The coroner would later state “when the mother asked her to leave, this appeared intolerable to her unbalanced mind. A blind, jealous hatred dominated her to the exclusion of any other feeling”. For some nursemaids, this would just have been a job. But for Dora, this was her life and her children. Sunday 11th November 1923 began like any other day. At 7am, Dora awoke. Letting Jean sleep a little longer in her cot, so the wailing didn’t wake her parents, she rolled over and softly roused Sonia, as when the children had a fitful night, she slept beside them. Turning the gas fire up to warm the brightly coloured nursery, she washed, she dressed, and she made the children presentable, as the Katzman’s agreed “there was no disagreement during the morning”. At around 1pm, Ben & Bessie, Sonia & Jean, along with Dora walked three streets north-east to Queens Club Gardens and the home of Bessie’s sister, Golda, where they ate a brisket, roast potatoes and a medley of vegetables, and although Golda & Ben had wine, Dora had water and Bessie had lemonade. Later questioned, Golda said “during the meal, there was no ill feeling between of Bessie and Dora”. By 2pm, with their bellies groaning, the Katzman’s and Golda retired to the drawing room, slumped into armchairs and loosened a button or two, as Dora laid baby Jean down for her mid-afternoon nap on the sofa, and Sonia sat beside her. It was a replay of many other lunches they’d spent at Golda’s. The incident started over something so trivial, and so typical of a child, that it almost went unnoticed. “Sonia”, Bessie said tapping her leg, “come and sit on mummy’s knee”. It being a simple request that any mother would make to her own child, only Sonia shook her head. “Sonia, I said come here” Bessie retorted, only the more she demanded, the more the four-year-old cuddled closer into Dora’s arm. Feeling spurned, ashamed at her own child’s snub occurring in front of her sister, and sensing that the nursemaid (her hired help) had poisoned her own child against her, Bessie barked “if you don’t sit on my knee, I will smack you”. Not expecting Dora to bark back “if you smack her, I will smack you”, without waiting for a rebuke, Dora marched across the room and punched Bessie hard on the mouth. The shock of the assault stung as sharply as the thump itself, as Dora had never raised a hand to her employer before, and especially not in front of the children. Being so flabbergasted, Bessie couldn’t even speak, and not wanting to make a scene, Ben said nothing. With Dora unwilling to apologise or explain her actions, with the children crying, she popped on their warm coats and walked them home. The decision had been made, “she must leave our employment immediately”, Bessie demanded… …only Dora had already decided how and when she was going to leave. At 5pm, before the last post was collected, Dora sent a handwritten letter to her friend, Edith Jones. It read “my dear Edith. I don’t know how to write this, but when you get it, I shall be no more. I am taking my darling Sonia with me. I know she won’t be happy here without me, you know her mother. If you had seen the way she had carried on with Sonia, you will understand. I am not tired of life, but I cannot leave Sonia, and this is the only way I can have her. Don’t be upset. Goodbye dear, try to forgive me. I don’t want to take Jean, but I cannot put her outside – Nannie”. The letter would arrive early the next morning, but by then, it was too late to stop her. At 6:40pm, the Katzman’s arrived back at West Kensington Mansions in a foul mood. In the nursery, baby Jean was fast asleep, but Sonia was awake and restless. Her mother tried to calm her, but with her malleable mind having been polluted by the words of a nursemaid with an axe to grind, Sonia said “I don’t like you, mummy. I like nanny better”, which stung like the smack which smarted her cheeks. By 7:20pm, enough was enough. With Ben, again not wanting to make a scene, as firmly as he could put it, he ordered Dora “you must go tomorrow, and that is final”, and although Dora refused shouting “I will not go until you get another nurse” as her priority – supposedly – was the children’s welfare, Bessie barged in, and stamping her foot demanded “no, pack your things, you must go now” - she did not want that woman in her house. The fight went on, as all three sides sank into a stalemate of the best way to end Dora’s employment; Bessie wanted her out now, Dora refused to leave without a nurse to mind the children, and Ben was willing to wait until the morning to resolve this, as they had a prior dinner date with his brother, John. It ended in a semi-palatable concession; in the morning, Dora would be dismissed and given two weeks pay in lieu, and Jean & Sonia would be taken to Golda’s while Bessie hired a new nurse. But that night, with the Katzman’s heading out to dinner, they would leave their two daughters alone with Dora. At 8pm, having insisted that Dora pack her bags that night, the Katzman’s kissed their baby’s goodnight and left, knowing that their treasured tots were in the capable hands of a nursemaid who loved them… …but loved one of them, a little too much. At 12:30am, their taxi pulled up outside of West Kensington Mansions. Peeping over the railings, from the entrance, they could see that the nursery lights were off (as usual) and that the window was shut (which wasn’t), but with a cold damp fog having descended that night, they didn’t see it as suspicious. Inside Flat 1, all was quiet, which for any parent is a blessing and a curse. When asked “did you suspect anything wrong?” Ben said “no, nothing at all”. As with Dora’s bed empty and the nursery door locked, it wasn’t odd for the woman who nursed their babies since birth to sleep by their sides on a fitful night, so not wishing to sully their sweet dreams, the Katzman’s thought no more of it, and went to bed. (Silence, snoring, no other sounds until dawn). Monday 12th of November 1923 was to be a difficult day, as following Dora’s dismissal, a new nurse would need to be found, one who the children would adore, but it would be a fresh start for all. It was the unusual silence which first woke Ben & Bessie, as by 8:15am, no-one was stirring. Softly, for fear of awaking his sleeping babies, Ben knocked “nurse?”, only Dora did not reply. He knocked again, “nurse?”, but still he heard nothing, not the creak of a bedspring nor the sounds of a child’s yawn. Worried, he went round to the front, only he couldn’t see in as the curtains were drawn. “Nurse?”, he asserted as his knuckles hammered harshly with the aim that someone would rouse, only no-one did. It was then, with the aid of a workman, that he slipped the latch of the window, and got in. Inside, it was dark and cold, as in the air, a sulphurous odour permeated the room and made Ben gag. Choking on this noxious air which made him retch, between the cot Jean was sleeping in and the bed both Sonia and Dora were curled up on, he spotted a flexible rubber hose which hissed like a serpent. The fire was off, but with the ring having been deliberately pulled away and hose within inches of the baby’s noses, several hours earlier, a strong flow of gas had rendered them all unconscious. Aged just 10 months, Jean was still warm to the touch when Ben picked her up, and although her little pink body gave the appearance of life, as her chubby little arms and legs hung limply, their cherry-red hue gave a hideous clue that carbon monoxide had killed her. With no bruises, a pathologist deduced that she had died peacefully in her sleep, unlike her sister Sonia, who had died in a state of panic. With it determined that the gas tap had been switched on at about 5am, although her body showed no signs of force, Sonia had died quickly, as in her final death throws, she’d taken great gulps of gas. Choking and convulsing as every lungful hurt, writhing in pain, the tiny tot had clenched in her fist a handful of her own hair, having ripped a clump from her own head as the gas made her organs seize. Both children were dead. To his wife, Ben shouted “Bessie, the nurse, she’s killed the children”, and as the hysterical mother (who had fought through hours of labour) held her dead babies to her chest, her pain echoed the room with a heartbreaking wail as everything she had loved had been taken. Two doctors tried their best to resuscitate the little limp sisters, but it was all in vain. Lying next to Sonia, her beloved Sonia, lay the nurse. Dressed in her nightdress, Dora’s skin was the same cherry red hue of the children she had murdered. Motionless, a drying foam still frothed about her lips as (during the night) she too had writhed in pain… and yet, in all irony, Dora wasn’t quite dead. Rushed in an ambulance to Fulham Infirmary, it took almost a month for Dora to make a recovery. The investigation headed up by Detective Inspector John Hedley was short and swift, as having taken statements from Golda, Ben and Bessie, the gas pipe had Dora’s fingerprints on it, as did the door key, and on the mantlepiece she had also left a handwritten letter, which bluntly read “I am taking them both. I will not leave my Sonia to the creature she calls mother”, and it was signed, “Dora Sadler”. It was a moot point to such a tragic case, but while recovering in hospital, Dora gave a full confession to WPC Waite, and being deemed ‘sane’, on the 10th of December, she was charged with the murders of 4-year-old Sonia Katzman, her 10-month-old sister Jean and the attempted suicide of herself. (End) Assessed at Holloway Prison, she showed signs of petit mal seizures, an ovarian cyst proved to be benign, and although depressed, with no signs of delusions or hallucinations, the doctor decreed “I am of the opinion that she is mentally subnormal as shown by her violent temper, her threats, attempts at suicide, and her absence of remorse. I am of the opinion that at the time of the offence she was not insane, that she is now not insane, and that she is fit to plead and to instruct counsel”. With the trial delayed until she had fully recovered from the effects of the gas, on the 16th of January 1924, 37-year-old Dora Sadler was tried at the Old Bailey before Mr Justice Greer. With no dispute with regard to the fact that she had murdered both children, the defence went for an insanity plea (as supported by the medical officer at Fulham Infirmary), while the prosecution reiterated, she was sane. With the jury deliberating for 23 minutes, the foreman declared a unanimous verdict of guilty of wilful murder, and with death being the prescribed punishment, they made no recommendation for mercy. It was plain and simple, as had happened at her other employments, Dora was jealous of the mother. Sentenced to death by hanging on 21st of February 1924, the Home Secretary commuted her sentence to life in prison, and having served her time, she died in 1961, and was buried in West Thurrock. With Sonia & Jean Katzman buried at Willesden United Synagogue Cemetery, although still grieving, on 28th October 1924 – bringing a little joy to their 52 years of marriage - Ben & Bessie welcome into the world a son called Henry Aubrey Katzman. He was healthy, happy, loved and protected, but unlike the sisters he never knew, he would live to the grand old age of 97, and only passed away in 2021. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX: Saturday 15th of January 1994 at roughly 1am, at the junction of Bishop’s Bridge Road & Porchester Terrace North in Bayswater, W2, 19-year-olds Jamie Petrolini and Richard Elsey stabbed 44- year-old Mohamed Abbas Nassif el-Sayed to death in a fake SAS initiation by two fantasists. But why?
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on the junction of Bishop’s Bridge Road & Porchester Terrace North in Bayswater, W2; one street east of Barbara Shuttleworth’s shooting, directly opposite the attacks by the Old Lady Killer, and a short walk from the crime spree of the ‘chinless wonder’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. At a little T-Junction off Porchester Terrace North sits a Give Way sign, and usually a long line of truly useless drivers, all eagerly waiting to get snarled up behind the chocking fumes of trucks. Only to first get wedged behind a learner driver struggling to find first gear, a yummy mummy whose talons scratch rainbows on the windscreen every time she turns the steering wheel, or cyclists either taking an age to fix their feet to their stupid clippy-cloppy cleats, or darting from the road to the path shouting “look at me, I’m a vehicle, now I’m a pedestrian, and now I’m a vehicle again, the rules don’t apply to me”… …until – of course - they get strawberry-jammed under the No 27 bus to Baker Street. Good. Life is not a game. But for two boys with an SAS fixation, it was. Saturday 15th of January 1994 at roughly 1am, at this junction, 19-year-olds Jamie Petrolini and Richard Elsey stood dressed in black, like SAS soldiers on a deadly mission. Armed with a combat knife, whereas some boys play cops and robbers, or cowboys and Indians, being stuck in a bizarre world of fantasy and initiations, their playtime had become a reality, and soon, an innocent man would be butchered. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 256: The Initiation. Far from being driven to kill owing to hardship, both boys came from privilege. Born in 1975, Jamie Petrolini had the kind of upbringing most kids would dream of. Raised in the tiny hamlet of Cromdale in the rugged Spey valley of northeast Scotland, every morning he would open his window to stunning glens, fresh streams and highland cattle. As the only child of Johnny & Wanda, being Polish and Italian post-war immigrants who ran a café and an ice-cream parlour, their long hours had blessed him with a good home, a happy life, and the privileges they had been denied as children. Only Jamie didn’t see it like that, all he saw was “heather and sheep”, claiming “I was on my own a lot. I grew up with nearly no contact with others”, no siblings and no best friends, just his collie dog Jake. Keen for him to do well, his parents sent him to Aberlour, a prestigious £11000-a-year prep’ school, and later being educated at Gordonstoun, the elite Scottish public school as attended by King Charles. For some, it’s seen as the best education that money can buy, but for Jamie, it was just another form of isolation, a boarding school stuffed with pompous little scrotes with no emotion, except arrogance. Bullied and demoralised, although he struggled to fit in, sport became his saving grace, as he busied himself with rugby, canoeing and a parachuting, becoming leader of the running group, captain of the karate team and such an accomplished skier, that he almost made it onto the Scottish national team. Aged 14, growing into a small and silent ‘Action Man’, his dream was to join the Marines, but lacking an attention span and drifting into the realms of fantasy as he sat in desperate solitude, having failed his A’ Levels, his university scholarship bid was futile, and his Army application was rejected. 1990 to 1991 saw the invasion of Kuwait and the war in Iraq, all of which were heavily televised as was the Iranian Embassy siege by the SAS in 1980. With Bravo Two Zero, Andy McNab’s SAS memoir being released in 1993, it was a time of heroes and bravery… only Jamie Petrolini was part of none of it. As a sullen sensitive boy, what he needed was a mentor to guide him… …what he ended up with was a deluded fantasist. Like Jamie, Richard Elsey’s upbringing was the epitome of privileged, Raised in the leafy upper-middle class enclave of Wilton Road in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, his English father and Iranian mother had also sent their only son to Brockhurst prep’ school, Merchant Taylors public school, and later doing his A ‘levels at Dr Challoner’s Grammar in Amersham, with hopes that he’d study at Oxford university. Both were isolated and anxious, but whereas Jamie had sports as an antidote to his insecurity, Richard was described as “quiet and passive”, “a reserved chap” and “not a natural mixer”. As a shy boy who many said “when he left the room, he left no trace that he’d been there”, keen to join the Army, but knowing he lacked the confidence and the physical frame being too slightly built, he tried to rebel. It was all a bit pathetic; he took up smoking, he sometimes lied, he collected knives, and he stole a travel card from a friend, only to pretend it was an SAS identity card, which it looked nothing like. But lies can also bely a much darker side, having agonised that “the real me is hiding from my pretend self”, as fanciful as it may seem, he’d claim he was a 2nd lieutenant in the Paras having been seconded to the SAS (Britain’s elite military unit) stating he was on secret missions, and he spoke of his grief seeing his sister killed, writing “blood was everywhere, on my clothes, on the car, on the road, on my soul, the soul that is now In hell… it seems as though my sister, my one true source of love, has been lost since the beginning of time”. Only there was one problem, Richard had always been an only child. As a morose lonely boy, what he needed was a friend… …but what he wanted someone to dominate, someone like Jamie. In September 1993, by chance, both were sent to Modes in Oxford to re-sit their A’ levels. Described by the principal Dr Stephen Moore as “young and immature… they behaved strangely, as if they were plotting something”, and although neither were happy, together they had met their soul mate. They would be friends for just four months. Neither had a history of violence, cruelty, drugs or drink; and they had suffered no trauma, no accidents and no bullying beyond what is seen as the norm’, they were just two privileged middle-class misfits who found solace in a shared fantasy of being soldiers. All children are daydreamers who learn life lessons by role-playing and who know it’s time to cease when someone’s bored, hurt or it’s time for tea. Their problem was not knowing when to say ‘stop’. It all started harmlessly enough. In October 1993, as that month’s best-selling book, Richard purchased Andy McNab’s Brave Two Zero, the (partially) true story of an SAS patrol stuck behind enemy lines in Iraq, which became his obsession. Devouring every code word, such as ‘SOP’ for the standard operating procedures, ‘E & E’ for escape & evasion and being littered with comical and racially insensitive terms like officers being ‘Ruperts’ and Arabs are ‘rag heads’, its words became his mantra. Recording his favourite phrases onto tape to learn them verbatim, being tired became ‘on your chinstrap’, beaten up became ‘filled in’, and with slotting meaning to kill, he’d repeat “you never kill – you slot the little rag heads if they get in your way”. Every teen has a dark obsession, but it wasn’t anything to worry about, as Richard was also so timid. Sharing the book with Jamie who loved it as much as Richard did, Richard’s mantra became Jamie’s as he mentored this special forces fledgling into the ways of the SAS. From now on, they’d state “there is no failure, you just follow the SOP”. “Fear? There is no fear because there is no feeling”. For every mission, they spoke as Andy McNab did, shouting “just fucking let’s do it”, and rejecting any family or feeling because “if you’re worried about people getting hurt and killed, you’d spend your life on anti-depressants. They’re only people; ‘slime’ or ‘dickheads’ or ‘wankers’. Here today, rat-shit tomorrow”. Ditching their college uniforms, by the winter of 1993, the boys were dressed in black like a baby-faced battalion, wearing leather jackets, Army boots, caps and sunglasses. Again, it was just harmless fun, a fashion fad, and (like most teens) they wanted to be unique but dressed identical to feel connected. Again, along with the grief he’d shed for his dead sister who never existed, Richard told Jamie that he was 2nd lieutenant in the Paras and offered to train him – based on his experience - as an SAS recruit. It was all a lie, everyone else knew that, except Jamie. So whether he believed it, or wanted to believe it is unknown. But having also expressed some homosexual longings, was this a friendship or love? Jamie would later state: “He was my best friend. Why should he lie? He lectured me about good and evil, glory and pride. And still wanting to join to Marines, I became a clone of him, arrogant and brash”. By day, Richard had him marching through the streets of Oxford. By night, he had him blacked-up and crawling on his belly through the undergrowth as if he was hunting an enemy sniper. And sometimes, as ordered by Richard’s (fictional) Commanding Officer to test Jamie’s metal, they went on ‘missions’. Akin to kids dressing up in an older siblings’ clothes, adopting a deep voice and drawing on stubble so they’d look old enough to buy cigarettes and alcohol, their ‘real world missions’ were silly little games. In November 1993, posing as Captain T G Walker and Lieutenant Chris Winter, they claimed they took a room at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington and arranged for the bill to be sent to the Army (which seems unlikely), they said they walked into a wedding reception and stole a bottle of vodka, and celebrated a successful mission by swapping the breakfast orders hanging from the hotel’s doorknobs. It was hardly the epitome of an SAS mission, and it’s uncertain if any part of it was even true. That month, they walked into the Golden Horseshoe Casino in Bayswater, pretending to be CID officers assigned to root out gangsters. But with these baby-faced teens having no ID and no idea, they were booted out by the manager and the bouncer. They had chosen that casino at random, and that was also their only prior link to their victim – that they’d been in the same room, but not at the same time. Jamie & Richard were two stupid little boys who were as incompetent as they were cowardly… …and yet, a few weeks later, they’d brutally murder a stranger for an SAS initiation which didn’t exist. But why? (Cliffhanger) At college, their attendance was bad, their course work was shambolic, and having found each other, they had become even more isolated. Their fantasy had become their reality, with Richard believing he was recruiting Jamie as a member of the Special Forces, and that soon, Jamie would fulfil his dream. Jamie said “I was an automaton… Richard was the murderer, and I was just the knife”, or so he’d say. Day and night, they talked of killing, quoting Andy McNab: “be a sniper… head shots only. If you’re not good enough, don’t bother. Be a man, be a killing machine”. But that’s all it was, talk. They never acted on those words or were cruel to a stranger. It was just the bluff and bluster of two bored, lonely kids. In what they’d describe as the murder book, Richard had Jamie copy down all the ways Richard said he should kill, with one being “from behind, hand over mouth, stab the heart once, hold until dead. Insert knife at top of vertebrae, sever spinal cord and brain, wrench to the left, sever jugular, note lots of spray”, and although some may call this killing, “Andy McNab called it ‘giving them the good news’”. With Jamie’s basic and plagiarised training coming to an end after just two months, Richard set him his final assignment – the ultimate SAS initiation. Agreeing to do it on his birthday - Friday 14th January 1994 – having bought a Fairburn Sykes commando knife, Jamie was now planning his ‘first blood’. That morning, both boys caught the bus from Oxford to London Victoria. In their minds, the mission was simple; as Richard told Jamie, “we’re going to kill someone. It’s an SAS test for you, ordered by my boss. There is no good or evil, only tasks to be done quickly and efficiently… we’ll go to Kings Cross… wear rough clothes or we’ll stick out like the balls on a bulldog… wear gloves and carry a bag for blood-stained clothes. You think of everything. Then you act, you fucking do it”. Who they killed was irrelevant, “so we decided to slot a pimp or a drug pusher, not a real person”. That was the plan… but when it actually came to doing the dirty deed, rather than bragging about it, they cacked it. On the doorstep of The Flying Scotsman on Caledonian Road, Jamie asked the female bouncer, ”I’m sorry to ask, I don’t want to be rude but do you know where we could find some pimps?” Heading to the Malt & Hops pub a few doors down, in the toilets, both boys got dressed like a budget ninjas going apple-picking - wearing army boots, sunglasses, black woollen hats and black gloves, which was deeply suspicious especially in an era when IRA bombings still prevalent in London - but with the barman growing suspicious as they had hogged the loos for too long, he asked them to leave. In King’s Cross, which is a hotbed of sex and drugs, they said they couldn’t find a pimp or drug dealer. They’d failed before they’d even begun, not because of a lack of targets but owing to their cowardice. For months, they’d bragged so much, with Richard as the mentor and Jamie as his student, only now they both felt a deep sense of shame and betrayal at their failure. But as Andy McNab would state “There is no failure. You just follow the SOP. Fear? There is no fear because there is no feeling”. So, with this decision being as random as a roll of the dice, they took the Central Line tube to Queensway. Their victim, they had never met; they didn’t know his name and they didn’t care. 44-year-old Mohamed Abbas Nassif el-Sayed was born in Cairo, Egypt. Having trained as a chemistry teacher, he came to London in 1976 to continue his education. Four years later, at the Empire Ballroom in Leicester Square he fell in love. His wife Susan would state “I looked at him and he saw me and we danced together all night. Somehow, I knew we would be together forever”. Married in Hackney in 1981, that night, “he cried because he was so happy at finding me”, said Susan, “I just hugged him”. Described as a gentle giant, as a hard-working husband with two young sons, Sharif aged 7 and Tarek aged 3, by day Mohamed supported his family by working as a chef, as by night, he let off a little steam at the Golden Horseshoe Casino in Queensway. For Mohamed, it had been an unremarkable day. At 6pm, he had dinner with his family, never knowing that it would be his last. At 7pm, he kissed his boys goodbye as he tucked them into bed, unaware that he would never see their faces again. At 7:30pm, having picked up his friend Yasser Hamouds in his silver blue Audi, they headed to the casino. Always smartly dressed, polite and wearing thick tinted glasses owing to an eye condition, Mohamed was said to be “a sweetie” who was no bother to anyone. After midnight, he dropped his friend home, and although he was happy to be heading back to his family, he was a little sad having lost £300… …only his night was about to get worse. The two tragic teens had failed their misguided mission to slaughter a stranger on the supposed orders of a fictional SAS chief. With his chest puffed out, Richard strutted and barked like a cut-price Rambo, as Jamie his deluded subordinate who would do anything never be lonely, skulked in the cold darkness. By about 1am, the junction of Bishop's Bridge Road and Porchester Terrace North was deathly quiet, as a low fog rolled in along the tree-lined street. In the half an hour they’d stood by the Give Way sign, ten cars had passed by, ten potential victims, all of which they’d rejected for one reason or another. Another failure was looming, and the boys knew it… …but as a silver-blue Audi approached, chosen at random, it was now or never. Richard barked “Him!”, and that was it. Jamie dived into the passenger’s seat, with Richard in the back, and slipping the razor-sharp combat knife to Mohamed’s throat, Jamie ordered “drive round here”, as at a creeping 10 miles per hour, the car rolled up the well-lit street towards Paddington Station. It was a pointless move by two inexperienced idiots, having gone from a dark secluded side street to a much busier bus route, and having travelled no more than 70 metres, Jamie spat “pull in here”. The Audi was parked on Bishop’s Bridge Road outside of several unlit houses on Gloucester Gardens. With the engine off and the interior in darkness, Jamie turned to Richard and said “Rich?”, as if he was awaiting his orders. Only Richard said nothing, he simply froze, as now the fantasy had become reality. As planned in their Murder Book, Jamie would brag “I struck him under the Adam’s apple, just to the left of the neck and severed a vein”. As expected, there was a lot of blood. What they didn’t expect was Mohammed to fight back, as he grabbed the knife’s blade with his bare hands and tried to flee. Jamie also boasted (as if he was recounting his own SAS memoir of bullshit) “Richard was holding him from the back seat. After a couple of seconds, I changed the target… it was a direct stab to his heart. The knife went in all the way up to the hilt. I left it in there for four or five seconds and pulled it out. I turned to Richard and said ‘Jesus, there is a lot of blood’”. And within minutes Mohammed was dead. Pointlessly stealing the car keys and his glasses for no reason other than as a cruel souvenir, these two deluded losers saluted each other on a mission well done and fled into the night, leaving a hat behind. Callously admitting to a psychiatrist, Jamie said “I walked off as if nothing had happened… I enjoyed the killing”, and on the bus back to Oxford, Jamie opened his birthday cards and Richard fell asleep. Eight hours later, at 9:20am, a traffic warden found Mohammed slumped in his seat, a crime scene was established, but with no fingerprints, no witnesses and no motive, the culprits were a mystery. It was a baffling crime with no real chance of a conviction… …but not being real soldiers, these two pathetic boys couldn’t help but gloat. Said to be a “private joke”, at a Burger King, Jamie put on the glasses, donned the blood-stained gloves, bit into a ketchup sachet and let it pour it down his chin to mock the dead man’s last moments alive. Having bragged about “doing some slotting as a regular thing”, not realising that he wasn’t living in a fantasy world, Jamie boasted about the murder to two friends, his flat mate and even his father. With the school principal informed, the CID were called, and both boys were arrested. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey in autumn 1994, both boys blamed each other for the murder. Described as “emotionless and callous”, it is said they were ‘lifestyle psychopaths’ obsessed with being SAS soldiers. Examined by psychiatrists, although no signs of psychopathy were found in Richard, Jamie’s lawyers posited the defence that he was suffering from early-stage schizophrenia at the time of the crime, but a plea of manslaughter by diminished responsibility was rejected by the prosecution and the jury. The jury deliberated for five hours. Returning with a 10-2 majority verdict on Mohamed’s 45th birthday, on the 8th of November 1994, Jamie Petrolini & Richard Elsey were both sentenced to life in prison. Summing up, Judge Neil Denison QC stated “you were both playing out your fantasies. It started with harmless pranks and progressed to the brutal and senseless slaughter of a complete stranger”. Mohamed’s widow Susan said “I'll never forgive them. They are evil. They should never be freed”, also stating of them, “my two boys may never have the wealth or opportunities that they have had, but we are a far better class of people than those two. My life is a misery and I am fighting to keep afloat. But at least I can hold my head up high and say I am a civilised citizen, unlike those animals”. On 14th of June 2012, following a legal fight by his family, with the Court of Appeal having recognised “that Jamie’s responsibility for the killing was significantly impaired by his mental illness”, his murder conviction was quashed, and he was committed to a Hospital Order. Having served 18 years of his life sentence in prison, aged 36, Richard Elsey was released in February 2012. And even though it was his SAS fantasy which drove them both to kill, he was never diagnosed as ‘mentally unwell’. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #255: The 'Other' Ronald True (Gertrude Yates & Ronald True)22/5/2024
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE: The basement flat of 13A Finborugh Road in Fulham was the home of 25-year-old Gertrude Yates, a high-class call-girl who was smart, well-liked and polite. But on the morning of Monday 6th March 1922, Gertrude was found beaten, gagged and strangled by her latest client – an Army Major who was called Ronald True. But who had really murdered her? Was it Ronald True, or was it the ‘other’ Ronald True?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a lime green coloured symbol of a bin beneath the words 'Earls Court'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Finborough Road in Fulham, SW10; three streets south-west of the beating of Gunther Podola, a tube stop south John George Haigh’s bubbling drum, two doors down from the woman in red, and one street east of the lynching of the last fighter - coming soon to Murder Mile. Opposite Brompton Cemetery sits 13 Finborough Road, one of ten five-storey Victorian terraces in a block, with fake doric columns around the door and its stucco painted white, as if the house was hand-chiselled from marble like a Greek god’s buttocks flexing majestically to lure the inhabitants of Lesbos. The last time I stood here, a man living in the flat where the woman in red’s body was smashed on the steps, glared at me, as I told his grinning neighbour about the murder in his flat. And although, a hint of one-upmanship permeated her lips, today – sorry missus – but your house is equally as bloody. The basement flat was the home of 25-year-old Gertrude Yates, a high-class call-girl who was smart, well-liked and polite. Her preferred clients were titled men or men of rank who could treat her to the finer things in life she felt she deserved. But on the morning of Monday 6th March 1922, Gertrude was found beaten, gagged and strangled by her latest client – an Army Major who was called Ronald True. But who had really murdered her? Was it Ronald True, or was it the ‘other’ Ronald True? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 255: The ‘Other’ Ronald True. Gertrude’s life was as typical as many woman in that era. Born in August 1896, Gertrude Yates was the daughter of Lillian & Lionel Yates, a working-class family who struggled, as with their father being a commercial traveller, he’d schlep from door-to-door selling pots, pans and bog brushes to the masses for the sake of a few pennies so his ragged family could eat. In 1904, aged 8, her father died, so being the sole breadwinner, against her wishes, Gertrude was sent to The Royal Commercial Traveler’s School in Pinner for the next 8 years. Away from her mother and her brother, she was taught the ‘useful skills’ for a young lady, like sewing, cleaning and cooking. In 1912, aged 16, Gertrude came to London to find work. Being a girl who had nothing but dreamed of better life full of life’s finest, she knew her only chance of success was by hope, luck and hard work. Rising from invisible rank of floor sweeper to the slightly loftier heights of an apprentice draper and a seamstress, it was in the fashionable workshop of Bradley & Coy in Westbourne Grove that Gertrude learned her trade, but also developed an expensive taste for silk, laces and the latest fine fashions. As a lone girl with a basic education, she was doing well, but as the First World War had confiscated every material for the fight, her career was finished, and all she was left with was her looks. Gertrude wasn’t a prostitute, as such. If anything, as a call-girl, she was more of a ‘paid companion’ to a host of moneyed men with titles and ranks who would treat her to meal at Claridge’s, a show at the Palladium, a gift from Harrods, a hamper from Fortnum’s and being whizzed back to her bijoux pied-de-terre at 13A Finborough Road in a chauffeured car, she would satisfy the desires of her handsome young man in return for an agreed price, a weekly allowance, and another ‘date’ popped in the diary. Gertrude (who with four convictions for soliciting was known to the West End police as Olive Young) wasn’t a snob, but she didn’t hobnob with the riffraff, as having come from nothing, she knew that her only way of escaping the life that she had no intention of returning to was through the wealthy. All her clients were well-off… …and that included Ronald True. Sort of. As a born liar, the life of Ronald True was a fanciful as any story. Born on the 16th of June 1891 in Chorlton-on-Medlock in Manchester, Ronald also came from nothing being the illegitimate son of Annabelle Angus, the 16-year-old daughter of a Scottish innkeeper. Her life was a struggle having recently got divorced, until their lives were changed by a fairy tale romance. In 1902, when Ronald was 11, his mother married Arthur Reginald French, the 5th Baron de Freyne. As an aristocrat who lived in a grand terrace at 1 Green Street in Mayfair by The Ritz, their marriage made her Lady Annabel de Freyne, and with him being childless, Ronald was raised by the Baron as his own son. It may sound like the kind of lie that Ronald might spew, but I assure you, it was true. In Ronald’s eyes, his stepfather was his hero and rightfully so, having lived his earlier years as an officer in the North-West Mounted Police, a private in the 8th Infantry Regiment at Slocum in Texas and later as a Captain of the 3rd Battalion of the South Wales Borderers, but as a man of expensive tastes which often outstripped his means, he wasn’t averse to theft or fraud to shore up his dwindling coffers. So in awe was Ronald, that he’d claim his stepfather’s exploits were his own. In truth, Ronald wasn’t a well boy, with many even suggesting that his mental illness may have stemmed from before his birth. At school, his attendance was poor, his behaviour was bad, and lacking any love, when told his mother was dying, he callously replied "oh well, if she dies, all her property will be mine”. He rarely worked, he was promiscuous, and growing addicted to morphine in Shanghai, his mind was always unstable. In August 1915, with the First World War having soaked the fields of France with the blood of millions of men, being the epitome of an aviator - 6-foot 2, slim, swept back hair, a natty moustache and a cut-glass accent which purred “I say old bean, what-what?” – using his stepfather’s career, Ronald enlisted in the Royal Flying Corp. Being the son of a Baron, they didn’t check his history, as having taken it on “a gentleman’s word”, on 10th of October 1916 he was given a commission as a Flying Officer. Trained at Gosport in Hampshire, being the early days of aviation, it wasn’t uncommon for a trainer – an Airco DH6 or a Bristol Box kite - to crash owing to pilot error or malfunction. And although Ronald was assigned to 40 & 45 Squadron, he never had a dogfight, being listed as “a substandard pilot”. In February 1916, he said that during his first solo flight, he crashed in Farnborough. Pulled from the wreckage, he suffered a severe concussion and was unconscious for two days. The next month, having crashed at Gosport, escaping with just cuts and bruises, a medical board certified him as ‘unfit to fly’. Hospitalised for ten months, he’d later claim, “I relinquished my commission as a Major owing to my crash injuries”. Only little of what he said was even true; the limp to his right leg he’d had before the crash, the ‘brain contusion’ was said by doctors to have been caused by Gonorrhoea and Syphilis, the Flying Corp would declare “he was never a Major, just a 2nd Lieutenant”, and of his heroics having seen active service overseas, these were entirely a figment of his imagination, just like his accidents… …as his military record states, there was “no record of any crashes”. In 1917, bafflingly hired as a test pilot at Westland on a gentleman’s word, but having actually crashed and shattered his teeth, after two months he was sacked owing to his mood and poor performance. No-one would hire Ronald, as the diseases he’d contracted and had spread in many Shanghai brothels had left him physically lame and mentally unwell suffering bouts of depression, mania, psychosis and dementia, all of which he was prescribed with a single dose-a-day of morphine, only he was taking 30. Having abandoned his wife and child, with a lethal mix of STDs and morphine increasing his paranoia, at an addiction centre in Southsea, Ronald was diagnosed with a dissociative identity disorder. This is also where he met the ‘other’ Ronald True. The ‘other’ Ronald True was his doppelgänger, a slim, tall man with a hawkish nose and beady little eyes, who stalked his thoughts and whispered into his ears. Seeing this sinister clone (who no one could see but him) as his mortal enemy, the ‘other’ Ronald True was a drug addict, a sex fiend, and a habitual conman who survived on theft and forged cheques. And although Ronald would often be blamed for his look-alike’s crimes, he was insistent “I am innocent”. In December 1921, while at Fleming’s Hotel on Half Moon Street in Piccadilly, again, the ‘other’ Ronald True racked up debts and fled without paying, as his ‘armed and dangerous’ duplicate shadowed him across Soho and Mayfair. So terrified was Ronald of his stalker, that for protection, he bought a gun. But how could he defend himself from a monster who only seemed to exist in his head? The relationship between Ronald and Gertrude was as fleeting as any other meet-up between a call girl and a punter. Six weeks earlier in an exclusive West End lounge, ‘Olive Young’ as she was known met Major Ronald True, a dashing war-hero, a test pilot and a Baron’s son who (he said) was invalided out of the prestigious Royal Flying Corps owing to his heroism having fought in dogfights with The Hun. On Saturday the 18th February 1922, having agreed to go on ‘a date’ with the Major, as was standard, he treated her to a meal, a show, and chauffeur driven back to 13A Finborough Road, he stayed over. The two chatted, they had sex, and then they slept. By the morning, the Major had fled, he had left without paying. But it was as she opened her handbag which she’d left by the bed, that she also spotted that £5 was missing. Gertude couldn’t prove it, but having she told her friend, Doris Dent “I want nothing to do with him”. the relationship was now over… … or at least, it should have been. (Cliffhanger) For many people in the 1920s, the loss of £5 (£400 today) would have had consequences on their daily life, but for Gertrude, being a professional woman who could make that money back in an evening, it was little more than a mild inconvenience, and having not told the police, she carried on with her life. To her, Major Ronald True was as forgotten as a piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of her shoe, but with him being a disturbed man with odd obsessions, he loved her as much as he loved her money. Over the next two weeks, Gertrude received a series of unnerving phone calls from a ‘Mr Armstrong’, who pestered her for dates, only to then cancel. Telling her friend Doris Dent “I felt convinced it was Major True” as having broken his jaw in a crash “I recognised his voice”, she also stated she was afraid to meet him in her flat “as he had admired her rings and jewellery, and I was sure he’d steal them”. Of course, Major True would deny all of this, blaming it all on his alter ego - the ‘other’ Ronald True. It was also said to be that Ronald True who booked him into The Grand Hotel and charged champagne and caviar to a room he couldn’t afford as his mother had cut him off from the family inheritance. Seeing himself as too regal to ride around on a bus with the plebs, on Thursday 2nd of March 1922 - again on credit, and again “on a gentleman’s word” because it was believed “a gentleman would never lie” – he hired a Rolls Royce, with the chauffeur Luigi Mazzola to be at his beck-and-call, day or night. That night, claiming “I have a lot of business to attend to, drive me as fast as you can”, he was whizzed across the West End, picking up a Mr Armstrong (a man who had known Ronald for a month), only to then be sped to a junction off Finborough Road, at which True returned saying “there is nobody there”. The next day was the same, having raced from Piccadilly to Croydon to Maidenhead, and having been let out again at the corner of Finborough Road, once again with “no-one in”, he requested a quick stop at a nearby coffee shop, only to return to the same flat on the same street, and then return dejected. By the morning of Saturday 4th of March, looking red-eyed and stiff jawed, again he was driven from place to place with no real reason, as if he was seeking someone who wasn’t there, hunting a human who didn’t wish to be found, or biding his time until the object of his obsession was home. Again, at around midnight, off a familiar junction in Fulham, he told his driver “I have business to do but cannot find them in”. And yet, he’d confide to a couple, “I have money to get, even if it must be by murder”. Gertrude wasn’t in and for good reason, as knowing that he was seeking her, wisely she’d made herself scarce, even cancelling ‘dates’ with her usual clients in her regular haunts, as word had got around that he was in the area. And the last thing she wanted to see was his looming frame and glaring eyes. Sunday 5th of March 1922 began as an ordinary day for Gertrude Yates. At 9am, Emily Steel (her maid for the last two years) descended the stone steps and let herself into the basement flat at 13 Finborough Road with her own key. Entering the long hallway, as usual, she heard no sounds of sleeping or stirring, as by the door lay her mistress’s shoes. To the right were two doors. First was the sitting room, all empty and clean except for two glasses and the ash of stranger’s cigarette, although given Gertrude’s profession, every guest was a stranger. Second was the bedroom. With the curtains closed, through the frosted glass pane on the door, the room inside was black, silent and still. So not wanting to wake her, Emily crept by, unworried and calm. As she always did, in the back scullery, she popped on a fresh pot of tea, she slathered the toast with lashing of salted butter, she let the sausages sizzle to a golden brown, and portioning it onto two plates (one for herself as her mistress allowed), on a tray she took Gertrude’s breakfast to the bedroom. (Knock) “Madam?” (no reply). “Madam, breakfast?” (no reply). (Opens the door) “Madam?”, and then she heard it, “ah morning Emily” as alone snuggled in her bed lay Gertrude. “Breakfast Madam?”, “fantastic” as the curtains were opened, and the radio popped on. The morning was as predictable as any other, during which she read a book, darned some socks, made some calls and prettied herself ready for the evening’s work, as Emily cleaned the flat. She could see Gertrude was tense, as with Major True having called to say that he planned to meet her here at 10pm, she had every intention to be elsewhere, far from his cold glaring eyes and his sticky little fingers. At 3:30pm, Emily left. At 5pm, Gertrude called Doris Dent, and stating “I don’t want to see him”, they made plans to meet in Piccadilly, where they chatted, ate, drank and she occupied her troubled mind. But she couldn’t stay there forever, so having parted at 10:30pm, she would arrive back by 11pm. After five stops on the Piccadilly Line to Earls Court and an 18-minute walk, on the corner of Redcliffe Place and Finborough Road, her heart sank and her throat gulped, as she spotted a Rolls Royce waiting. “Major True?”, “Yes, t’is I” said the looming presence on her stone steps. Said to be “a woman of sober habits, not quarrelsome but good tempered”, she wouldn’t have made a scene, she’d have been polite, she’d have apologised for being late, and having agreed to let him in, he told his driver, “I’m going to stay the night”, and with the chauffeur-driven car speeding away into the night, Gertrude was left alone in the empty flat with either Ronald True or the ‘other’ Ronald True. She locked the door using her key. She removed her shoes and placed them in the hall. In the sitting room, they had a drink. And wanting to make this as normal as possible, she took him to her bedroom. (we hear sex noises and then snoring). (A door opens). A little later than usual, Emily arrived. “I got there at 9:15am. I let myself in. I noticed a gentleman’s coat and a blue & red scarf in the sitting room”, which wasn’t unusual, so knowing that a guest was in the bedroom, “I went to cook breakfast”, with no intention of disturbing her mistress. It was then that the bedroom door opened, and as often happened, she saw a man. Emily said “oh, hello again”. Being smartly dressed, the Major greeted her, they chatted, she made him a tea, and having said “we were late last night, don’t wake her, she is in a deep sleep”, he gave her the 2s & 5d he owed her for a taxi, she helped him on with his coat, and at 9:35am, he left with a “toodle-pip”. With Madam’s breakfast on the warming plate, Emily spent half an hour sprucing up the sitting room, but knowing that her mistress had plans for the morning, she decided to wake her from her slumber. (Knock) “Madam?” (no reply). “Madam, breakfast?” (no reply). But noticing a crack in the frosted glass panel…. (door creaks)… “Madam? Breakfast?” (scream). The investigation was headed up by Detective Chief Inspector William Brown. The hallway, the sitting room, the scullery and the WC were all neat and clean, even before Emily had done her daily chores, with no signs of forced entry, ransacking, wanton destruction or obvious theft. The cracked glass pane was the first clue that something was wrong. Inside the bedroom, cupboards were opened, drawers rummaged and its contents strewn, as someone was looking for something. Missing was a silver cigarette case, a ladies’ watch, a pearl & diamond brooch and two diamond rings, as well as a red jewel case, and £8 from her purse. In total, £200 worth was missing, £9400 today. The evidence told an odd little story. At roughly 8:30am, Gertude’s guest had left to purchase a copy of the Daily Mirror, returned, made a pot of tea, popped it on a tray with a selection of biscuits and two cups, and entered the bedroom. Lying silently, the mistress was resting when he came in… unaware that he had hidden inside his overcoat a half-kilo rolling pin from the scullery. Attacked before she could sense any danger, five times he bludgeoned her over her head, rendering her barely conscious but far from dead. With her skull badly bleeding but not fractured, seeing her limbs move, he wrapped her own girdle around her neck, and with the elastic straps tied tight in a half-loop knot, he strangled her until she went limp. In the bed, the form of a body remained, all silent and still, but as the detectives pulled back the blood-stained sheets, the woman was missing. In her place, her killer had laid two pillows, only a red sticky trail from the bed to the bathroom told a darker tale. Dragged eleven feet, with the naked woman still clinging to life, the last thing she would have seen was as he forced a towel so far down her throat that it folded her tongue back on itself, obstructing her fractured trachea, and starving her of breath. And then, with death done, he casually tossed a pyjama jacket over her face, and having died minutes before Emily arrived, over the next half an hour, he sat quietly supping his tea and eating the biscuits. By 10am, the culprit had fled… …only it wasn’t hard to identify him; as his fingerprints were on the cup, and although Emily thought he was a Major, in the sitting room, he had also left a visiting card in the name of Ronald True. Like a callous coward, having brutally murdered a sleeping woman, he sold off her jewellery at a pawn brokers, took himself on a shopping trip in the West End and treated himself to all manner of finery; a haircut on Wardour Street, a suit and a bowler hat from Horne Brothers, a spot of lunch, a few drinks, and - having packaged-up his bloodstained trousers and left his stained shirt and tie in the barbers – he took himself and his pal (Mr Armstrong) to the Hammersmith Palace Of Varieties in the Rolls Royce. With a trail of receipts leading to directly to his seat, at 9:45pm that day, he was arrested. (End) An ID Parade, eyewitnesses and the evidence convicted Ronald True on the 5th of May 1922, during a trial at the Old Bailey. With his solicitors pleading ‘diminished responsibility’ owing to his various mental illnesses and a spiralling morphine addiction, with Ronald’s defence being that it wasn’t him who had murdered Gertrude Yates but his doppelgänger the ‘other’ Ronald True, insanity was proven. Being sentenced to death, an appeal was passed and it was recommended that he be imprisoned for life in a high-security psychiatric hospital. Sent to Broadmoor, he was weaned off drugs, he lived an ordinary life as an inmate, and on the 8th of January 1951, at the age of 59, he died of a heart attack. Unlike at many trials, his claim that a clone was stalking him and committing crimes on his behalf was not an alibi or an excuse to escape the death penalty, as he truly believed that the ‘other’ Ronald True was guilty. Even in his confession, he would state “I think it fair to state that a man, whose description is aged 31, 6 foot 2, dark suit, grey overcoat and bowler hat”, identical to himself, “was seen by myself with Miss Yates, I left, they were in the midst of a violent argument and blows. This statement is true”. And it was true. In his mind it was true that he was an innocent man wrongly convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, but with the culprit looking exactly like him, sounding precisely like him and their fingerprints indistinguishable, how could he prove different when everyone was certain it was him? In his mind, the ‘other’ Ronald True got away with murder… …only he would also claim that there wasn’t just one ‘other’ Ronald True, there were two. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR: Between the 29th of August and 17th of September 1980, 23 year old Mickey Jamieson and 25-year-old James Anderson went on a 19-day crime spree of theft, assault, torture and murder. With most of them committed within streets of their own homes, their last crime occurred 12 and a 1/2 miles west in Shepherd's Bush Green. But why? What drove them to this part of the city?
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a teal green coloured symbol of a bin beneath the words 'Hammersmith'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Car speeding). Monday 8th of September 1980, nine days into a nineteen-day crime spree, Mickey & Jimmy were on the run. Across four robberies, they had stolen a total of £1500 (£8200 today), only to squander it all on “booze, birds and boogying”, as if these lame losers were criminal kingpins. Being cowardly half-wits who were uncapable of committing a single crime unless they were half-cut – with no plan, no preparation, no disguise and being drunk – two seemingly simple thefts had ended in a brutal double murder and an attempted murder owing to Mickey being a sadistic psychopath. They were as lazy as they were stupid, as so far every crime they’d committed and every victim they’d attacked was a neighbour in the community they had grown up in, until the last victim – Sebi the sub postmaster – had made it clear that he knew Mickey’s name. Leaving his fingerprints on a card, a bullet at the scene and his name on the victim’s tongue, having survived, the police now had Mickey’s details. Fearing his arrest, their pal John Hamiton had fled, Jimmy (as always) would minimise his involvement in either murder or attempted murder, and alongside Mickey - who wasn’t the brightest - they didn’t flee the country. In fact they barely left the county, having sped 7 ½ miles east to Romford in Essex. Split three ways, the £560 they’d swiped from Sebi’s till as he lay bleeding was spent within four days. On Friday 12th September 1980, being typically cowardly, that evening after a few pints, they burgled an unoccupied carpet shop on South Street, stealing just £29. With it barely being enough for a night in a hotel, they also burgled a newsagents at 61 Longbridge Road in Barking, just 2 ½ miles from home. With £329 in their pockets, even though their faces weren’t in the papers, it was only a matter of time before they were caught, so unable to party it up at Snob’s disco, they headed to Clacton-on-Sea. As a place Mickey had spent happy times at with his family, as well as part of an ill-fated rehabilitation programme with a detention centre, here they piddled away their ill-gotten gains on fairground rides, arcade machines, candy floss and (of course) getting trollied and chatting up girls. They didn’t give an ounce of remorse having brought misery and death to the East End, as all they cared about was fun. That Sunday, as the pounds became pennies, Mickey sent his mother (Shirley) a series of photographs taken in Clacton. The first showed Jimmy smiling, sat on a sun-drenched wall with a girl, arm-in-arm, looking happy and well. And the second was of Jimmy & Mickey, standing side by side. Out of context, they look like two lads enjoying a jolly at the seaside, not a serial robber and a sadistic psychopath. Arriving a few days later, on the back, Michael wrote ‘Sunday 14th of September 1980’. And although it seemed like a kindly gesture by a mummy’s boy, the detective’s presumed this was part of his alibi. The next day, Monday 15th September, Police raided every one of their known haunts; from Jimmy’s mum’s home in Hammersley Avenue, to Mickey’s mum’s house in Folkstone Road, the bedsit of every friend and associate, and every pub and club they were known to frequent including Snob’s disco. Police believed “they could be hiding anywhere in East London”, but having exhausted every possible hide-out and reduced to sleeping in an unused room in St Thomas’ hospital, they both headed west… …12 and a ½ miles west to Shepherd’s Bush. On the north of Shepherd’s Bush Green, between The Wellington pub, a bookies and the tube stood The Shoe Box at 122 Uxbridge Road. As an old-fashioned cobblers where men could get leather shoes handmade by an experienced craftsman, they’d been part of the community for more than a decade. Set in a five storey Victorian terrace, it had a basement for storage, a showroom on the ground floor with the shoe-maker’s workshop outback, the owner’s flat on the first floor, and the upper flats only accessible by a side door. Although quiet, it did well, but it rarely had two customers in at a go. The owner was 74-year-old Nathaniel Taylor known as ‘Nat’, a white-haired and bespectacled Jewish gentleman who – although a widower – was always smiling and always polite. His former employee Errol James said of him “he was a helpful peaceful man… very obliging and if you wanted something, and he hadn’t got it, he would make a point of going to Northampton to get it for you”. As a single man with a business which more than covered his overheads, Nat’s only vice was gambling, often popping a few doors down to the betting shop to place £5 or £10 a time on a horse. This was his little piece of fun, of which he didn’t accrue any debts, he only spent what he could afford and although he had a reputation for being a regular winner, this wouldn’t be the reason for his brutal murder. Across the 1970s, Shepherd’s Bush had become a hotbed of petty crime. Errol said “we always had trouble from gangs of youths trying to steal shoes and money. Nat was robbed at knifepoint several times” and – being wise enough - he knew never to fight back, he only kept a small amount of money in the till, and a local paper even reported “Mr Taylor blames it on the leniency of local magistrates”. On the 28th of February 1977 in the Gazette & Post, the headline read “Nat’s footnote could bring shoe thieves to heel”. They reported that “at 6:30pm on Friday evening, two men came in and asked to try on shoes. After being fitted with different styles, one of them forced Mr Taylor into a back room”, they pushed him to the floor and threatened him with a knife, as the other robber rifled the till of £15. With it being just a pitiful sum, “they grabbed four pairs of shoes which Mr Taylor tried to hide”, and fled. As an expert shoe fitter, Nat said “the two men would be easily recognisable… I’d just have to put a couple of shoes on their feet, and I’d know them instantly, because I fitted them in the shop”. Sadly, the robbers were never caught, but we know it wasn’t Mickey & Jimmy, as both of them were black. Nat knew that he didn’t have the strength to fight back, and that by being civil, he could usher the robbers out of his shop with only a small amount of money stolen and no injuries to himself… …only his nephew wouldn’t be so lucky. Two months later, on 27th of April 1977, 51-year-old Leonard Mintz was closing-up the shop on behalf of his Uncle Nat. As he was about to bolt the door, four youths dashed in, punched him to the ground, and as one held him at knifepoint, the others ransacked the shop taking £200 worth of cash and shoes. Although a former training instructor in the Army, Leonard didn’t fight back, so only treated for cuts to his lip and bruises to his legs, this robbery would be another close call for Uncle Nat and his nephew. Shepherd’s Bush Green was turning into a warzone, and although this was just two of several crimes perpetuated on the shop, the next was a random event by two boys, which would also be their last. Wednesday 17th of September 1980 was an ordinary day. Being term time, the warm pavements along Shepherd’s Bush Green were thick with shoppers as they shuttled between the market and the tube, sometimes stopping off at a cafe. As was his routine, at 3:30pm, Nat headed to the bookies and popped a note on the door saying ‘back in 10 minutes’. As a local, he knew the bad lads who he was to be wary of, but having fled East London owing to their faces being too well known, the next two assailants were a few doors down at The Wellington pub. Down to their last few pennies, Mickey & Jimmy sat supping the last of their pints of Harp lager. Again, they were drunk. Again, they had no plan. Again, they had no disguise. Again, they had no compassion. In court, Judge Miskin QC would state “it appears you were short of money again, and so to Shepherd’s Bush you went, looking for a quiet place to rob”. As with the post office, they picked a premises where the owner was alone, only this time he was unknown to them “and there was only one old man”. They’d claim “we picked it because it was close to the pub we were drinking in”, and being armed with knives and a gun, at about 3:40pm, they both entered, pretending to be prospective customers. Nat: “Good afternoon gents, what can I do for you?”, Nat would have said. Engaging in friendly banter, the boys would have looked harmless enough - being baby-faced and fair-haired - until from their jackets, both boys pulled six-inch blades, and Mickey smacked Nat squarely in the face, flooring him. Closing the door, as the Yale lock sealed the street from the looming violence within and a large display of shoes shielded the large window, Mickey pulled Nat into the back room, as Jimmy went hunting for money. As an old-fashioned shop, he didn’t see a cash till, so all he saw was an empty cash box. Mickey was fuming “Is that it? Where’s the till?”, “I don’t have one”, “there must be”, “there isn’t”, as with the Herbert’s, Mickey had mistakenly believed that there had to be a fortune stashed away, but having been robbed several times before, The Shoe Box only ever carried the bare minimum, and no matter how hard Mickey beat this elderly gentleman about the face, he had no more money to give. At about 3:45pm, Leonard, Nat’s nephew arrived to help ‘Uncle Nat’ lock up. Finding the door locked and the lights off, but no sign suggesting he was at the bookies, Leonard let himself in with his key. Had these grunting buffoons bothered to do any research, they’d have known that Leonard visited at the same time each day. Pulled inside and dragged upstairs, as Mickey drew the pistol on both men to keep them quiet - always an arse-coverer - Jimmy later told the court “I knew he'd a gun, but he didn’t plan to use it”. And yet, having described his pal as “a nutter, just plain evil”, he’d already seen how Mickey acted when he didn’t get what he wanted, and again, he’d gone along with it. As a cowardly alibi, Jimmy would claim “as I was searching for the till, I heard two shots”. Unarmed and defenceless, having put up no fight, Leonard & Nat were gunned down in cold blood. As they lay slumped on the floor and bleeding out as their heartbeats weakened, Mickey could simply have tied them up and fled. But because these single brain-celled bandits had shown their faces, left their fingerprints and said their own names, two good men were killed owing to two idiots’ stupidity. Leaving both men dying having been shot in the chest, onto this busy street, the dim-witted robbers ran, their faces not even hidden from the eager eyes of those who stared at them. Hailing a cab, even Martin Fleischner the cab driver would state “I had a sixth sense that something was wrong”, and having dropped them off Marylebone station, he contacted police upon hearing about the murders. Leonard & Nat were discovered within minutes, as a passing customer had been startled by the shots, heard a series of loud screams and groans, and - having looked in the window – she was barged aside as Mickey & Jimmy (not wearing disguises) ran from the shop and fled in a taxi. Peeping inside, “I saw a white-haired old man spread out over some fallen shoeboxes”, and although an ambulance and the police were called swiftly, Nat was already dead, and on-route to hospital, Leonard died of his injuries. Described by Detective Chief Inspector Michael O’Leary as “a coldblooded killing. Everything is nasty about it”, the police were “baffled by such a motiveless crime”, as nothing had been taken and £100 was found in the cash drawer. But with both assailants seen by witnesses, their palm prints found in the shop and a bullet matching the shooting of a sub postmaster on Katherine Road in East Ham, 23-year-old Michael Jamieson and 25-year-old James Anderson were wanted in East and West London. As desperate fugitives, they were on the run. So where did they flee to? Scotland, France, maybe to the Costa Del Sol, dubbed the Costa Del Crime as that’s where Britain’s thickest criminals run to? No. Being as brainless buffoons… …they headed home to Plaistow. With several streets still sealed off by police tape, two days later, every newspaper was emblazoned with their names, details and the latest photos that Mickey had sent his mother, unwittingly giving the police the most accurate description of themselves. And although they had warned “publicised our names and more innocent people will die”, with four people dead, these hoodlums had to be stopped. Speaking to their families, Jimmy’s mum said “he can’t be normal. If he came back, I’d show him in, give him a bed and then I’d go out and call the police”, whereas Mickey’s mum said “the newspaper’s report that Michael is a psychopath is complete rubbish”, only all the evidence would refute that. With the facts plastered across every paper, described as ‘Britain’s most wanted killers’, people were warned that they were ‘armed and extremely dangerous’, as well as ‘sick’, ‘deranged’ and ‘insane’. So, it made no sense for these two fugitives to head back to where they were known… but they did. On the morning of Saturday 20th of September 1980, having headed right into the heart of where they were being hunted, they knocked on the door of Jean McCarthy, an old school friend of Mickey’s mum at 60 Cecil Road in Plaistow. They’d picked a bad time to be outside, as the streets were crammed full of police, but maybe that was the point, as with Jean’s home just a short walk from Upton Park, as avid West Ham supporters, it’s likely they’d come back as their team were playing against Watford. Whether they wanted to watch the match on the telly, or simply to soak up the roar of the crowd via the window, at 10am, having knocked on the door, Kim Kirby, the pregnant 20-year-old tenant of the ground floor flat let them in. Kim would later state “we all went up to Jean’s flat”, but having seen the pictures of this murderous twosome in the papers, “Jean looked very scared, she went straight out and didn’t return”. That should have been the moment for Mickey & Jimmy to run? But they didn’t. They had a cuppa, they popped on the telly and in preparation for the match, they watched the news. Kim said “the TV news came on with their pictures, and I began shaking like a leaf, I hadn’t recognised them until then. I said ‘is that you?’, they replied ‘yes, it is’. I was frightened but both men were very nervous and panicky, which scared me even more”. On the screen, Mickey’s mother begged “for God’s sake, give yourself up”, and with Kim not wanting to be part of this, she left them in the first floor flat. Again, that should have been their moment for Mickey & Jimmy to run. But they didn’t. Having spent every penny of the £1870 they’d stolen (£10,000 today) on fun and fillies, they were stuck, as their closest friends had disowned them and their families refused to give them shelter, even though again, Mickey’s mum would state “I would stake my life that Michael had nothing to do with the killings”. At 12:30pm, police received a tip-off about their location. It’s uncertain why, but possibly having gone to the shops get a few cans of beer to watch the match, Mickey had gone outside in the daylight. By 1pm, Kevin Byrne, a neighbour was fixing his car, “when I saw a man running along with a revolver. Four policemen soon arrived, they were all armed“. So insistent were the police that these murderers be stopped dead or alive, that the street was blocked, police marksmen occupied homes on Cecil Road and Stopford Road with their guns trained on the flat, and a negotiator bellowed from a loud hailer. DC: “Mickey & Jimmy, you are surrounded, there is nowhere you can run, throw out your weapons and come out with your hands up”. Having barricaded themselves in, as a further six police marksmen crowded behind a wall, Detective Constable Kathro, the negotiator ordered “keep your hands on the window or we’ll fire”, as one of the boys shouted back “the only way you’ll get me out is in a box”. Only the police weren’t messing around, this wasn’t playtime, so with several officers having smashed down the door with a sledgehammer, rushing in, a single shot rang out across the street (BANG)… …but this wasn’t the boy’s fighting back, as having accidentally fired off a shot owing to nerves, they quickly surrendered, tossed out the gun, and bundled to the pavement, they were both arrested. After a two-hour armed siege, during which no-one was hurt, their 19-day crime spree had come to an end. Taken to East Ham and Plaistow police stations, when questioned, Mickey refused to say a single word, whereas Jimmy gave a detailed account of their crimes, during which he blamed all the cruelty and death on his former pal and limited his own involvement, which caused a massive rift between them. Two trials were held at the Old Bailey. The first was the murder of Joe & Kitty Herbert. As the recorder of both trials, although concluded on the 14th of October 1981, Judge Miskin QC decreed that no details of the first trial should be published until the second trial – the murder of Nathanial Taylor and his nephew Leonard Mintz - had resolved. On the 28th of November 1981, Jimmy arrived in court with severe razor slashes down his face, having been attacked – supposedly by Mickey - while on remand in Wandsworth prison. Blaming each other for the crimes they’d committed, Jimmy denied being involved in either murder or attempted murder, and although Mickey tried to plea insanity, the prosecution said “there is a difference between badness and madness, this was just plain evil, and it has nothing to do with diminished responsibility”. At both trials, with neither showing any remorse for those they had killed, they had laughed, whistled, shouted over the witness statements, and were kept apart owing to their hatred for one another. On 3rd December 1981, after four hours of deliberation, a jury of seven men and five women returned with a unanimous verdict. Of the attempted murder of Sebi the sub-postmaster, Mickey was found guilty of murder as only he was holding the gun. Of the murder the Herbert’s, Mickey was found guilty of murder, but Jimmy could only be convicted of conspiracy to rob. But of the killing of Leonard Mintz and Nathanial Taylor at The Shoe Box, both were found guilty of armed robbery and wilful murder. Sentenced that day, James Anderson bowed his head and showed no signs of emotion as he received two life sentences, of which he was would serve at least 20 years, plus 16 years for robbery and theft. Michael Jamieson who was described in court as “a born psychopath” yawned noisily and spat a sweet into the well of the court as his sentence was pronounced. Found guilty of all charges, he received five life sentences plus 19 years for robbery, of which he would have to serve a minimum of 30 years. Their first parole hearings were due in 2001 and 2011… …but their behaviour was no better in prison than out. In June 1983, Jimmy participated in a riot at Wormwood Scrubs prison. As one of six hostage situations that year, prisoners armed with dustbins and bed legs injured 25 warders as they overran D Wing. It was said by the Governor to have been “premeditated by a hard core of young and violent men”. A month earlier, Mickey was one of seven convicts moved to another prison having been instrumental in the three-hour riot at Albany prison on the Isle of Wight, during which – using wooden staves, metal bars and broken glass – they went on a rampage in 'B' block causing £1million worth of damage. Neither of them would settle into the prison life they had earned… …and although they had both done the crimes, it was Mickey who couldn’t serve the time. (End) In June 1990, Mickey was transferred to HMP Full Sutton, a category A, high-security prison in York. By October, he’d requested to be moved back to Wormwood Scrubs to be nearer to his family “due to his mental deterioration”, but this was denied as he was considered “a bad prisoner, and unruly”. On 25th November 1990, he wrote to his mother stating “I don’t want to go on living” and he’d thought of starving himself to death. On the Boxing Day, he sliced up his left arm, but with the wound only requiring 18 stitches, it wasn’t deemed “too serious”, as he’d exclaimed to the doctor “I feel better”. Overseen in the prison’s hospital wing, he was returned to a single cell on the 23rd of January 1991. At 8:10am, the next morning, John Welldrick, an orderly opened the hatch to see what he wanted for breakfast. “I spoke to him several times but he did not answer… he appeared to be looking out of the window from behind the curtains which were drawn”. The cell was in darkness, and having called for another orderly to help him, as they pulled back the curtains, they found Mickey kneeling, a ligature around his neck, held in place by the bars of the window. He had been dead for several hours. 43-year-old Michael Jamieson known as Mickey had spent more than half of his life in prison, borstals and detention centres. Whether he would have been released owing to his bad behaviour is uncertain, but with his father having been locked up at Broadmoor when Mickey was growing up, one question remains; was he just cruel, or (as the court decreed) was The Shoe Box Killer “a born psychopath”. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE: Between the 29th of August and 17th of September 1980, 23 year old Mickey Jamieson and 25-year-old James Anderson went on a 19-day crime spree of theft, assault, torture and murder. With most of them committed within streets of their own homes, their last crime occurred 12 and a 1/2 miles west in Shepherd's Bush Green. But why? What drove them to this part of the city?
THE LOCATION
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MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Shepherd’s Bush Green on the Uxbridge Road, W12; three roads east of the killing of Katerina Koneva, one road south of where Reg Christie euthanised his dog, one road west of the home of the Devil’s Child, and a few doors down from Bad Billy - coming soon to Murder Mile. As a once affluent shopping district, Shepherd’s Bush Green is now urgh, as the mark of how far it has fallen being that every shop either sells hair extensions, flavoured vapes, second hand phones (which are mostly nicked) and a plethora of puke-inducing takeaways, all deep-fried and slathered in a factory produced sauce as they’re too disgusting to eat sober and barely palatable to scoff when you’re drunk. At 122 Uxbridge Road currently stands Selekt Chicken, that’s Selekt with a ‘k’ nor a ‘c’, because as we all know, proving that you don’t even have the basic literacy skills of a three-year-old is cool. Back in 1980, this was The Shoe Box, a pleasant little cobbler’s shop which had been ran for almost a decade by 75-year-old Nathanial Taylor and his nephew 55-year-old Leonard Mintz. As locals, they were a big part of the community, they were well-liked, and financially their business was doing okay. But one afternoon, both men were brutally gunned down in the shop by two hoodlums in their early 20s who were on a 19-day crime spree of theft, torture and murder. And yet unlike their earlier crimes, this double murder wasn’t committed within a few streets of their East London homes. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide. And this is Murder Mile. Episode 253: The Shoe Box Killer – Part One. Mickey was an enigma… Michael Thomas Jamieson was born in West Ham in East London on the 5th of September 1957, as one of eleven children in a hectic working-class brood. Described as a mummy’s boy, being a baby-faced little cherub with light brown hair and bright green eyes, Mickey was an angel to his siblings, his pals, his girlfriend, his son and especially his beloved mother Shirley… but to everyone else, he was a devil. Little was reported about his upbringing, but with his father being an inmate at Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital (a high-security prison for some of Britain’s most disturbed criminals), it was said “he had begun thieving as a child because he was hungry”, although how much of that was true is debatable. Being in trouble with the police before he was in his teens with a history of theft, burglary and assault, his very limited education was received in borstals, detention centres and approved schools, where he should have learned how to become a decent human being, but instead, he only learned to be bad. Assessed before his trial for multiple counts of murder, Dr Henry Rollin described 23-year-old Mickey Jamieson as “a born psychopath”, as he didn’t have any of the characteristics of a civilised member of society - at least, not to anyone he didn’t care about – as he abused alcohol, hated work, struggled to form lasting relationships, and towards the ‘other people’, he was aggressive, cruel and remorseless. For Mickey the wannabe thug, nothing was worth working for, everything was his for the taking, life was about having fun, and he didn’t give a damn who got hurt, injured or killed in his pursuit of money. In 1974, aged 17, recently released from borstal (which – as a failed experiment into the rehabilitation of criminals – was a few years from being shutdown), Mickey met Kay Elms, “when we were little more than kids” and moved into a rented flat together in Canning Town, not far from his mum’s house. This was his world; his mum’s house, his flat, his pals, his pub, and his beloved West Ham football club. His community consisted of a few streets around Plaistow and West Ham, with occasional seaside trips to Clacton on Sea and towns like Stratford and Romford. This was his home. But not being best blessed with brains, it was also the places he would steal from and the people he would terrorise. Living with Kay, his common-law wife, in 1976 they had a son who they named Edward, with Kay stating “he doted on the boy and couldn’t have treated him better”. And although a caring dad, he was far from a good father, as Kay recalled “he never worked, he just played pool and watched footie”. He loved his son, but whereas some dads get their child’s names tattooed upon their skin, on his right arm, Mickey was marked with the ‘quincunx’ - a square of four dots representing the four corners of a prison cell and a single dot at the centre representing himself behind bars. He had ruined his life before it had even begun, and rather than focussing on something good, it was all about being bad. Mickey was a brutal senseless thug who was hell-bent on a crime spree… …only he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) do it alone. His accomplice was 25-year-old James Anderson known as ‘Jimmy’, a childhood friend who looked equally as fresh-faced and innocent; with brown cropped hair, blue eyes, and (as criminals do as they love to ensure they’re easily caught) a tattoo of his name ‘Jim’ and his girlfriend ‘Lyn’ on his left wrist. Like twins separated at birth, who “enjoyed drinking and promiscuity”, although Jimmy would profess his innocence in court over the murders, it should have come as no surprise to him having described Mickey as “a nutter, just plain evil, who’d do outrageous things without any regard for anyone else”. The motive for his 19-day-spree of theft, robbery, torture and murder - from a burglary on the 29th of August 1980 to the double killing at the Shoe Box on the 17th of September 1980 - remains uncertain. It was suggested he had been drinking heavily, as Kay would say “people won’t believe it, but Mickey is a nice person, only he changes for the worse when he’s had a few drinks”. Another reason was two months earlier, Kay & Mickey had split, and although she was seeing someone else, “he always had other women, so our break in July was not unexpected”, Kay said. Maybe with him due to attend Snaresbrook Crown Court on charges of theft on Tuesday 9th September 1980 was his reason, wanting to have one last gangbang of wanton violence before he was locked away for a few months in choky… …or perhaps, these were all just feeble excuses for a psychopath with some seriously bad wiring? The first crime in their 19-day-spree took place on the night of Friday the 29th of August 1980. Barely a mile west of his mother’s home, two miles shy of his Canning Town flat and a five-minute walk from West Ham’s Upton Park stadium – armed with a gun he bought from a bloke down his local boozer – Mickey & Jimmy broke into the unoccupied home of Samuel Tucker on Thackery Road. Gaining entry by breaking a window, scattering like rats from room to room in search of goodies, they rifled the drawers for cash and jewellery, swiping £650 worth, roughly £3500 today. And between the two of them, they carried out a nearly new 28-inch colour television, weighing as much as a large dog. Fleeing like rabid flies lured to a fresher shit being squeezed out of an incontinent dog’s arsehole, both lads cackled, having made a sizable score. Some might say, it was an innocent crime as no-one was in, injured or shot, but as these two selfish turds stained a family home with a perpetual sense of fear that they’d be attacked again, they also pawned off the owner’s irreplaceable personal possessions. Some might also say “he just did it to feed his kids”, as they were both dads, and Mickey – supposedly – had begun his crime spree as a child, just so he could eat? But did this money go to their kids? No. That night, as the Tucker family wept, these two arrogant tossers headed to Snobs disco in Stratford; a low-brow nightclub where the East End’s hippest undesirables boogied in bright-red bodywarmers, caused a fire hazard in Spandex and an obstruction owing to their Dynasty style shoulder pads, while grooving to Winner Takes It All by ABBA, Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division, a pirate copy of Baggy Trousers by Madness, and splashed out on Lambrini, Babysham, Blue Nun and a few cans of Skol lager. Having done their heist around the club’s opening, they got drunk, splashed the cash, Frenchied some girls having got them squiffy on Buck’s Fizz and generally acted like a bunch of Billy Big Bollocks. They didn’t care about the victims, all they cared about was having fun. And although £650 was a big haul… …by the morning, they had spent the lot. The next day, another life would be sullied by their cruelty. Only this isn’t a story about hardened criminals who were feared, respected and only attacked rivals who stepped on their turf. This is about two selfish cowards who only attacked the weak, the old, the lone, the vulnerable and the helpless. Raised with no sense of remorse, across their teenage years, they had burgled houses, robbed shops, and - like most sticky-fingered fiends – they were so lazy, they’d repeatedly attack the same premises, they were often too drunk to remember to bring a disguise, and although Jimmy would act like a mere innocent bystander claiming he was “only in it for the money”, knowing that “Mickey was a nutter”, he went along on the robbery with a deranged loon who was violent, cruel and psychopathic. Saturday the 30th of August 1980, another crime to fund another weekend of fun. Mickey & Jimmy sat in a pub in Plaistow nursing several pints of Kestrel until their pennies were spent, as although they dreamed of being feared, these turgid terrors could do diddly while they were sober. Last time, they burgled an empty home, this time, these utter cowards targeted the most defenceless. 78-year-old Catherine Herbert and her husband 75-year-old Joseph were a well-loved couple who had recently celebrated their golden wedding anniversary. In their 50 years together, Kitty & Joe had seen off sickness, disease, infirmity, strikes, recessions and a world war. They had witnessed happiness and hardship, but were always by each other’s side, holding hands and enjoying the well-deserved twilight of their years. Neighbours said “they were as devoted to each other as the day they were married”. But as old age had made them weaker, it had also made them a target of the morally feeble. A year earlier, their home on New Barn Street in Plaistow was burgled and £100 was taken. As a loving son who would do anything to protect his aged parents, 34-year-old Michael who worked at Scotland Yard’s information room had fitted a new uPVC door with dead bolts and toughen glass. It was a smart decision by a good son for the right reason, but it had just one weakness – the human factor. The Herbert’s home wasn’t chosen at random, as having left a nearby pub, Mickey & Jimmy headed to the pensioner’s home they had robbed before, knowing Joe & Kitty were weak, asleep and helpless. A little after 2am, along this busy road of two storey terraces, through the large living room window, they spotted that the lights were off, the curtains were closed and the occupants were snoozing. Unlike most targets, they knew this house hadn’t been split into flats as they’d been there before, and they had no panic alarms, no routes of escape, no lodgers and no dog, just a little green budgerigar. There were no witnesses to the crime, but we know it occurred at just before 2:15am. (Knocking). Mickey knocked on the door. It took a while for Joe to stir from his sleep, but as many of us would do, still being a little groggy and not thinking straight, he went to the door and unlocked it. Dressed in just his pyjamas, before Joe could see who it was, Mickey’s fist slammed fast into his face, breaking his nose, fracturing his eye socket and disorientating the old man, as he was pushed inside, and with the door locked and the curtains closed, none of their sleeping neighbours were any wiser. Once inside, regardless of their age and infirmity, Mickey started punching them, demanding to know where the money was, as Jimmy said “he was going crazy, saying they must have bundles stashed away”, and as he tore the watch from Joe’s wrist and smashed it, the hands stopped at exactly 2:15am. Slumped on the floor, terrified and bleeding, Jimmy would later claim “Mickey acted like an animal”. And with every drawer searched, every cupboard flung open and its contents scattered, still insistent that they had money stashed away, he would hurt them in a multitude of cruel and inhuman ways. But first, he would attack their faithful friend. From its cage, Mickey grabbed their budgie, as - fitting snuggling in his fist - he held this 35-gram bird. Asking once more “where’s the money?”, of which they had none, it squawked a last painful squawk as with his fingers tightening tighter, the budgie’s bones were crushed like toothpicks. It was a warning to Kitty & Joe, as the broken body of their faithful feathered friend was tossed at their bare feet. In court, Jimmy Anderson claimed “I left around then” leaving them alone with a sadistic psychopath. Having ransacked the house, whether he knew or didn’t believe he’d taken every penny that had, just £70 (about £370 today), he subjected the Herberts to a long and painful torture, maybe for pleasure. Dragging these petrified pensioners upstairs and into separate bedrooms, using ripped stripes of his pyjamas and leaving Joe in just his underwear, he bound their hands and ankles, he tied them to each bed, and - with this devoted couple unable to see each other – as he maliciously sliced and stabbed at their flesh, even as a pillow muffled their screams, they could still hear each other’s cries in pain. The knife was taken from their own kitchen, probably last used to make a bedtime snack. A can opener found on the bed was used to slice at Joe’s arms and legs to force him to give up the money they didn’t have. Until around 6:30am, having endured almost four hours of terror and torture, and with the dawn light well and truly risen, the sadist brutally stabbed Joe in his stomach and Kitty in her chest. Fleeing the house, with a pittance in his pocket, he smashed a wall clock in anger, which (like the wrist-watch) stopped the hands at exactly 6:32am – giving an accurate bookend to his night of sadistic fun. A pathologist would state “the couple may have survived for up to an hour after being stabbed”, and yet, tied to separate beds - gagged, bleeding and weak – as the street outside awoke and their neighbours went about their day, no-one was due to visit them and no-one knew they were dying. As happens, those who knew them thought it was odd that they hadn’t been seen since the Friday afternoon, but didn’t alert the police. Ann Hurd assumed “I thought they had gone on holiday”, but it wasn’t until five days later, when their milk bottles started piling up, that a milkman alerted the police. Notifying their son, on Thursday 4rh September 1980, the bodies of Kitty & Joe were found; bound, gagged, stabbed and tortured having died one room apart, their beloved budgie crushed and dumped. For the sake of barely a week’s wage, Michael Jamieson had perpetrated what Judge Miskin QC would describe as “one of the most revolting, loathsome killings ever”, with Detective Chief Superintendent Ron Hay stating, “we are looking for someone sick… we are looking for a very vicious animal”. It was a murder so horrific it haunted the nightmares of those who investigated it… …but Mickey Jamieson didn’t give a shit. Later calling at the Canning Town flat he shared with his girlfriend, Kay Elms, she said “he appeared very drunk and collapsed on the settee”, like (for the first time in his life) he’d done a hard day’s work. “I saw he had dried blood on his foot. He said he had been in a fight the previous night and said ‘some geezer and I were stabbing a man. I stabbed a bird and all. She was lying on the floor making a choking noise and I was laughing”, which sums up his attitude to the robbery, the torture and the murders. That day was the last day he would return to the flat, his wife and his son, as not being the smartest, his fingerprints were all over the Herbert’s house, they were also on his police file, he had a history of burglary and assault, and - like an idiot – he almost always committed his crimes on his own doorstep. Before he ran, he lied to Kay to provide himself an alibi, stating “if anyone asks, I was at Snobs disco until after 2:15am”, it being no coincidence that this was the time Joe Herbert’s smashed watch had stopped at, “I then came home and spent the rest of the night with you”. Only when she was asked, being a decent person and a good mum with a young boy to consider, rightly, she told the truth. Over the next five days, Mickey & Jimmy laid low, hiding out in hostels and sleeping on sofas, trying not to be spotted. Especially as on Thursday 4rh September, the local newspapers were plastered with ‘couple murdered in Plaistow”, which shook the neighbourhood to its core and erupted into whispers. Being wanted men, who it wouldn’t be a struggle to identify, they should have gone deep into hiding… …but with Friday 5th of September being Mickey’s birthday, like a self-absorbed twerp, all he wanted to get was boozed up and boogie, but once again, he was broke. That day, barely half a mile from the Herbert’s home, they broke into the unoccupied home of John Davis on High Street North in East Ham. Taking £260 (roughly £1400), they could have used their ill-gotten gains to flee, but as he wanted cake, he wanted booze and he wanted to boogie, he didn’t care who got hurt, as long as he had his fill. And around the time that the Herbert’s were being autopsied, he was partying heartily at Snobs disco… …until, once again, the cash ran out. On Monday 8th September 1980, nine days into a nineteen-day crime spree, having committed three burglaries and a double murder within streets of each other, like rats scurrying in a feted sewer, they were seeking an easy feast and made the decision to rob a post office on Katherine Road in East Ham. Had Jimmy been as innocent as he claimed to be, after the murder, he’d have ran. Only he didn’t. In court, Judge Miskin stated “when you looked at post offices to rob, there were too many people in some of them for you brave boys to manage”, so – along this bustling city street - they chose to rob the newsagent and sub-post office of 42-year-old Champaklal Bhagwandas Gandhi known as ‘Sebi’. Again, like idiots, the street was a place they all knew well, and being too lazy to go further as that required effort, these hopeless hoodlums wanted quick cash, fast fun and were allergic to work. Armed with the pistol he had purloined off a ponce in a local pub, Mickey, Jimmy and one other (said to be their equally-as-pathetic pal John Hamilton) – like three pitiful plebs – they sidled into the empty post-office. Sebi was by himself, but having been robbed many times before, he barely blinked. But it wasn’t just that Sebi was fearless, and was willing to stand up to them, which ruined their day… …as being drunk, what Mickey had forgotten was this - Sebi knew him. (End) Like a little boy bragging that he was now wearing big boy pants rather than Pampers, Mickey hadn’t twigged that by robbing a post-office in an area where he’d grown up, that Sebi had known him since he was a kid, he knew his name, his home, his mother, his father, his siblings and his criminal ways. Slurring his words as he’d sunk several pints of beer to drum up enough courage to be a petty thief and a pathetic waste-of-space, from a display, Mickey pulled what he said was “a card for my wife”. As Sebi rang it through, Mickey pulled the pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the postmaster, just six inches from his chest. But as he demanded the money from the till, Sebi just laughed cackling “you must be kidding, Mickey”. Never mind the fingerprints on the card, the postmaster had nailed him. Realising he was screwed, (BANG), Sebi was shot in the heart at point blank range, and as he slumped hard to the floor, like vultures, the boys ransacked his hard-earned cash from the till and fled. In total, they got away with £560 (barely £1000 each), which would barely last them a few more nights of fun. All three of them had wasted their lives… but one person who hadn’t, was Sebi’s surgeon, as although the bullet had entered his heart, the postmaster made a full recovery and gave the police descriptions of all three, including their names. Again, Jimmy would deny he had anything to do with the attempted murder of the postmaster, and Mickey would brag about to his ever decreasing circle of friends. The net was closing in on Mickey Jamieson, he was on the run, he was a wanted man in East Ham and Plaistow, and soon – in need of some quick cash in a place his face wasn’t known – he headed 12 and a ½ miles west to Shepherd’s Bush Green, bringing murder to a little shop called The Shoe Box. The concluding part of The Shoe Box Killer continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO: On 9th November 1940, just before 4am, the pay office of George Wimpey & Co was broken into at 16 Railway Arches in Hammersmith. The pay clerk was murdered, two gang masters were seriously injured, there were no witnesses to the attack and nothing was stolen. But why?
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a teal green coloured symbol of a bin beneath the words 'Hammersmith'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Hammersmith Grove in Hammersmith, W6; one street west of the pick-up by George Edward Heath, one street north of the blind obsession murders, and just three streets south of the cruel and sadistic killing spree by the Shoe Box Killer - coming very soon to Murder Mile. To the side of Hammersmith Broadway station on the Hammersmith & City line stands a defunct set of railway arches for the disused Grove Road station. It’s the kind of place you might go for a baggie of scag, a swift hand shandy, a dodgy geezer doing barely legal MOT’s for a tenner, a hand gun for a pony, and a safe blown for a score, but mostly it’s full of rats, mice, litter, porn mags and pigeon poop. Back in the 1940s, 16 Railway Arches was the pay office for George Wimpey & Co, with a little window where labourers came to collect their weekly wage from Alfred Mitchell, the pay clerk. Being a discrete wooden office in a yard full of lorries, steam rollers and building materials - with no signs as to this arch’s purpose - you would only go there if you knew where it was, what it was and why it was there. So it’s odd, that on 9th November 1940, just before 4am, the pay office was broken into and three men were attacked in their beds as they slept. But was this a robbery, a cover-up or was it revenge? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 252 – The Sleepers. By November 1940, two months into a perpetual eight-month bombing campaign by the Luftwaffe, an enforced blackout had left the city in total darkness and with millions of civilians evacuated to the country, a fleet of labourers remained to repair the infrastructure and to keep the city running. That night, Hammersmith Grove was patrolled by George Chinnery, an air raid warden who ensured that not a lamp, a bulb, a fire or a match gave away any location in the city to the looming bombers above. On Saturday 9th of November, at precisely four AM, “I know it was that time as the clock had struck four” George stated, “I saw a bright light shining from one of the arches”. As a local lad, he knew the yard was always open, he knew it was regularly patrolled by William Sturgeon the night watchmen, he knew that 16 Railway Arches was the pay office of George Wimpey & Co, and he knew that Alfred Mitchell known as Fred had recently begun sleeping there with his bosses permission - as had two of the gang masters (Wilfred Dyer and Harry Jamieson) owing to the long shifts they had been working. Entering the yard, he saw nothing suspicious, just a shaft of light from a bare bulb in the rear office shining through a wide-open window in the front office, whose blackout cloth had been removed. It happens, cloths fall down, and with it being against blackout regulations, it was his job to enforce it. Sticking his head in through the window, “I saw a man asleep on a camp bed”. Dressed in pyjamas, with his head on a pillow and his blankets up to his chest. George shouted to the sleeper “is anyone awake?”, and although the sleeper didn’t stir, from a rear office the silhouette of Harry Jamieson did. “Put that light out” George barked, the large ‘W’ on his helmet making it clear who he was and why he was here, but as Jamieson slowly stumbled into the light, it was clear that something was wrong. The warden was let in via a door which wasn’t locked, but then, it never was locked. Inside the rear office, barely 14 feet long by 9 feet wide, the windows were closed, the blackout cloth was still in place, nothing had been ransacked, and on one of the two camp beds sat Wilfred Dyer. In shock, he nursed a three-inch wound from his left eye to his ear, as a suspected skull fracture bled. Jamieson, also wearing pyjamas, had a two-inch wound to his forehead, two puncture wounds to his forearm and right shoulder, a suspected skull fracture, and although the office itself was intact, with nothing obviously missing, the walls were spattered with blood as both men had stumbled deliriously. Struggling to recall what had happened, as both men drifted in and out of consciousness, Dyer stated “a man broke in and attacked us while we slept”, which was consistent with their injuries. But having occurred during a blackout and having sustained a head wound, all Jamieson recalled was “I caught a shadow of a man in the doorway of the front office. I was on my knees at the time so cannot judge his height. He was wearing a hat of some sort, it wasn’t a cap, but a felt type Trilby”, and that was all. The air-raid warden called the police and administered first aid to the two injured men, but it was as he went to the front office to check on the silent and (seemingly) sleeping frame of Alfred Mitchell… …that he realised he was dead. Mitchell’s autopsy conducted by Sir Bernard Spilsbury stated “a violent single blow from behind, whilst in a sitting position, caused a wound two inches in length on the right side top of head, the skull was not completely exposed, and the cause of death was haemorrhage on the lower region of the brain”. The investigation was headed up by Divisional Detective Inspector Frederick Young who was left with a perplexing mystery; as with no signs of any struggle or robbery, even though the temperature of the body confirmed that they had been attacked within the last hour - with no other witnesses - Jamieson had only brief flashes of memory of the attack, and whereas Dyer could remember almost nothing. The theory that this was a burglary proved problematic, as whoever had broken in, had used a crowbar to jemmy the front office window. Only with it not being locked and only held shut with a hasp, it didn’t need a crowbar to open it, which anyone who had been there before would have known. Below the window, on a desk, police found a palm print and a boot mark which matched none of those who were injured or murdered, but proved that the assailant had entered and exited via this route, which – just like the crowbar – made no sense, as everyone knew that the main door was never locked. Recreating the event, the police hypothesised that “as the suspect got in, his entry awakened Mitchell from his drunken sleep”, having had several pints of beer that night “and he was bludgeoned over the head with a fire poker” or the crowbar, which was never found, suggesting the killer took it with them. Mitchell’s body was mistaken by the warden as sleeping as there were no signs of any struggle, and “having entered the rear office, the assailant attacked Dyer then Jamieson, and then made his escape”. But what was the motive? Outside of the open window, a wooden tray containing documents was found, but none were of any financial value. In the rear office nothing was taken, and although the front office had a desk, a deed box and an iron safe containing £150, 2 shillings & 8 pence (roughly £8000 today), nothing was stolen. It may seem odd that the security was so lax, but even though the weekly wage stored in the safe for upwards of 120 men was sometimes as much as £1000 (£53000 today), they’d never had a robbery, as very few people knew that the money was there, and no-one was stupid enough to try and steal it. There was no signs of disorder, no drawers were opened, and still in Mitchell’s pocket was his wallet, as well as his savings book, his letters and the keys to the safe. So, if the culprit hadn’t been disturbed, or a robbery wasn’t the motive, was this a case of mistaken identity, or was the attack personal? Several beer bottles were found in the office, confirming what Dyer and Jamieson had stated, that all three men had a drink together before they went to bed at 11:15pm. On the bottles, the fingerprints of Dyer, Jamieson and Mitchell were found, as well as one other person. But who was he? As part of the investigation, every street, bush and drain was searched in vain for a possible murder weapon, all employees who were paid weekly by the dead man were interrogated, their clothing was checked for bloodstains (in an era when most workmen had just two sets of clothes), and although hundreds of current and former employees were questioned, not a single suspect was identified. So, why had these three men been attacked? The dead man was 41-year-old Alfred Mitchell, known as ‘Fred’. Born and raised in Peterhead, a port town in the Scottish county of Aberdeenshire, he left school aged 14, and being short and stocky, he was destined to become a labourer, but also being good at maths, he progressed to being a pay clerk. Recently separated from his wife, at the start of the war, Mitchell had moved into his sister’s home at 77 Verulam Road in St Alban’s, but finding the daily commute to Hammersmith too long, his bosses let him sleep in the office (as some of the gangmasters did), providing added security for the wages. Mitchell was reliable and strict with no criminal record, but he wasn’t what you’d call popular. Described by Dyer as “bad-tempered”, all agreed “he was a heavy drinker with an officious manner with the labourers”, many of whom were Irish. Like many of the ill-informed who get their ‘facts’ from a ‘tabloid’, Mitchell despised the Irish and (with all the irony lost on him) he accused these ‘foreigners’ of not being ‘good workers’, he blamed them for being both workshy and stealing local’s jobs, even though he himself had travelled from Scotland to take a Londoner’s job, being paid at a lower wage. He was a bigot, but as many of those who knew him would agree, “he was all mouth and no trousers”. The two injured men were Wilfred John Dyer and Harry Jamieson. Born at Hooknorton in Banbury in 1902, Dyer had spent his working life from the age of 13 in manual labour, as a farm hand, a carter, a timber merchant and a builder, until 1933 when he joined Wimpey’s and had been there ever since. As a liked and respected gangmaster, when the windows of his home were blown in by a bomb, with his wife being evacuated, he was permitted to sleep in the office. His roommate in the back office was fellow gangmaster Harry Jamieson. Born in the Scottish town of Laurencekirk in 1908, Jamieson (a son of a gangmaster) had worked from the age of 14, as a baker, an attendant at Fife & Kinross Mental Hospital and the nightshift at Dundee Mental Ward, until in 1937, when he became foreman at Wimpey’s, and he slept onsite as the wartime road repairs kept him busy. None of the three men who were attacked had criminal records, they had no debts, they had known each other for at least three years, and all three were described as “powerfully built” and more than able to defend themselves from an attack… but not if they were attacked while they were asleep. Of the former employees of Wimpey’s who were questioned, Dyer couldn’t recall a single incident or person who would have reason to attack him, Jamieson had a minor falling out with a labourer who had stolen a pick and a shovel, and although there were two recent events where Alfred Mitchell had been accused of short-changing a labourer, police said “it was suspected that one of the men may have killed Alfred Mitchell out of spite, almost all were contacted but without a good result”. Only Alfred didn’t decide the rates of pay, that was his bosses, and just because he was the one who had died of his injuries, that didn’t mean that he was the intended target… but he could have been. Friday the 8th of November 1940 was an ordinary night for the three men. With the skies bruised by dark clouds and the unlit streets like a flat sheet of black ice, the chance of a blitz bombing that night was slim but not unexpected. Having spent the day shuttling their labourers across the West End to fill in bomb craters in the roads, at 6pm, they finished for the day, as per usual. Catching up with gangmaster John Nicoll (whose finger, palm and boot prints didn’t match those found at the crime scene) as Dyer & Jamieson went to the chippy, Nicoll & Mitchell headed to the Maltsman & Shovel public house at 6 King Street in Hammersmith, where the two others would join them. As pub regulars, the landlord described them as “some of my most well-behaved customers”, being good friends “I have never heard them have a disagreement in the year they’ve been coming here and they come in every night”, and drinking “2-3 pints of stout and a double whiskey chaser”, they were merry but not drunk when they left at 10pm, closing time, “having bought three bottles of brown ale”. It was a carbon copy of every night which had proceeded it… …only a hint of political disquiet would creep in. At 10:15pm, at the entrance to the railway arches, Jamieson met two Irish labourers who he knew, being part of his civil defence crew. They were John Crowley (aged 23) & Joseph Molloy (aged 25), and having been to the nearby George pub, the chat was friendly - “hey Jock, how you doing?”, “ah, not so bad, yourself?” – as they spoke about work, life, family and the war. John said “I didn’t know Dyer, but I knew Fred Mitchell who was a pay clerk at Wimpey’s as he has paid me my money each week”. Everything seemed fine, until Mitchell’s anti-Irish bigotry rose to the surface. The Second World War would prove to a decisive moment for Ireland, as with the Irish head of state, Eamon DeValera fighting for independence from Britain, although some advocated for Ireland to fight in the war on the Allied side, others like Eamon stated "England's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity". Britain needed Ireland, but unwilling to give up sovereignty, Ireland had Britain over a barrel. As a Scotsman, Mitchell had no experience of Irish politics except for the toilet bowl of half-truths he had read in his tabloid rag, believing he was reading the truth rather than piece of propaganda by the publishers for financial or political gain, but that didn’t stop him from expressing his ill formed opinion. Everyone from both groups agreed “Mitchell started arguing”. Molloy said “he shouted ‘to blazes with the Irish’ and said we were no good, and why don’t we go back to our own country”, missing the irony. Crowly said “he started talking about the Irish bases. We didn’t have a row and I ignored what he said about us. I told Mitchell I was just as proud of being an Irishman as he was of being a Scotchman”, and there was no pushing and no shoving, it was a one-sided dispute by a bigoted turd with a big mouth. It doesn’t seem like the spark which ignited a murder and two attempted murders. But that was it? Dyer said “the argument was a friendly one”, Molloy said “I didn’t get upset, I could see that he was a bit unhappy, but he wasn’t much drunk, so we bid them all a goodnight”, Nicoll agreed that’s what happened, and Jamieson would state “I could see a fight was brewing so I told them to clear off”. With the tension defused, Crowley & Molloy went back to their lodgings at 170 Hammersmith Grove, as seen by their landlady, the lodgers and they didn’t emerge until 7:30am. And doing the same, Nicoll said goodbye, as Jamieson, Dyer and Mitchell headed back to their camp beds at No 16 Railway Arches. Back at the office, as planned, they changed into pyjamas, they finished their bottles of beer, they had a friendly chat (with no-one upset by the previous political spat) and at 11:15pm, they went to bed. Nobody left during the next five hours, and they snored noisily… …until someone attacked them in their sleep. But if it wasn’t Crowley and Molloy, who was it? From what little Jamieson could remember, he’d state “I was asleep. I heard someone moving. I got up and received a blow on the head”, as the dark shadow in the felt trilby hat whacked him over the head with (possibly) the crowbar. Falling to his knees, “I got up and pushed a man against the partition. The next thing I know he struck me with several blows. I shouted for Dyer to look out”. Or did he? One theory that the police investigated was that this could have been an inside job, that Jamieson and Dyer had attacked themselves to create an alibi, but with nothing stolen, no issue with Mitchell, and no way or time to dispose of the weapon, their injuries were deemed too severe to be self-inflicted. Of the shadowy assailant, Jamieson said “I couldn’t see who it was”, giving no age, height or details of this mysterious attacker, but he did say “his shadow was a similar to the build of the night watchman”. 63-year-old William Sturgeon was the nightwatchman at the Railway Arches. Said to be small and frail, he wasn’t there as security, but to check the offices and keep the boiler fires burning during the night. Friday 8th November was a regular shift for William. Starting at 5:30pm when most of the labourers were going off-duty, in his office at the back of 16 Railway Arches, he put his food away, and locked-up the garage at the far end of the yard. He went to Wimpey’s main office at 27 Hammersmith Grove to secure it, put the lights out, lock the doors, fuel the boiler, “and I returned at 7:15pm to collect my helmet and coat. I heard the voices of Mitchell, Jamieson and Dyer in the adjoining office, I didn’t see them, but I told them to lock up properly to prevent any light leakage. I mentioned this as they had a habit of leaving the office open and the lights on. I returned to the main office and stayed until 10pm”. This is what the nightwatchman told the police; “at about midnight, I checked their office, I couldn’t tell if they were in or not, as the lights were off and the passage door shut but not locked”. And as was his duty “at 2am, I did another round of boiler fires, everything was alright, again the lights were off, and the door was shut. I heard nothing and I didn’t see anyone else in the yard at all that night”. When questioned, William would state “I was on the best of terms with these men”, which they agreed was true “and sometimes they gave me a bottle of beer to drink”. But how truthful was his statement? He claimed “I don’t know if there was any money kept in the offices”, although he knew it was a pay office and that it has a safe within it. When asked to corroborate his movements, Jamieson and Nicoll both said “we did not see or hear the night watchman all night” (not at 7:30pm, not at midnight and not at 2am) and by the time the police had arrived, the nightwatchmen turned up looking shocked, only for Jamieson to ask “where’ve you been?”, at which he replied “over in the shelter, I saw nothing”. Next to Arch 16 was an air-raid shelter, but with no air-raids that night, the shelter should have been empty. Only with Arthur Martin, the transport manager for Wimpey’s sleeping there as he had missed his bus, he didn’t mention seeing or speaking to the nightwatchman, at all that night. William Sturgeon was initially a suspect, but as the police would clarify “without doubt, this old man was asleep during the time of the murder, but this is strongly denied by him for fear of losing his job. He is old, weak and hardly strong enough to have crept in via the window or dealt the blow which killed Mitchell or caused serious wounds to Dyer and Jamieson”, therefore he was released. (End) An inquest was opened on 12th November 1940 at Hammersmith Coroner’s Court before Mr Neville Stafford. It was assumed, but not proven that “the thief would have no necessity to force the office window to gain entry and the marks were made expressly to make the murder appear to the work of an outside thief”. Although which one of the three men were the intended victim couldn’t be decided. Jamieson and Dyer were ruled out as accomplices, as both of their injuries were made while they were “seated or asleep”, based on the timings they had “no opportunity to dispose of the weapon”, and with George Chinnery the air raid warden being injured in a bomb attack a week later, only his initial statement proved viable, as like the two survivors, his memory would prove both hazy and unreliable. When interviewed, the Irish labourers made statements which Jamieson & Dyer corroborated, they admitted to a brief political argument but denied knowledge of the murder, both had alibis for the time of the attack, their lodgings were searched but no weapon was found, and their finger, palm and boot prints did not match any of those found inside the office, or on the desk below the window. On 23rd January 1941 at Hammersmith Coroner’s Court, Margaret Hodges, Alfred Mitchell’s sister was asked “do you know anyone who was likely to do him harm?”, she replied “no”, and with no-one arrested for either crime and nothing having been stolen – not a single penny – a Jury of twelve men recorded a verdict of “murder against person or persons unknown”, and the case was closed. 83 years on, the murder of Alfred Mitchell remains unsolved, with no suspects charged, no evidence pointing to a motive, and with it unclear who the intended victim was. Whether it was a failed robbery, a case of mistaken identity, a personal grudge, or an inside job, the truth may have gone to the graves of all those involved, with the memory of what happened being as hazy as those three dozing sleepers. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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