As I travel around the country's waterways in my little narrowboat, here's a few true crime cases I stumble across in the villages and towns I visit. Some may be known, but some are unknown.
CASE ONE: Ezra & Frances Miller, 101 High Street, Berkhamsted
Today, at 101 High Street in Berkhamsted is the Rex Cinema, but back in 1901, this was an ironmongers with buildings similar to these. CORRECTION: the street was renumbered, 101 High Street still exists and is opposite the church.
On the evening of 20th of June 1901, Ezra Miller shut up his shop for the day. His relationship with his wife (Frances)had been had for years, but that night, their fighting reached a crescendo. Later telling the police, “she was always nagging at me, she gave me no peace”, as they sat at the dinner table, he pulled out a rifle, and intending to kill her, shot her in the left hand side of the head, below her eye. Hearing the shot, Police arrived at the scene, Ezra was blunt about his guilt, stating “take me, I have done it, she got what he deserved”, and as he was led away, he grinned “I hope she is dead”, and smiled as he was led to the police station, telling everyone “I shot her… I wish the old bitch would just die”. Only she didn’t. Miraculously, Frances survived, she testified to the police, but when Ezra was tried at St Alban’s court, they could only charge him with unlawful wounding, and he was sentenced to a pitiful nine months in prison. CASE TWO: Daniel East, The Crooked Billet pub at Gossoms End, Berkhamsted
Today this is Majestic Wines, but back in 1877, this was the Crooked Billet pub.
On Saturday the 10th of March 1877, travelling salesman and father of five children, Daniel East entering the Crooked Billet pub at Gossoms End, Berkhamsted with two of his children, one being aged three and the other eight months. As an alcoholic, he sat alone, weeping and drank, as he had applied to the financial board for assistance, but was rejected. And with no food for his children, he made a deadly decision. To save his three elder children, he decided to murder the youngest two. The landlord saw him walking away from the pub at closing time, looking dejected. He carried them to Ponds Meadow nearby, and with a draw shave (his woodworking knife), he brutally stabbed both of his children, and almost severed their heads from their necks. The next day, he gave himself up at Ivinghoe police station, their remains were found, and brought back to the Crooked Billet pub (right here), where the inquest would take place. Daniel East was found guilty of their wilful murder, and although it’s likely he was either committed to an asylum or executed, his outcome remains unknown. CASE THREE: John Tawell & Sarah Hart, The Red House, 113 High Street, Berkhamsted
This is The Red House, at 113 High Street in Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire.
Back in 1845, this was the home of John Tawell who was a Quaker, a historically Christian group founded in 17th-century England who believe in Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community, Equality, and Stewardship. To many of the outside, he seemed like a respectable business man, when in truth, he was not. Years earlier, he had been convicted of forgery and transported to Australia, where he prospered as a chemist before returning wealthy to England, alongside his secret mistress who bore him children. When she asked for financial support, fearing that a court order would expose his adultery and ruin his reputation, on New Year’s Day 1845, he visited her in Slough and poisoned her drink with arsenic. With a neighbour finding her dying, John Tawell fled by train but with the newly invented telegraph alerting the police ahead of him, he was arrested at Paddington Station before the the train had stopped. It became the first British case in which the telegraph helped capture a murder suspect. The jury found him guilty, and in March 1845, having confessed, John Tawell was hanged for his crimes.
As I travel around the country, there will be more cases to come. If you're looking for a podcast to listen to, check out this episode of Murder Mile UK True Crime:
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Eagle Street in Holborn @Googlemaps2026 July2023
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT: From the end of October to the start of December 2001, an unspecified two-roomed second-floor flat on Eagle Street in Holborn was a warm and welcoming guesthouse rented out to two Korean students exploring London. As strangers in a notoriously dangerous city, they did everything right to ensure their safety, as London isn’t for the faint hearted. And although they stayed within confines of their tight-knit community, their sadistic killer was hiding in plain sight.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Is anyone safe behind the locked door of a London Guesthouse? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Eagle Street in Holborn, WC2; three streets north-east of the mysterious falling man, two streets east of the slaughtered spinster, two streets south of Jean Stafford, possibly one of Reg’ Christie’s victims, and one street from the mad axe-wielding baker - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated just off High Holborn and above a pub called The Bountiful Cow sits ‘Beckley’, a non-descript six-storey block of flats on the corner of 47-51 Eagle Street with a side entrance on Dane Street. Built to fit a gap on a side road full of offices, it’s a communal building where neighbours communicate only by a grunt in the hallway, an awkward silence in the lift, a bang on the ceiling if the music gets too loud, and they only learn each other’s names on a summons for stealing each other Amazon parcels. And like so many city-centre flats, one was rented to tourists to help to the owner cover the costs. From the end of October to the start of December 2001, an unspecified two-roomed, second-floor flat was a warm and welcoming guesthouse with its bedroom rented out at different times to two female Korean students exploring London’s history, culture and art. As strangers in a notoriously dangerous city, they did everything right to ensure their safety, as London isn’t for the faint hearted. And although they stayed within confines of their tight-knit community, their sadistic killer was hiding in plain sight. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 338: Death by Gilbert & George. Hyun-Han Jin, names which mean virtuous and precious, was a 21-year-old South Korean woman who was raised with her brother, Yong-Hee, by her doting parents in a village 40 miles south of the capital city of Seoul. Comprising of farmland and small industry, from an early age, Hyun-Han always wanted to see the world, even if being tiny at 4 foot 11 tall and fresh-faced, she was often mistaken for a child. Just shy of the new millennium, having gained her mother’s permission which was something Hyun-Han always did as a well-mannered and diligent daughter, she flew to the University of Lyon in France to study French, and knowing they would worry about her, she kept in regular contact with her family. By the half-term of October 2001, with a few days to spare to see the sights of London, Hyun-Han got approval from her mother who said “wherever you go, make sure you enjoy it, don’t have any regrets”, as every experience would make her daughter a better woman, only this was one she would regret. On Friday 26th of October, she got the Eurostar from Paris at St Pancras, within 6 hours, Hyun-Han was wheeling her rigid grey and silver suitcase onto the Piccadilly Line tube, and with her case 50cm wide by 29cm thick by 72cm high, she’d packed 3 days worth of clothes and planned to be back by Sunday. Of her brief glimpse of London, she told her friends, the city was “overwhelming”, and often described as a culture shock to outsiders – as it is awash with both the new and the ancient, clean and filthy, and every site is obsessed with its dark history of war, death, disease, torture and executions – as a small lone girl in a big bad city, she wisely stayed within the bubble of London’s South Korean community. At 7pm, she exited Holborn tube, took a 7-minute well-lit walk down High Holborn, and passing a string of Korean restaurants and shops full of familiar faces and smells, on Eagle Street, she checked into a guesthouse at ‘Beckley’. It was recommended by her friends, as 100s of Korean students had stayed before, and with Hyun-Han in the spare bedroom, the landlord 29-year-old Kyu, a student from Seoul had the other room which he used to share with his girlfriend, Mariko, who often stayed over. It was small, clean and safe. The communal door was opened by a keypad and the flat had its own key, as did her bedroom, and with Kyu being friendly and helpful by showing her the sights, she had drawn up a list of places to visit, and had emailed her mother to reassure her “I have met a kind, new friend”. She wasn’t in England long enough to have made an enemy. As far as we know, as her death wouldn’t be discovered for weeks and the crime scene wouldn’t be uncovered for months; there were no signs of a break in, no threats against her, no stalker, no strange calls, and she hadn’t spoken of any worries to friends or family, and with no other lodgers, it was mostly just Hyun-Han and Kyu in the guesthouse. She had done everything right to ensure her safety… or so she thought. Nothing was seen, heard and there were no witnesses to what happened, except the evidence itself. At an unspecified hour, unwittingly Hyun-Han unlocked her bedroom door from the inside to let her killer in. Dressed in just jeans, a t-shirt, her underwear and a pair of socks but no trainers, she wasn’t ready for bed but neither was she going out, and it was likely to be late as she wasn’t a night owl. Neighbours heard no shouts, screams and nothing suspicious was seen, so we can’t pin an exact time or day to her murder, and as a dot of a woman who was easily overpowered, she sustained no cuts, there were no signs of struggle, but her bruises may have been obscured by the severe decomposition. Months later, when this crime scene was finally unearthed, even after several students had stayed over and the room (as expected) was thoroughly cleaned after every use, forensic scientist Sarah Gray found a faint spatter of Hyun-Han’s blood by the door and a white wooden desk, staining the brown carpet, the white skirting board and the dark blue wall. Stating "I concluded the presence of spots of blood… which gives strong support that she had been bleeding freely whilst on the floor of that room (possibly) deposited on different occasions (was) from contact with bloodstained surfaces like a hand". With no marks, it’s likely she had bled from her nose having been punched to render her unconscious. But it wasn’t this which took her life, as her cruel killer’s plan was far more dark, and sadistic, and evil. While she was unconscious, he stripped her of all but her bra, and yet sex didn’t seem to be his motive as her autopsy confirmed she wasn’t raped or molested, this was about degradation and humiliation. With a thick reel of dark blue packing tape emblazoned with a brightly-coloured cartoon of two men’s faces, he tightly bound her wrists and ankles so that no matter what she couldn’t flee or resist. As she came to, he stuffed her socks into her mouth, not only to silence her, but having also wound the tape around her head to hold the gag in place, he stretched it over her nostrils, so that she couldn’t breathe. Gasping for air and pleading with terrified eyes as a faint squeak squealed from her throat; with the tape on, she would slowly suffocate; with it off, she gasped great gasps of air; and whether she lived or died was dictated by him. Dangling the prospect of death before her, over a protracted torture, he extracted her PIN number, went to the Sainsbury’s ATM by Holborn tube and withdrew the daily limit of the limited funds she had. But as Jonathan Laidlaw QC for the Prosecution stated: "Was there a sexual motive? Was it simply about money? Or a more sinister possibility is that he achieved a sadistic form of pleasure from the slow deliberate form of killing and sex, and money was simply incidental?". She believed she had given him what he wanted – money, but what he wanted was to humiliate and degrade this tiny helpless woman, and watch her die, slowly and in great pain, as he had commanded. Without a fresh supply of oxygen in her bloodstream, she would have lost consciousness in five-to-ten seconds, her face and lips would have turned a hideous purply-blue, and as seizures riddled her body, oxygen deprivation would have resulted in brain damage in two minutes and her death within four… …that’s only if this sadist took her to the brink of death, just once. As a small and slender woman, still bound and gagged, he folded her tiny body in a foetal position, he stuffed her inside of her own grey and silver suitcase which he’d stripped of any ID or possessions, and hid it inside the sliding wardrobe, flat on the floor, so the rubber supports left little marks in the carpet. Hiring a Peugeot 406 from Avis car rental a few streets over, he pulled up outside of the flat, and as if he was on holiday, he loaded the suitcase into the boot, and drove 202 miles north; up the M1, passed Sheffield and Leeds, and taking the A64 nearly to York, just south of the village of Askham Richard, on an isolated unnamed country road surrounded by nothing but fields, he dumped it in a hedge and left. And there it sat for two weeks, in the shadow of the Bilborough TV mast and Stockhill Cottages, but as a slew of cars and dogwalkers passed, everyone assumed – as her killer thought – it was just rubbish. One day prior, on Monday 29th of October, her classmates thought it odd that she hadn’t returned to university, and with no contact with her friends or family, her brother Yong-Hee posted appeals for sightings amongst the 20,000 strong Korean community in London, and officially reported her missing. Seeing this, her killer initially told her distraught mother that she was spotted on the 17th of November at London’s Victoria Coach Station heading to York with three friends, and cruelly giving her hope, he gave Hyun-Han’s bank card to a friend who was heading to Paris, and told them to drain the account. Everything would point to Hyun-Han fleeing abroad and wanting to be left alone… …until her badly decomposed body was discovered. On Sunday 18th of November, just after 4pm, a local heading to a pub spotted the suitcase in a hedge, and with fluid leaking out, a foul smell emanating and with it too heavy to lift, he contacted the Police. Examined in the mortuary of York Hospital, the body was in an advanced state of decay; the skin had begun to slough off and the muscles to liquify, bloated and infested with maggots, the blackened skin made it impossible to see any bruising, but with her wrists and ankles still bound by a colourful parcel tape wrapped from her chin to just under her red and protruding eyes, it was clear this was a murder. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Ankers appealed for information based on the vague details they had; “she was a woman of Asian or Oriental origin, 4 foot 11 ½ inches tall, aged 20 and 40. She was slender, with brown eyes and shoulder-length dark hair, pierced ears but wasn’t wearing studs, wore contact lenses”, but with had no tattoos, scars or ID, and with her fingerprints not on the Police or Immigration databases, it was highly unlikely they would ever identify her, having been dumped so far from home. Pathologist Professor Christopher Milroy stated of the way she had been bound and asphyxiated, “I’ve only seen that once, during a professional presentation”, so it couldn’t be linked to any British killer. One witness stated how he saw a man, on a date near to when the body was dumped, 15 metres from the suitcase and 20 metres from the junction of York Road where a dark-coloured saloon was parked, he saw a man in the middle of the road, "I found it strange that someone was in that lane at that time of the morning”. He described him as “white, late 30s to early 40s, 6 foot tall, with dark brown scruffy hair and a heavy stubble, wearing a black ski-type jacket, dark jeans or trousers, and black gloves”. It was an excellent description of Hyun-Han’s killer… with one key exception, he wasn’t white. As for the brightly coloured parcel tape used to bind and gag her, that was from a limited edition set of 850 rolls, produced exclusively for the Tate Gallery shops in London, Liverpool and Cornwall. It was a reproduction of a piece called ‘Death, Hope, Life and Fear’ by conceptual artists Gilbert & George. It was something so unique, it should have snared her killer within days, but with many months having passed, most transactions by cash and the CCTV long since erased, the case was crumbling, and all they knew was that she was an unknown woman from somewhere who died somehow by someone… …the evidence had reached a dead end, and what they needed was a bit of luck. Superintendent Lin Byong Ho was a South Korean police officer who was studying criminal justice at Leeds University; having read the report of the body in the suitcase, the appeal by Hyun-Han’s brother, and with every South Korean required to provide their fingerprints for their social security cards, by the 2nd of January 2002, 45 days after the body was found, she was identified as Hyun-Han Jin. With her name, they had her bank details, and except for an erroneous transaction in Paris, which had occurred days after the pathology confirmed she was already dead, her phone data concluded it was switched off on Saturday the 27th of October, and it had been pinging the cell masts around Holborn. Keen to trace her movements, DCI Ankers came to London with the aim of catching her killer… …unaware that another body was lying motionless, bound and cold. Similar to Hyun-Han, In-Hea Song, a name meaning ‘grace’ and ‘longevity’, was a 22-year-old South Korean woman who had come to London to study hotel management at Guildhall University. As one of two children to a doting mother and a retired policeman, she was outgoing, popular and described as a model daughter, but having struggled financially, she’d quit her course and was looking for work. Again, staying within the safety of her community, in late November, she stayed at a recommended guesthouse owned by a close friend on Eagle Street in Holborn, the same room where Hyun-Han had been brutally murdered three weeks before, but needing somewhere cheaper to stay, the landlord offered his friend a spare room at the property where his girlfriend lived, a maisonette on the Lansbury Estate in Poplar, East London. Hyun-Han & In-Hea never knew each other, and they had never met… …but they would cross paths in a very deadly way. Kyu Soo Kim, his first name which bizarrely means ‘model citizen’ was a 29-year-old South Korean man who had come to England one year before to study English at the Callam Language School on Oxford Street. Kyu was well-liked, popular, kind and charming, and having a fairly conventional middle-class upbringing with his father running a herbal medicine shop in Seoul, having divorced his wife, Kyu had travelled across Europe, south-east Asia, Canada, and for the last year at least, he had lived in London. Being smart, he had funded himself by subletting his spare rooms, one on Eagle Street in Holborn and Augusta Street in Poplar to South Korean students, and being cheap, clean and safe, it proved popular. Every tenant who stayed at his guesthouse said he was “handsome”, “charming”, “very helpful”, and as strangers in a city full of danger, he was the person they knew they could rely on. But even though he had no criminal record in the UK, Kyu was not what he seemed. He professed to be generous to a fault, when in truth he was broke having amassed £17,000 in debt in a single year. He also gave the impression to the girls who stayed with him that he was un-threatening, with In-Hea telling her friends “we were like brother and sister”, but all the while, his head was riddled with his deadly addiction. It wasn’t drink or drugs, but porn; hardcore porn involving bondage, sadomasochism, strangulation, pain and the degradation and humiliation of women, and an obsession with their long lingering deaths. By day, he was charm personified. By night, a perverted danger to women. By September 2001, barely a few months after they had got together, Mariko, his girlfriend split with, just weeks before his killings began, she packed her bags and left the guesthouse in Poplar, leaving behind a half-used roll of parcel tape; limited edition and brightly-coloured made for the Tate Gallery shops by artists Gilbert & George. It became a key part of his cruel fantasy, and a crucial piece of the evidence. As before, with no witnesses and the crime scene undiscovered for months, all we have is the evidence itself. In-Hea Song had stayed at his guesthouse on the Lansbury Estate for a little over a week, it was quiet, cheap and the kind of six-storey block of 1960s flats where everyone minded their own business. Nobody saw her move in, nobody knew her name, few people knew him, and nobody saw her leave. Saturday 8th of December 2001 would have been a typical evening for In-Hea, as being short on cash, she wasn’t dressed to go out. There would be no sign of a break-in as her killer had his own key being her landlord; she willingly let him in, as being a close friend, her bedroom door was always open; and as someone she trusted, he overpowered her in a single punch, knocking her cold, and out of the blue. As before, being semi-clad, he bound her wrists and ankles with the packing tape so she couldn’t flee. Stuffing her socks into her mouth, she couldn’t cry or scream. And winding the tape around her head, so tight her eyes bulged out, with a flap over her nostrils, only he could decree if she lived or died. Living out his dark fantasy for a second time, having tortured her to obtain her PIN number, and leaving her bound and barely able to breathe as he drained her account at the nearest ATM, she must have had a faint hope that he may let her live having given him what he wanted – money, but as the tape cut into her flesh and a bloody froth gasped around the air holes, he watched as he subjected her to long lingering death. It is uncertain how long it lasted, but for her sake, let’s hope her death was quick. Unlike Hyun-Han, as a free spirit who had lived in London for almost two years, In-Hea’s family were used to hearing from her intermittently, and no longer being at university, she wasn’t reported missing for ten days. As before, her empty bank account and switched off phone told a story of a woman who had fled and didn’t want to be found by anyone. Kyu told her friends the believable tale that she had gone on a hotel management course, but didn’t say where. And having told the same lie to her mother, he gave her a false hope that her daughter was alive and well, when he knew she was cold and dead. With the body of Hyun-Han found in a suitcase three weeks before, knowing it wouldn’t be long before detectives found the one thing which connected them – the guesthouses – Kyu used her credit card at a travel agents, and on Thursday 13th of December 2001, at Heathrow Airport he fled to Toronto… …and there, as someone who for many years had lived off-grid and anonymously, making a living by cash in hand and blending in amongst the Korean community overseas, he may never be found. With Hyun-Han’s fingerprints leading to her identification, DCI Anker of North Yorkshire Police came to London, and having met with his Met Police counterpart, DCI Vic Ray, they unearthed an unnerving parallel; Hyun-Han Jin, a young female South Korean student had vanished without trace, her phone off, her bank account emptied and a trail of clues suggesting she had fled overseas, which proved to be false when her body was found, bound, gagged and suffocated. DCI Ray had been handed a missing persons inquiry into In-Hea Song, a young female South Korean student who vanished in a similar way. But were they connected? Escalated to the Met Police’s Murder Command, Detective Superintendent Peter Ship would oversea both inquiries, and together with North Yorkshire Police, on the 8th of January 2002, they established a joint investigation into the murder of Hyun-Han Jin and the disappearance of In-Hea Song, stating "we identified him early on, as he was the main link between the girls, and both stayed at Eagle Street" His phone records showed he had travelled to and from the village of Askham Richard where the body was dumped on the night he dumped it. Tracing his bank account, a Peugeot 406 had been hired from Avis, the log book matched the distance, Hyun-Han’s blood was found in the boot having leaked from her suitcase, and the rubber supports on its underside matched those which marked the boot’s carpet. Establishing that he had left the country just five days before In-Hea was reported missing, both of his guesthouses were searched. At the maisonette on the Lansbury Estate in Poplar, her DNA and traces of her blood was found, and although none of her possessions remained, on a black metal shelf, the roll of Gilbert & George tape was found with Kyu’s fingerprints and In-Hea’s blood. Indisputable proof. But where was her body? He hadn’t hired another car, he hadn’t travelled outside of London, no-one had seen him wheeling a suitcase out of the flat, and forensics checked the flat twice. It wasn’t there. In the Eagle Street flat, although an extensive clean-up had taken place and several students had lived there in the three months since, her blood was found on the skirting board and the same rubber marks on the wardrobe’s carpet where the body in the suitcase sat, while Kyu worked out where to dump it. But where was the other body? It had vanished without a trace. On Thursday 17th of January 2002, for reasons only Kyu knows, with detectives searching for him, he flew back to London Heathrow, and with a warrant issued for his arrest, his passport pinged up on the Police radar, they tracked him to an internet café on Oxford Street, and that day, he was arrested. Interviewed at West End Central police station, he was described as cold, calculating and even when faced with the evidence against him, via an interpreter, the only words he said was “no comment”. They charged him with the murder of Hyun-Han Jin, and suspicion of the murder of In-Hea Song, but without her body, in the same way he had tortured these girls for his own sexual gratification, he got pleasure by denying In-Hea’s family a chance to grieve their dead daughter and bury her with dignity. But sometimes, evidence will only emerge at its own speed. On Friday the 15th of March 2002, three months after her murder, with the maisonette on the Lansbury Estate in Poplar sold to new owners, a builder was renovating the flat and he spotted a familiar hum, as a swarm of bluebottles (one of the first insects to be attracted by the smell of decaying flesh into which it lays its eggs, and maggots feed) coming from a wooden panel underneath the bath. Removing it, he couldn’t see anything, but saw that they were coming from a hole, where a foul odour emanated. The Police had searched the flat twice, but it was only as the spring temperatures caused the maggots to feast and the eggs to hatch as their winter hibernation ended, that the body could be found. Beside the front door, in a small unused cavity wall space made of bricks and breeze blocks, Kyu had dumped her semi-clad and bound body, wrapping it in a duvet, covering it in her clothes and possessions, and replacing the partition wall, using a masking gun, he had sealed it up so the smell wouldn’t permeate… …at least until Spring. She was positively identified as In-Hea Song, and finally her family had peace. (End) Committed for trial on the 25th of March 2002, one week after his further arrest for double murder, on Tuesday 4th of March 2003 before Judge Jeremy Roberts, Kyu Soo Kim was tried at the Old Bailey. On the first day, he denied all charges of murder. On the second, he confessed to killing Hyun-Han, yet he claimed that In-Hea’s death was due to the lesser charge of manslaughter owing to a sex-game gone wrong. But as Jonathan Laidlaw QC for the Prosecution stated “there were some circumstances where we would accept a manslaughter plea. This is not one of those cases", and the judge agreed. Giving no evidence at his own trial, Kyu’s motive could only be guessed – was it about money, sex, or the humiliation and degradation of women – and with the deliberation delayed as one of the jury felt sick at hearing the evidence, on Tuesday 25th of March 2003, they reached a verdict on the murders. ‘Guilty’. Handed two life sentences with a minimum of 25 years, he will be eligible for parole next year. Summing up, Judge Roberts described his crimes as "exceptionally wicked… you snuffed out the lives of two innocent young girls who trusted you and believed you were their friend. You did that in a way which must have been exceptionally distressing to them and caused untold misery and anxiety to their families". And although a sadistic and perverted killer was locked up, another mystery remained. Having travelled extensively across Europe, south-east Asia and Canada for the last decade, Kyu Soo Kim only came to the UK in September 2000. He had lived here for just one year, and in that time, he had committed two brutal and horrific murders. So, why did he start, and were these his first murders? Detective Superintendent Ship stated "my concern is that he has committed two offences, very similar in nature, within a fairly short period time. I am fairly confident he has not claimed other lives in the UK… I cannot rule out that he hasn’t committed offences elsewhere… it is a concern, and we have linked with other law enforcement agencies, but it is not for us to say how far those investigations go" Kyu Soo Kim has never given a statement as to whether he has committed any further murders. 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.
As I travel around the country's waterways in my little narrowboat, here's a few true crime cases I stumble across in the villages and towns I visit. Some may be known, but some are unknown.
CASE ONE: Peter Thomas Jackson & Stanley Christopher Payne
In the early hours of Thursday 22nd March 1950, by the bus stop outside of the Britannia pub (105 Western Road, now a private house), the body of 21st year old Peter Thomas Jackson found. He had extensive gunshot wounds to his left hand side and chest. 100 yards away at the Duckmore Lane allotments, his former flat-mate and ex-RAF buddy 22-year-old Stanley Christopher Payne was found, almost dead, a bullet wound to his head, and a gun by his side. He survived his suicide. Back at their shared room, a note was found in which Stanley wrote “Although I had every cause to hate him, I still have pangs of affection”, and asked that the two men be buried together. Found guilty but insane, Stanley was convicted of his murder.
CASE TWO: Matilda Bryan & William Harold Ashton
On the 23rd of September 1897, the inquest into the death of Matilda Bryan, wife of Dr John Bryan was held at the Royal Hotel in Tring. Nearby, the body of Matilda had been found on the trainline, badly mutilated, her legs, arms and head cut off, and scattered along the track. A few months before, Dr Bryan had invited 22 year old William Harold Ashton, a Fleet Street journalist to his house, his young wife had become smitten with the young man, they had fallen in love, and scandalously, she absconded with him to London. Knowing their love affair couldn’t last, William kissed Matilda goodbye at London Euston, paid for her to return to her husband, and although everyone denied that she had any suicidal thoughts, it is said, she threw herself from the carriage, and her body was hit by at least seven passing trains.
CASE THREE: Clive Porter & Sylwester Krajewski
At 63 High Street stands Tring Police Station, the oldest and smallest operational police station in Hertfordshire. For 30 years this was the workplace of Clive Porter a “quiet” man described as “"one of the good guys". In 2008, he retired from the job he loved, but still wanting to give something back, he began working as an enforcement officer for the Canal & River Trust who manage Britain’s waterways. On the 26th April 2021, seeing a canalboat which had overstayed its permitted time in nearby Aylesbury, as he put an enforcement notice on the boat, an argument erupted with its owner, and Clive’s body was later found, beaten to death in a bush. The boat’s owner gave his name as Daniel Wisnewski, in truth he was Sylwester Krajewski, a double murderer who had fled Poland in 2005, having tortured and murdered a couple.
CASE FOUR: Ada & Jesse Theed, 46 Frogmore Street, Tring,
This is 46 Frogmore Street in Tring, Hertfordshire.
Back in 1929, this was the former home of 44-year-old Ada Theed, her husband 40-year-old Jesse, and their 9-year-old son Donald. For several months Ada & Jesse had been separated on the grounds of cruelty, as he husband Jesse was cruel, abusive and on many occasions the police had been called as he had tried to strangle her. She had asked him for maintenance payments to help keep their son clothed and fed, and although a skilled labourer, unable to hold down a steady job, owing to his profound deafness, dizzy spells and headaches having been ran over by a cart, Jesse said no. On the afternoon of Thursday 17th of January 1929, at around 3pm, 9-year-old Donald returned home from school, and found the door to the flat locked. A constable broke down the door, and inside, they found his mother, dead, her head having been brutally bashed in, and three bloodied flannels in the sink, where her killer had attempted to clean the blood up. But the culprit was obvious. That morning, Jesse was seen walking away from Frogmore Street, his overalls covered in blood. Tried at Berkhamsted Magistrates Court, Jesse Theed pleaded his innocence, claiming “I have not done it, If it had, I would own up to it”, but with the evidence stacked against, Jesse was found guilty but temporarily insane of her wilful murder, rather than being executed, as he was found to be mentally unwell and of a low IQ, he was detained at his Majesty’s Pleasure. Poor Donald, his mother was dead, his father locked up for life, and his life was ruined forever.
As I travel around the country, there will be more cases to come. If you're looking for a podcast to listen to, check out this episode of Murder Mile UK True Crime:
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
New Compton Street @LondonPIctureArchive
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN: On the 8th or 9th of December 1913, William & Eliza, now in their late 60s or early 70s were curled up in front of the fire in their small lodging on New Compton Street in St Giles in Holborn, London. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, and yet, one more punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. This a story about grief and how we all cope with it in our own way
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
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UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Can a broken heart ever be cured? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on New Compton Street in St Giles, WC2; one street north of the body of Norah Upchurch in the empty shop, one street west of the killing of Diego Pineiro-Villar by a Satan-loving paedophile, the same street as where Georgia Antoniou was given some ‘deadly soap’ for a backstreet abortion, and just shy of the rabid Nazi who could never fight back - coming soon to Murder Mile. New Compton Street currently connects St Giles High Street on the western side of Holborn, and now nothing, as whereas once it was a logical extension of Old Compton Street in Soho, just after Charing Cross Road, some council plonker put a massive pointless office building in its place, and that was that. Forgotten by tourists and locals alike, New Compton Street is a joyless chasm devoid of any sun, being full of council flats and the backs of office buildings, it’s where workers nip out for a crafty ciggie, the binmen divvy up their half-inched haul and where the drunks have a widdle, but no-one willingly goes. Back in the early 1900s, the same was said. Littered with factories which swathed this unlit street in a caustic blanket of choking fumes, in a basement room in an unrecorded flat, an elderly couple shared a last moment. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, but a punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 337: Everything is broken. It is said that “life is there to test you”, but whoever set the rules was clearly flawed, as some people seem to breeze through life with barely a wrinkle on their brow and their worries hardly worth a second thought, yet others like the Smith’s were undeservedly punished to live in pain and purgatory. William Smith was born on an undocumented date in the late 1840s in and around Clement St Danes, where Covent Garden sits. As the second or third son of several siblings to William James, a grocer, with his mother dying in his teens, he was never allowed to wallow in grief, as with his father having remarried a good woman, William was raised to feel loved and protected within this solid family unit. They weren’t well off, far from it. In fact, as a small market-stall holder whose seasonal products were often blighted by mites, storms, frosts, thefts, lost stock, bad handling, high seas and con merchants, when something bad blocked their way, they didn’t grumble and gripe, they adapted and coped. With William educated before the Elementary Education Act 1870 which made school compulsory for the under 10s, everything he knew he had learned from his parents who were exemplary role models. Every day, except Sunday worship, they worked from dawn till dusk, breaking their backs and never taking hand-outs. When times got tough, they didn’t steal, they diversified; the bruised stock became stews, pickles and jams; sometimes they sold loaves, knitted scarves and hats; if they had to, mum made cat meat and dad did repairs, as working together, they knew that love would see them through. William Jnr was like his dad; tall, strong, bushy bearded and barrel chested with a big heart, so when something tickled his fancy, his garrulous laugh could be heard on the next street, and when he cried, he wept buckets. Like his family, William had done everything right and he deserved to live a good life. The woman he would marry and love for the rest of his life was Elizabeth Kelly, known as Eliza. It is said, they had known each other since their earliest days being nearly neighbours, but with William being at least six or seven years her senior, they barely even acknowledged each other being children of very different ages, but in their late teens and early twenties, a romance had begun to blossom. From the start, Eliza’s life was always hard, being one of at least three daughters born into a festering family or drunks and deadbeats, pickpockets and petty criminals. For them; jail time was a way of life, everything was there to be nicked and they spent the best (and worst) part of their lives fighting. They had a reputation for dishonesty, and although they were only small-fry, they had no shame or morals. Eliza’s life could have been short and miserable, but it was her hard start which made her the woman she was; a strong-willed and formidable woman, who with ‘that’ walk and ‘that’ look, that was what William loved about her, as rejecting her old life and embracing the new, she was the family glue. William & Eliza married as soon as they could, a solid bond made by two lovers who made each other happy, who kept each other straight, and when one of them was down, they picked the other one up. Like his parents, William & Eliza ran a small market stall, side by side, always with a sense of pride in a daily grind which was barely enough to cover their costs, but it was theirs, it was hard, but it was legal. As happens to all of us, they experienced the same struggle and strife we all do, dealing with disease and death, poverty and plight, and like so many others, their desire to be a family was sadly hindered. Of those we know, their first babies never made it to full term. The first that did, a boy named William Jnr died as his lungs were too weak to breathe his first breath. The second, a girl called Eliza, made it to be a toddler until she was taken by a hacking bout of influenza. Showing their persistence, love and resilience, a third and fourth survived with these also called William Jnr and Eliza, and growing up to be healthy and strong, they were swiftly followed by another, a blossom-cheeked cherub named Jane. They never forgot their babies who never made it, and knowing they were blessed to have three who had survived, they bestowed upon them every ounce of love to ensure they lived good, happy lives… …yet, William & Eliza were about to confront of one of life’s most harrowing tests. The winter of 1878 was interminably bleak, as hours before the dawn, the Smith family left their tiny two-roomed lodging and trudged the icy cobblestoned streets to market, their woollen clothes made even heavier by the wet sludge which in turn froze, as their ladened hands burned red with chilblains. Together, William & Eliza pushed their battered old hand cart of produce while wrangling a trifecta of brats which scurried around them; William Jnr, aged about 10, had been awoken from a warm bed so was grumbling and scuffing his feet; Eliza Jnr, about 5, was naughtiness personified as she tested the boundaries of her parent’s patience; whereas Jane, who was barely 3, was asleep on her mother’s hip. It had been a hard start to the day, as with the coal wet, the kindling damp and the logs sodden, their lodging’s fire had gone out hours earlier, so no-one was in the mood to spend the next twelve hours selling their wares on a poorly populated market to earn a pittance just to survive, but they had to. That year had seen a series bad harvests owing to early frosts, soggy summers and a pinprick of sun. The usually reliable winter vegetables like carrots, turnips and potatoes looked as bruised as a boxer’s nose, many of the summer fruits like plums and gooseberries which were turned into jams had soured, with the wheat harvest bad bread was too pricey to produce except at scale, a higher sheep mortality meant less wool, and by the winter, with onions and chestnuts in excess supply, everyone was selling the same goods at a discount. Only those with overseas fruits like oranges made any actual money. Their market stall looked pitiful, hardly a radiance of nature’s bloom, so sales were sluggish. With most customers milling around the roast chestnut stall simply to keep warm, William & Eliza worked harder than usual to drum up trade, and with no money for a baby-sitter, they only had one eye on their kids. A few hours in, 5-year-old Eliza was having a tantrum, as with her brother William having slipped on a patch of ice, with a microscopic graze, he was wailing and getting the attention that his sister wanted. Father saw to son while serving a miser who was prodding the potatoes with displeasure, mother saw to daughter while reassembling the stock that the mardy little tyke had knocked over out of petulance, and as their eyes were distracted for a split second, this gave way to every parent’s worst nightmare. Eliza noticed first, seeing the little dot was missing from her side. She asked “where’s Jane?”, but she wasn’t there. William barked “Jane?!” across a sea of mingling adults, it impossible to spot their two-foot-tall daughter who could have gone in any direction. It was then that panic set in, “Jane?”, replaced by terror, “Jane?”, and as they grabbed and pulled at every child of the right height only to have their hopes dashed, “Jane?”, every second gone was another she would vanish further into the distance. A constable was called for, but what could one man do in a cross-crossing crowd of hundreds. Sobbing and frantic, by the time this family of now four were taken to Vine Street police station to make a report, valuable hours had passed, and no-one had seen three-year-old Jane, and they never would… …at least not alive. Three days later, washed-up on the half frozen shoreline of the River Thames, not far from the recently erected Cleopatra’s Needle, a tiny body was dragged from the water. It was limp and lifeless. Laid on the pavement; her once rosy skin was now a pale and sickly blue, her eyes were open but motionless, and although her doll-like frame was caked in a thick mud, it was unmistakeably her, as the sweater she was wearing had been knitted by her mother and, still attached to it, was one of the mittens. William & Eliza howled when they identified her, as with her missing there was hope, but with her body found, there was none. As an unnatural death, an autopsy was performed, and although a verdict of “accidental drowning” was listed at the inquest, several details were never explained; her clothes were torn (possibly in the fall), she had bruises and scratch marks (possibly having been rolled against the river bed as ships passed over), and what was said to be “a faint ligature mark” around her neck, it couldn’t be ruled out that the body had got caught in river’s detritus like old ropes and fishing nets. The case was closed and in a small grave paid for by the heartbroken locals, her body was buried. As the small plain box was lowered, Eliza wept as a very literal piece of herself had died, and her children clung to her hips having blamed themselves for the family tragedy, but William was unusually quiet. The death of their youngest posed so many questions, but it left so few answers. Always a fighter and the family glue, Eliza gave herself a gap to grieve, but with two youngsters who needed her more than ever, she brought their lives back to the familiar warmth of normality as fast as she could to ensure they lived the life that Jane never would - she had to live, so they could live. But William was broken, in his heart, in his mind, and in his soul. The big-hearted barrel-chested bellow laughing man was gone, replaced by a lolloping lump who couldn’t function. When he laid in bed, all he did was cry. When they sat at the dinner table, all he did was stare at her empty seat. And unable to return to the market stall, Eliza tried to run their business alone, as all he did was sit and wallow. Everyone deals with grief in different ways; some cry, some shout, some lash-out, some like Eliza use their pain to rebuild the shattered fragments of their lives, and whereas others, like William, collapse. He was going through what we know to be the seven stages of grief; shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. The numbness had hit them both hard, an intolerable pain which left her with an empty void, but him frozen like every ounce of his being had been ripped out whole. Next came the blame. He blamed himself, cursing himself for being a bad parent and scolding his total failure for not keeping an eye on his child every second of every day that she was alive, especially then. Then he blamed Eliza his wife, as Jane was barely a foot from her side when she vanished, so why didn’t she grab her, why didn’t she stop her, and why didn’t she see whoever had taken their baby? Then he blamed the children, uncharacteristically chastising them both for their innocent acts, such as William Jnr slipping on the ice and Eliza’s tantrum which distracted both parents for a brief second. And as he shouted, they cried, but the moment he saw sense, he wept a heartfelt apology as they all knew it wasn’t true. Then, he blamed everything else; the market, the street, the weather, the harvest, the fruit, the icy cobbles, the wet coal on the fire, the bad sleep they’d had the night before, and then God. As a devout Christian, how could God be benevolent yet let his daughter die? If he had been so faithful, why was God punishing them? And if – as his priest pleaded – if everything was part of God’s big plan, why did he decide to test of his faith by letting his baby possibly be murdered by bad men? What kind of a God would do that? William was angry, and he needed someone to blame, as this didn’t just happen by accident. With the case closed, the Police wouldn’t be investigating further, but something didn’t sit right. They said there was no hint of any foul play, no suspicion that she had been taken, and no suspects to lay the blame on, but how did this three-year-old girl make it two miles south to the river by herself? Jane hadn’t wondered away by herself, she never would, as wherever they went, she either held his hand tight, clung to her mother’s hip or was carried. She never ran away, was never out of their sight, and would happily play by their sides, rarely distracted by the sights and sounds of the bustling city. No-one was arrested, no-one was suspected, and having heard that several children had gone missing recently, why wasn’t Jane’s disappearance being linked to those, as surely they were connected? William’s decline began simply enough, as whenever William (who Eliza had lured back to the market to work) served a man whether he knew him or not, William always seemed to be eyeing them up as if this was the filthy beast who – he believed – had kidnapped Jane, all those weeks before. It wasn’t, but for as long as he didn’t sleep or breathe, he believed someone had done this, and they would pay. Everyone in his eyes was a suspect; whether a friend, a neighbour, a customer or a stranger. Although many knew he was struggling, he said too many unpleasant things and lost some of his closest pals. He accused random men of being responsible, many of whom wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it. He would scour the newspapers looking for any cases or suspects who were (even fleetingly) similar. And having begun to drink heavily, several pubs he was barred from and he often returned home bruised. He couldn’t let go, he wouldn’t let go, for Jane’s sake, as someone had to be blamed for her murder, even though it was never proven to be a murder, and the only person who thought it was, was William. With no suspects, as often happens, when the locals gossiped, William listened. One name which kept cropping up was ‘Odd Fred’; a sinister weirdo and a dirty vagrant who was blamed for everything just because he didn’t fit in; he was homeless, disfigured, he limped, he never blinked, and if he did speak, he left unnaturally long gaps after every other word. He had been blamed for every theft or assault since the dawn of time; whether stolen washing, a dead cat, or off milk, but never proven to be guilty. The Police refused to arrest ‘Odd Fred’ with no evidence except William’s suspicions, so having plucked up enough courage to confront this former war-veteran who was struggling himself, after too many pints, William (a usually placid man with no ill will against anyone) landed his fist in ‘Odd Fred’s face. Arrested on the charge of assault, it was only then that William realised how far he had sunk, a good and moral man having descended to the gutter as an angry paranoid drunk with a criminal conviction. That should have been his wake up call, but months later, he was still gripped by grief’s seven stages… …and next was depression. Over these months and years, the tall, strong, bushy bearded and barrel chested man with a big heart was gone. He spoke rarely and smiled never, as he was ashamed at his failure; as a father (whose own children, now in their teens, had become distant), as a husband (unable to provide, as he should, for his wife), and as a businessman (as lacking drive, Eliza, as the backbone and the glue, stopped the total collapse of this family which risked them all being sent to the workhouse, where they would be split). In the late 1880s, a decade after Jane’s death, William, now in late 40s or early 50s, had ploughed on with the vagaries of a working class life guided by Eliza who never left his side. Like an automaton, he worked, he washed, he lived and existed, but becoming ever sicker and weaker, shedding weight and with his skin hanging off his bones like the soggy woollen sweater which sagged from Jane’s corpse, it was clear that his body was going through the motions, but his mind was elsewhere, and far away. One bitter winter’s evening, with William & Eliza now greying and wrinkled, their children long having since left, as Eliza made dinner, William wheeled their hand cart into their cellar, and a while later, that’s where she found him, slumped on the floor by a box of mouldy potatoes; in one hand, a rope, in the other, Jane’s mitten, in his eyes a bursting levy of tears, and even though his failed attempt was a travesty against his God, his morals and would have made Eliza a widow, with an unbearable pain in his heart, he cried out “everything is broken”. All he wanted to do was die, but for wife, he couldn’t. From the late 1880s to the mid-1890s, William was a frequent visitor, voluntary, at the local asylums. They gave him a chance to breathe, to speak and be listened to, but it was Eliza who repaired his heart. Nearing the end of the century, with an aged (and equally grief stricken) Queen Victoria in her final years, this couple who had been married for thirty-plus years learned to live again, love again, and to grieve together. They rebuilt their stall, a smaller version, just a few yards from where their whole life had collapsed, every day as they passed the wall where Jane was last seen, they would both plant a little kiss, and on the anniversary of her disappearance, they’d lay a flower and say a player, together. The man he once was would never return, but the man he was now was okay for Eliza. Neither could repair the pain they would feel, but together, they learned to live again. Occasionally he smiled a little, and once he even laughed, well almost. But it was no longer about his personal pain, it was their pain and their sorrow, so together they cried and commiserated, but for the rest of their days, they lived. As familiar faces in this part of town, as they approached their sixties, William & Eliza Smith would be seen together, walking the same streets, seeing the same people, and holding each other’s hand. It was sweet, but perhaps still traumatised by Jane’s disappearance, were they too afraid to let go? It had been a tragedy which had broken them, but slowly, they were on the mend… …only their tragedy was far from over. In 1903, William Jnr, a bearded, barrel-chested doppelganger of the man his dad once was, was struck by an omnibus as he crossed the street, and he died of his injuries several days later. He never spoke of his sister, or how he had blamed himself for her disappearance, and being described as ‘distracted’, his death was ruled as an ‘accident’, but local gossips wondered if it was a suicide, or a coincidence. Eliza Jnr, hadn’t found a career as her brother had, instead she found solace in drunk, drugs, and some said prostitution. Where she ended up is uncertain, as having fallen in with a bad crowd, once in every blue moon William & Eliza thought they recognised a ragged and huddled mass begging for change on the street, but as they approached her, she fled into the night, never seen or heard from again. (End) By the winter of 1913, now in their mid-to-late 60s, William & Eliza were seeing out their final days in a basement room in a cheap but unrecorded lodging house on New Compton Street, the air thick with the caustic whiff of tanneries, and their sleep often sullied by the nightly thrum of hard machinery. As a small, basic room, they had a horsehair bed, two armchairs, a washstand, a log fire for warmth, and on the mantlepiece were reminders of their children, at least four or possibly five who had died. On maybe the 8th or 9th of December 1913, William & Eliza were sat in front of a fire in their armchairs, side-by-side, their hands touching as always. For long hours they sat, as with William’s body ravaged by chronic arthritis, he was too weak to totter to their bed and struggled to breathe when he lay down, and with Eliza unsteady on her feet, and just getting over the flu, the two spent their nights there. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, and yet, one more punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. Their last moment came as William slept. With Eliza still coughing, but not wanting to wake him, it was said, as she got up to fetch a jug of water, her legs buckled, she stumbled, she fell, she hit her head on the mantlepiece, and knocked out cold, she fell into the fire, and began to burn; everything was alight, her nightdress, her hair, her skin, and without her to help him up, all William could do was sit and see. Later alerted to the smoke, also the smell, when the door was broken down and the fire extinguished, both William & Eliza were found dead. Eliza was barely recognisable, a half-burned and blackened shadow of the strong woman she once was, it unlikely she knew she was on fire as he skull was been broken by the impact. As for William, somehow he had found the strength to get up, unaided, he had fallen to his feet, and having crawled across the cold floor to reach the woman he loved, he knew he couldn’t save her, but he knew where he had to be, by her side - it was said he died holding her hand. 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. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EP336: STRANGE LAST DAYS: Wednesday 10th of April 1940 at 10.15am, Alfred Scott, a surveyor for Bates & Co, an estate agents in Kilburn entered 21 Brondesbury Villas, to check that the premises was empty. Inside, he found that the first floor flat had been ransacked, two bags (a Gladstone and an attache case) had been searched for a specific item, and the tenant, 60-year-old Karoline Jones had been murdered. But what were they looking for?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Did the killer of Karoline Jones leave a clue to their identity by her body? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Brondesbury Villas in Kilburn, NW6; three roads south of Jemma Mitchell and the grisly suitcase of death, four roads north-west of Michael Dowdall the sadistic little drummer boy, four streets west of the ill-fated first assassination of the so-called professional terrorist ‘Carlos the Jackal’, and two street east of the fat dog who ate all the diamonds - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just off the busy Kilburn High Road sits 21 Brondesbury Villas, a white flat-fronted semi-detached late Victorian townhouse on a quiet residential street dotted with an occasional tree, but no signs of life. Unlike the other houses, its door isn’t bedecked with pretentious doric columns, but all built identical, every floor is slightly off; as with a set of steps taking you up to the ground floor, the bottom floor isn’t below the earth but half-way up, giving its occupants a brief hint of light once a day, a stunning view of dog plops on the pavement, but mostly the right to call their grotty basement flat ‘lower ground’ rather than the dungeon, the hell hole, the damp bit, the closet, or where dad stashed his jazz mags. Back in 1940, this house was subdivided into four flats; a couple in the basement, a family above them, a lodger on the top floor, and in the first floor maisonette, a woman whose life (as a refugee, a widow, a mother, a loner, a recently released prisoner and a career criminal) was as mysterious as her death. Little is known about the motive for her murder, but with her last days alive well-recorded and a crime scene littered with evidence, the question we must ask is ‘did her killer leave a clue to his identity’? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 336: Strange Last Days. The date was Wednesday 10th of April 1940, seven months after the start of World War Two and five months before the dreaded Blitz bombings which decimated the city causing two mass evacuations. As the Nazi hoards crept ever closer to our borders, with trepidation, life in the city moved on for now. The time was 10.15am, when Alfred Scott, a surveyor for Bates & Co, an estate agents in Kilburn, rang the bell to the communal door at 21 Brondesbury Villas, but no-one was in, as everyone was at work. On behalf of the landlord, three flats had been rented out; James & Saskia Gouldsborough lived in the basement, his father Henry, mother Jane and sister Jane Jnr on the ground, and with a maisonette on the first and second, the attic had been sublet to Dutch national John van Geersdaele, but he had moved out a month prior, and with 60-year-old German widow Karoline Jones believed to have left with £20 rent owing, about £1500 today, as was her habit, Alfred was here to check that she had gone. Unlocking the communal door, he rose up the stairs, and on the first floor, he unlocked the maisonette door. There were four keys; one which John van Geersdaele had returned to the estate agent when he left, the spare key which Alfred was using, and two still held by Karoline and her son, Frederick. Upon entry, nothing aroused his suspicion, as all except for the fan-light above the door, every window was fastened, but there was clear evidence that she hadn’t been there for a while, but she hadn’t left. The flat had four rooms; a lavatory which was empty, a kitchenette which had a slice of stale bread on the side and a stack of dirty dishes as the mains water had been off for a month, and two bedrooms. The front bedroom was empty; the bedsheets were messy but it hadn’t been slept in for months; in the wardrobe was a man’s Fedora hat, an ash walking stick and a broken tennis racket, later confirmed to belong to Frederick, Karoline’s son whose room this was, and on the dressing table, a wireless radio, a penknife and a set of keys which fitted the maisonette’s Yale lock, as previously owned by Frederick. At that point, Alfred, the surveyor for Bates & Co had just one thought on his mind, how to evict them, as with no hint of foul play, yes the flat was messy, but what did he expect from a tenant like Karoline? It was then, with a shiver down his spine, that he stopped just shy of her bedroom door. It was open. Having inspected the premises before, he knew it was never open, as being a cautious and paranoid woman given her past, a key had been inserted into the padlock from the outside, but before it was turned, the door had been forced, the wood had splintered and the padlock scattered. As an ex-copper and coroner’s officer, Alfred knew to touch nothing, so he let his eyes scan the room before he ventured further. With the room made dark as the windows were covered in blackout paper, he could see that the drawers of the dressing table were open and empty, but around it, women’s clothes were scattered; a blue and white jumper, a blue nightdress and three cotton handkerchiefs. When the room was searched, not a note or coin was found, but given how broke Karoline said she was, it was uncertain how much she had. As for her jewellery - two 18 carat gold wedding bands, one with a diamond and one with a ruby, a gold watch, a four-pearl brooch and a gold slave bangle – all were missing but as she was living off benefits and sleeping in hostels, it’s uncertain if she’d sold them. Further in, it was clear that a certain someone who had broken in was looking for something specific. Perched on an armchair, her brown attaché case containing her bills, letters and court summons had been searched, but not finding what they sought, they had grabbed her black Gladstone bag. With it locked, they frantically cut away the clasps using a small penknife and desperate to find that one thing, they scattered its contents across the floor, sweeping everything aside which wasn’t that one thing. Inside was toiletries, calling cards, her diary (mostly lists of lodging houses, estate agents and rooms to let), and scraps of paper on which she had scrawled the names and addresses of those she had met, but they had left behind items of significant value; her passport, a national war savings certificate, her ration books and three savings books for the Post Office, Abbey Road Building Society and Lloyds Bank. Whatever they were looking for, it’s unlikely they found it, as Karoline had paid the ultimate price. The first thing that hit Alfred was the smell, a sulphurous stench of a body in active decay. Flies buzzed as the skin slipped and maggots squirmed among the soft dark flesh, as with the body having bloated and then ruptured, it leaked a vile dribble of foul fluids out of each orifice, off the bed and on the floor. And although her putrefied corpse was too horrific to look at, her death was cruel and unnatural. She was lying on her back, diagonally across the bed, her legs hanging limply over the side. Except for her flowerpot hat which lay by the door, her black leather shoes which had fallen off in the attack, and her gas mask case and string shopping bag which was still attached to her wrist having just come in, she was dressed in the clothes she was wearing 21 days before, yet her only injury was a bloody nose. With no defensive wounds and no sign of a struggle, to restrain her, her assailant had ripped up her table cloth into strips, her wrists and ankles had been bound to the iron frame of the bed, her mouth had been gagged with a red woollen scarf, and with her unconscious having been punched in the face, her overcoat and her skirt had been raised up to the height of her hips leaving her underwear exposed. But why? Examined at Kilburn mortuary, the Home Office pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury confirmed that she had no other injuries, that her cause of death was suffocation caused by the pillow found by her head, that this was a wilful murder, and although it looked as if she had been raped or molested, she hadn’t. So, who had murdered Karoline Jones, and why? Karoline Getta Jones was born Karoline Ledermann on the 4th of March 1880 in Kleinwallstadt, a small town in Bavaria, Germany. Little is known of her early life; except she first married aged 20 in 1900 to an unnamed German Jew, in 1908 they had a son called Frederick, separating in 1909, she bigamously married again but was widowed by 1918, and then marrying Corporal John Howell Jones of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps in 1920, by 1930, the same year she became a British Citizen, she was widowed. Her life could have been worse, as being a German Jew, by 1933 when the Nazi’s had come to power, she was living freely in London far from the horrors of the holocaust, but her life wouldn’t be without hardship, hence she was infamously known to be gruff, foul-mouthed, unpleasant, and a habitual liar. Across her final decade, she amassed five criminal convictions which sum up her life’s sad decline. In 1935, at Clerkenwell, with her flat being raided by the Police, she was fined £20 for running a brothel in Bloomsbury, and was described as “quarrelsome and disgusting”. By 1937, having been evicted by her landlady for living in a squalid filthy lodging in Stoke Newington, she was convicted twice in Soho and Marylebone for stealing a brooch, a tin of fruit and a box of face powder, and clearly struggling. By 1938, living in King’s Cross, she fled her lodging leaving £6 in back rent, which she often did, and it led to the landlord sending in the bailiffs to track her down to issue a county court writ against her. Three months later, she was sentenced to six months in prison for assault, a familiar trait for Karoline. With no friends and very little family as she persistently rubbed others up the wrong way, she lived by her wits on the bread line of poverty, and with very little to call her own, wherever she went, she hid her most precious items in specially sewn pockets she had stitched into her knickers and stockings. With her son, Frederick married but a Jew who was stuck in Nazi Germany, soaking her crumpled and worn clothes with a river of tears, she told anyone who would listen that she had £2600 (£168,000 today) to smuggle him out of the country, yet as a refugee, he arrived thanks to a charity in September. On the 10th of October 1938, at Bates & Co, the estate agents on Kilburn High Road, she rented a two-roomed maisonette at 21 Brondesbury Villas for herself and her son. It was cheap, squalid, as always she repeatedly reneged on her rent leaving a litany of excuses, and she was not liked by the tenants. In the basement, James & Saskia Gouldsborough said she was rude, abusive, stole their milk, letters and deliberately banged the doors at night keeping the children awake. Henry & Jane on the ground floor told Police that Karoline regularly fought with her son, he was seen with a black eye, she punched her sister and broke her brother-in-law’s nose as the two stayed with her before these refugees fled to Palestine. And John van Geersdaele, her lodger left, as he suspected that her flat was now a brothel. On the 14th of October 1939 at Marlborough Street Police Court, Karoline was sentenced to six months hard labour for stealing a hat from Selfridges department store on Oxford Street. Serving her time at HMP Holloway before being transferred to HMP Aylesbury, she was disliked by prisoners and officers alike; she was described as filthy, surly and obnoxious, she was repeatedly beaten up by fellow inmates and continually bragged about how she had a beautiful home in Kilburn, and was wealthy with £2600. And that’s what made her murder impossible to solve, as she lied, and she wasn’t liked. So, who had murdered her; a friend, a relative, a potential rapist, a spectre from her past, or a complete stranger? The strange last days of Karoline Jones began on Friday 15th of March 1940, 15 days before her death. 11 days before, she had spent her 60th birthday in prison, and by the time she was released, there was no-one there to greet her as her son had left having enlisted in the Auxiliary Military Pioneer Corps. That day, Karoline caught a train from Aylesbury to Baker Street, and unwilling or unable to return to her flat at Brondesbury Villas, she met an adjutant of the Salvation Army and she asked to be housed in a homeless hostel. She went home, she packed her bags, but for whatever reason, she never arrived. She did the same over the next two weeks; she pleaded for a free bed at the Salvation Army hostel, but failed to show up, she instead she paid 22 shillings (£40) to kip for a week at the YMCA; she claimed to be destitute and seeking a hand-out from the British Legion appearing “distressed, hysterical” and some said mentally “unbalanced”, but was she afraid of the streets, her flat, or someone she knew? With her lodger and son having moved out, she couldn’t afford her flat, not that it stopped her before. From her ripped open Gladstone bag, scattered across the floor beside her body, Police found business cards and scraps of paper bearing the names and addresses of places she had applied for jobs to; The School of Cookery in Maida Vale, Kosie-Knitwear in Soho and the Women's Voluntary Services for Civil Defence, and pleading that she was a refugee (which she wasn’t), a widow (which she was, thrice over) and homeless (which technically she wasn’t), many employers pitied her, and gave her a hot meal. In her possession, she had both sets of keys to the flat having refused to give them back, and with a bucket of hutzpah, even though she owed £20 back rent, on the 21st of March, 9 days before her death, she went to Bates & Co, the estate agents on Kilburn High Road and insisted they reconnect her water. But she wasn’t exactly broke. Three days prior, at Abbey Road Building Society, she claimed that while in prison someone had withdrawn £10, 7s and 3d from her account (which couldn’t be proven), that same day she made some small withdrawals totalling about £13, and at the Unemployment Assistance Board in Park Royal, her benefits were denied as she had “too much money”; she had 1s at the Co-op, £2 at Lloyds, £19 at the Post Office, £400 in National Savings Certificates, and with shares from her three dead husbands, she was sitting on a fortune of £2833 (£202,000) - more than she had lied about. She never wore her wealth and she never spent it, but some kind of plan was clearly brewing. Of the many names and diary entries found at the crime scene, one was to rent a room at 54 Shirland Road in Paddington. After much back-and-forth, on 22nd of March, Karoline agreed to move in, she paid 15 shillings deposit, then said it would only be used for storage and instead she slept at the hostel. Of the houses she looked at on Cleveland Gardens, Connaught Street, Sussex Gardens, Star Street and Princes Terrace, all had previously been brothels, all required a £2000 deposit to rent, and she even went as far as find a disreputable man to go into business with her, but that opportunity collapsed. It’s uncertain if this 60-year-old widow - described as filthy, uncouth and foul - was working as a sex worker as her lodger claimed, but although she had remained single since she was widowed, she often received two constant visitors to 21 Brondesbury Villas; one aged 40 to 45, 5 foot 10, slim and wearing a taxi driver's cap, and another, 30-ish, 5 foot 6, stout with greasy hair. But none were ever identified. And, as was typical of Karoline Jones, she also randomly assaulted strangers with no rhyme nor reason. On Saturday 23rd of March 1940, one week before her death, outside of 19 Brondesbury Villas next door, she asked a furniture removals man for his card and requested a quote, but she never called him. And across the next five days, nothing is known about where she went or what she did, until this. On Friday the 29th of March, the day before her death, she applied to be a maid at house in Kensington. Unable to stand for long or move quickly owing to a recent knee operation, she didn’t get the job, but claiming to be destitute, she made a big impression on the housekeeper who noticed her jewellery; two 18 carat gold bands with a diamond and a ruby, a gold watch, a pearl brooch and a gold bangle. Hearing of Karoline’s plight, the housekeeper suggested that maybe she should sell her jewellery, but Karoline said she couldn’t as they were “of great sentimental value”. Descriptions of every piece was circulated to every pawnbroker and jeweller across London, but not a single item was ever found… …which brings us to Saturday 30th of March 1940, her last day alive. There were only two sightings of her; at 1:30pm when she left 21 Brondesbury Villas carrying her black Gladstone bag and wearing the clothes she would die in, and at 5pm, when the housekeeper from the day before spotted her looking in a window of an antique dealers in Kensington. Where she went after that, who she met, what she did, and who she returned back to her flat with remains unknown. Alerted by Alfred Scott, the surveyor for Bates & Co, on Wednesday 10th of April 1940, officers arrived at 10:35am, and Police Surgeon Dr John Tweddle determined she had been dead for 21 days. On the bed, her body lay with no defensive wounds or struggle, just a single punch to the face and she was suffocated using a pillow. She had been restrained by her ankles and wrists using ripped strips of tablecloth so her legs and arms were splayed, and gagged with her scarf, she was silent and immobile, as her killer had pulled her skirt up to her hips, her knickers exposed, but there was no sexual assault. Clearly, the killer had a deep hatred for her, but what was his motive; a rape, a robbery, or a murder? With no witnesses to anyone entering or exiting the premises during the time of her death, detectives theorised she had either invited back someone she knew, or if she was still a sex worker, a customer. But given the fact that she had little family and almost no friends being abrasive and foul, we know it wasn’t her sister or brother-in-law as they were in Palestine, or her son as he was serving in France. There were four sets of keys to the flat; Karoline’s which was found in the padlock, her son Frederick’s on his dressing table, two with the estate agent, one of which was used by Alfred Scott, and no others. Every current tenant and prior resident of the house was questioned and with a recurring theme that nobody liked her, none of them disliked her enough to kill her and they all had a solid alibi to prove it. With no scuff marks, cuts or abrasions, she had willingly ascended the stairs with her killer, although what her intention was is unknown, as (desperate to move out) the flat was empty, except for a few clothes (which weren’t hers), a radio, a penknife, and some slices of stale bread. But it was as she bent over to unlock her bedroom door that they struck, splintering the door before the lock was removed. Based on the marks, she was dragged to the bed, likely punched in the face as she screamed, but the blood found on the sheets and underneath the restraints show she had lain unconscious as her killer ransacked her room. First was the drawers, but what was in it we don’t know, as having been in prison for six months, many of her few belongings were at the hostel, or in the Gladstone bag she carried in. The brown attaché case was only lightly searched and given up just as quick. Next was the Gladstone bag, whose contents (business cards, letters, bank books, a diary, and scraps of paper with the details of those she’d met) scattered far and wide, so was the killer searching for a something which identified them? If so, why risk being seen on the tube, in the street, or entering the house with her, when all day she was carrying the Gladstone bag. Why do it unless their motive was something more sinister? Coming to, it’s likely that she was then bound and gagged before she struggled and screamed, giving her assailant time to search the flat. It’s likely but unprovable that they took every note or coin found, and with her jewellery being too precious to sell, it was stripped from her. And although police found two sets of fingerprints inside the flat, they both belonged to Karoline and her son, and no-one else. It was clear that a certain someone who had broken in was looking for something specific. But what did they want from her? Her wealth? Unlikely, as her jewellery had more of a personal value than a monetary one. A hostel warden recalled she had £10 in cash in her purse, about £300 today. And with only £20 in her bank account, her fortune of £2833 (or £202,000) was in National Savings Certificates and shares, which could only be accessed with a will, a next of kin and a solicitor. But had they heard she had £2600 and assumed it was in cash? If not that, what did they want from her? Sex? She was a prostitute and brothel keeper. Detectives thought not. It had the hallmarks of a rape as she was physically assaulted, knocked cold, tied by her hands and feet to the bed, and with her coat and skirt rucked up around her hips, someone wanted to see around her genitals, but with no semen, no penetration, and her underwear having not been removed, there was only one possible thing they were looking for – something she valued most. Karoline Jones had lived through hardship, poverty, homelessness, abandonment and grief. Across her 60-years of life, she had fled wars and persecution, and every time she moved from place to place, she always carried with her everything she held dear; her jewellery on her fingers, her business affairs in an attaché case and her daily essentials in a Gladstone bag, but the most precious thing in her whole life, she had hid in a series of specially sewn pockets she had stitched inside her knickers and stockings. She told many about the £2600 she had, but being a filthy, foul and poorly dressed woman who lived off handouts and slept in homeless hostels, as a inveterate liar, it’s unlikely anyone believed her. But this was the thing she cherish so much that at all times she kept it close to her skin, this was her secret. So, did she tell someone, did they find out, and if so, who were they? (End) It wasn’t a friend or family member, it wasn’t a punter or prozzie in the sex trade, it wasn’t someone she had stiffed on a business deal or an opportunist thief who thought this frail lady was an easy mark. In fact, it was someone who had hated her since the day they met, and most likely, it wasn’t a man. On the 14th of October 1939, having stolen a hat from Selfridges, Karoline was sentenced to six months which she served at female-only prisons, HMP Holloway and then HMP Aylesbury. Inside, Karoline was hated by prisoners and staff alike, she was rude, obnoxious, surly, and on several occasions in the yard, she was attacked by a specific prisoner who truly hated her, a 27-year-old woman (her name redacted) with a rap-sheet for drunkenness, larceny and procuring an abortion, as well as violence and assault. Karoline was the target of her venom for months, and then it stopped, and she became Karoline’s pal. She later denied this, but other prisoners said she was. She denied knowing where Karoline lived, but the other women said they too had been invited to stay. She denied being told about the £2600 that Karoline often blabbed about to anyone who would listen, and others said many didn’t believe it. But what of her secret, the one thing, so precious that it was stitched into secret pockets in her knickers? She told no-one about that ever. But upon her reception at HMP Aylesbury, as was standard, she was stripped of her own clothes, given prison overalls, and her personal affects were searched and listed. Every pocket was checked for weapons and contraband, especially any covert pouches in her pants. She had no reason to tell anyone, but one of the wardens will have known, and they all hated her. When interviewed, the unnamed prisoner denied being in Kilburn, hating her or meeting Karoline after her release, and when she was told of her murder, detectives said “she seemed genuinely surprised”. With no evidence against her, she wasn’t charged or questioned further. But is this what happened? The Strange Last Days of Karoline Jones remains unsolved, but of the scattered clues in her room, did her killer find the one detail which may have convicted them, and was this robbery worth her murder? 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. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
Paizan's shipping container on Everett Road, NW10 @Googlemaps2026 Aug2016
EP335: PAIZAN: THE JIGSAW KILLER: On Sunday 9th of May 2021 at 11:47am, 20-year-old Agnes Akom entered a shipping container on Everett Road in Powergate Business Park with 64-year-old Neculai Paizan, a cement mixer driver she had known for 18 months. CCTV cameras caught her walking in. but she never came out. So where did her body go? This episode explores the investigation by the Police which began as a missing persons, and ended in a brutal homicide.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
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UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How do you prove a murder when the body is missing, and in pieces? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on North Acton Road in Park Royal, NW10; five roads west of Patrick MacKay’s birth place, four roads south of the Grey Man’s final victim, a short walk from the suitcase of Marta Ligman’s body, and three streets north of the last gasp of the big teaser - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 63 North Acton Road is Lennox Autos, a car showroom on the Powergate Business Park. On the forecourt stands a line of gleaming cars waxed to a mirror shine, valeted so not a dust speck exists and with stickers hailing their great prices and low milage, its mostly male customers pretend they know what they’re doing by kicking the tyres, tutting at the exhaust and revving the engine and exclaiming “that’s fine” as if they’re sampling a fine wine, when all they want to know is “will it get me laid?”. Just to the side sits an alley, well it’s more of a dead-end, and lined with second hand cars, industrial units, piles of scrap metal, and a battered old shipping container converted into a makeshift flat which the defendant, Neculai Paizan called home. On Sunday the 9th of May 2021, just shy of noon, his friend, Agnes Akom arrived with him, she willingly walked into the shipping container, and never walked out. It was a disappearance without a witness, a killing without a motive, and a murder initially without a body. Agnes could have vanished forever, never to be found. Yet, in what began as a missing person’s case, the investigation would unravel a spider’s web of deceit and lies until the killer was caught. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 335: Paizan: The Jigsaw Killer. On Wednesday 6th of July 2022 in Court 8 of the Old Bailey, 64-year-old Neculai Paizan pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murdering 20-year-old Agnes Akom, but admitted to the lesser charge of moving her body. Before the jury and Judge Richard Marks QC, his words were translated by a Romanian interpreter. Paizan stated that as Agnes sat on his bed: "she was doing something on her phone. I started to feel a bit unwell, my mouth was dry, and I was not feeling right. I realised that I had been poisoned, drugged. I believe it was from the iced coffee, she drank some of it and then she handed it to me and said 'you drink it, I've had enough'". Feeling ‘a wave of darkness’ sweep over him, and plagued by amnesia, he collapsed, and when he regained consciousness, he said “Agnes was pushing something into my mouth, and because of the pain, instinctively I pushed her away and two of my front teeth broke". He would claim that Agnes had drugged him, that she had tried to kill him, that the violence he used against her was in self-defence, and that her attack on him had caused his memory loss so he couldn’t recall her death. Admitting to her unlawful burial, he stated "I realised there was no life left in her, the poor little thing. I was in such a state of panic. I didn’t know what to do ", so rather than call the Police because “they would not believe me… I tried to take her to the park, and put her in a good place”. Agnes was dead, Paizan said he had Amnesia, and with no-one to independently verify what happened inside of the shipping container, the only witness to Agnes Akom’s murder was the evidence itself. But how could a murder be proven? Agnes Akom, who her friends knew as ‘Dora’ was born in 2001 in Hungary, being raised by her mother, Agnes, who she was named after. Little was reported of her early life; her family, her education, her hopes and dreams, but with Hungary having joined the European Union in 2004, as many of her fellow countrymen and women did, in 2018 when she was just 17, she came to Britain seeking “a better life”. It was the last time she saw her mother, as well as almost everyone she had ever loved or cared for. Like many, she imagined that the streets of London would be paved with golden opportunities, but as she and her partner, Peter Lenart would learn, life in this new world would be a real struggle, as being teenagers themselves in one of Europe’s most expensive cities; it was hard to earn a good wage and impossible to pay for the basics, especially as they were still youngsters who together had baby son. Facing so many hardships, even though Agnes earned a living as a coffin-maker, a valuable trade she had learned in her homeland, being barely able to stay afloat, Social Services had taken their son into foster care, and that at the time she would disappear, Peter & Agnes were half way through writing a letter to their son, so that when he was old enough to read it, he could understand that he hadn’t been abandoned. But as Peter would state, "how am I supposed to finish that letter without her?". With many friends who tried to help her, she stayed within the safety of other Eastern Europeans; one of whom she was close to, was a man she had known for just 18 months having met in Christmas 2020. They seemed like an odd pairing. Agnes was a 20-year-old woman with girlish ways, and typical of many ‘Gen Z’ or ‘Zoomers’, being obsessed with social media, she posted selfies of herself living a fake version of “her best life” for a wealth of strangers to ‘like’, her clothes were deliberately stylish (last seen wearing a white fake fur coat, blue ripped jeans and pink trainers), and being petite, 5 foot 5 and 8 and a ½ stone with bleached platinum blonde hair, she stood out next to 64-year-old Neculai Paizan. Paizan was large, fat and bald, like Uncle Fester in the Addam’s Family. After decades working in the construction trade, he always dressed practically, he lived cheaply being a father-of-four, and although his crown of white hair and short white beard gave him a grandfatherly quality, he had the rough callused hands of a manual labourer, and the hard scowl of someone who may have had a dark past, yet, the only crimes he was convicted of in the UK was benefit fraud, speeding and carrying a knife. One notably odd detail about Paizan’s life was where he lived. As a qualified cement mixer driver who was known on almost every industrial estate in West London, he earned around £30,000 a year, and owned a £700,000 former mansion flat at Campden House on Peel Street in Holland Park, a well-to-do area. But he didn’t live there, instead he rented it out, and since at least 2008, he had lived off-grid. Back then, his ‘home’ was The Cabin, a storage facility on the Harp View Business Park, surrounded by skips, industrial units and waste disposal sights, just off the busy A406 North Circular Road and the Brent Reservoir. It’s a place where no-one would willingly live, unless they were homeless, yet he did. 13 years later, in 2021, he was living in a battered old shipping container on the Powergate Business Park next door to Lennox Autos. Surrounded by a scrap metal and second hand cars, anyone passing would assume it was a place to store tools, not a home, as made of a durable weathering steel, this gloomy grey box was just 20 foot long by 8 foot wide and 8 and a 1/2 foot high but modified to live in. It had a small bed with dirty pink sheets, an oil-filled radiator for warmth, a gas powered hob, and a sink, but with no running water he used the tap at the showroom. It was cramped, grimy, the shelves were held up by wooden joists, bare electrics hung from the ceiling with some secured by electrical tape, and with no window, the only fresh air was provided when the padlocked steel door was opened. So, why did Paizan invite Agnes there, and why did she willingly enter? Their relationship was odd, and one that only they know the truth of. In court, Paizan claimed he met her having found her begging for change in a supermarket car park, but this cannot be proven. He said she regularly harassed him for money for drugs in return for sex, which Peter refuted: “Paizan said Agnes slept with 15 or 20 people a day… she did not do these things. He preyed on her vulnerabilities and knew it”, but having met 54 times over the last 12 months, photos taken by Paizan proved that she regularly danced semi-naked for him, in a relationship he said was ‘intimate’. He said he called her "princess”, “little angel” and “sparrow", and loving her “like a daughter, she also called him "grandpa". That was their secret world which occurred in the private confines of the shipping container. Sunday 9th of May 2021 was Agnes’ last day alive, and like many, it seemed unremarkable. At 10:40am, her partner, Peter confirmed she left their Cricklewood bedsit, she kissed him goodbye and said she was heading to her job as a coffin maker. Only she didn’t. Across this 8 minute walk, being easy to spot in her white fake fur coat, blue jeans and pink shoes, she entered Costa Coffee at 173 Cricklewood Broadway and used her bank card to order an iced latte - the one he claimed was used to poison him. CCTV captured this at 10:48am, and as she sat by the window, she waited and messaged two men; one was Attila Molna-Feri, her boss who (the Daily Record states) was an in an "intimate relationship” with and she ordered an Uber to go to his home in Wembley. The other was Paizan, who she messaged between 10:18am and 10:52am, and with him owing her £20, she fatefully cancelled the Uber when Paizan arrived in his silver Dacia Sandero. There they sat, chatted, and at 11:30am, she left with him. They didn’t argue or fight, they drove the 3.8 miles to Park Royal, and as Prosecutor Jacob Hallam told the jury “at 11:47am, the defendant (Neculai Paizan) and Miss Akom got out of the car, and walked around to the service yard at the side of Lennox Autos”. As seen on several CCTV cameras, she was chatting, drinking her iced latte, and as Paizan unlocked the steel door to the shipping container, “they both went in and closed the door. That was at 11.49am. This was the last sighting of Agnes Akom”. Only they know what happened within, and one of them is dead. Not being home by 7pm, Peter grew concerned as her phone was off, she wasn’t answering any texts or posts, and spending the next day calling her friends, her boss confirmed she hadn’t been to work. On Tuesday 11th of May, she was reported missing, and with the CID unable to trace her, on Saturday 16th, Agnes was elevated to a ‘high-risk missing person’ under the Met's Specialist Crime Command. Detective Chief Inspector Neil John who led the investigation stated “there does come a point when a decision needs to be made as to whether or not a murder investigation team takes primacy. Selecting missing persons where there may be a homicide is very difficult, particularly in this case, where there was no body found and no early evidence or indication of foul play”. 100s of people go missing in the UK every day, most run away for personal reasons and many are found, but very few are murdered. An appeal was made, but it drew no confirmed sightings. As DCI John stated “we start with proof of life enquiries… social media, family, friends, bank details. In this case, there were none… we were increasingly concerned for the safety of Agnes”, as with her phone having been switched off at about noon on the day she vanished, “this was completely out of character”. But a tiny clue shined through. The last transaction she made was at Costa Coffee at 10:48am. CCTV showed her getting onto a silver Dacia Sandero, and using ANPR and traffic cameras, they tracked it to an address it was registered at; an old battered shipping container beside Lennox Autos on the Powergate Business Park in Park Royal. Tuesday 18th of May 2021, 9 days after her disappearance, officers arrived at the shipping container. It was a start, an introduction to Neculai Paizan, Agnes’ friend who was possibly the last person to see her alive, and with nothing suspicious in his past, the detectives were only there to question him. They knocked on the steel door, but he wasn’t there as neither was his car. With heavy duty padlocks securing it, the Fire Brigade forcibly gained entry. Inside… was nothing; no Agnes, no Paizan, no body, no obvious blood, and none of her clothes. It was a mess, but there was no hint that she’d been here. With this still a serious missing persons case and not a murder investigation, fortuitously for the Police, seeing the fire trucks surrounding the shipping container and believing it was on fire, Paizan arrived. That day, yet to be a suspect, he was questioned at Wembley Police Station aided by an interpreter. He claimed that she went with him to the container for sex, they stayed a short while, he then dropped her off at a cash machine at the ASDA in Park Royal, and he hadn’t seen or heard from her since. But as Detective Constable Mike Davidson said “he gave an account, but we knew it was untruthful”, and worse still, he kept referring to her in the past tense even though no-one had suggested she was dead. While he was interviewed over the next three days, detectives corroborated his account with the facts. Several CCTV cameras confirmed that on Sunday 9th of May 2021 at 11:47am, Paizan & Agnes entered the shipping container. Watching every angle of the footage, 24-hours a day across the 9 days until detectives gained entry, they confirmed that Agnes went in, but never came out. So, where was she? His alibi in court was that she had poisoned him with an iced latte, but CCTV showed no signs of him collapsing, staggering, or looking drugged. He was asked about this discrepancy, but he had no reply. At 12:22pm, 35 minutes later, cameras showed Paizan, and only Paizan, leaving the shipping container alone, he was holding his left arm awkwardly, on his forearm were several red marks which detectives believed to be her blood, and at the showroom’s tap, he washed his hands and his face. DCI John also recalled "there is a chilling image of him looking up at the camera. It will remain with me forever”. When questioned further, Paizan replied “maybe she’s still alive?”, but by then, as the detectives told him “she’s not alive”, as even without a body, the evidence against him was mounting up. DCI John recalled "we took the container apart; the floors came up, the walls came out, the ceiling came down". The inside was filthy, yet forensics confirmed that with the bed stained with bleach "vigorous attempts had been made to clean it up”, and with faint traces of blood proven to be Agnes’, with her having been attacked violently, a speck of blood was found on the spine of a Bible on one of Paizan’s shelves. She had died here, they knew it, but how did she die, and why? Changing his story, Paizan, who when interviewed had both forearms in plaster-of-Paris casts, claimed that having washed his face and hands and suffering an attack of amnesia, he returned to find Agnes dead, “curled up in a ball… I got scared ". In his second alibi, he would claim that either her injuries were self-inflicted, or someone had attacked her when his back was turned, unseen by any camera. Knowing the Police wouldn’t believe this fanciful tale about a mystery man who can walk through steel walls, he didn’t call an ambulance, instead “I tried to take her to the park, put her in a good place”. And although he said he loved her “like a daughter”, his actions were proven to be selfish and callous. At just after 3:30pm, he dragged several items from the container and reversing his car up to the door, he loaded them into his boot; her white fur coat, her blue jeans and her pink trainers, anything which could identify her, and save her loved one’s from the pain and grief of never knowing where she was. Cameras also spotted him loading into the boot a rolled-up carpet and heavy object in a stained pillow case. So why did no-one see this as suspicious? It’s an industrial estate, he was one of hundred of men that day, wearing orange hi-viz overalls and loading bulky items into a car, and being known at every waste disposal site in West London, no-one batted at eye when he dumped them into several skips. An hour prior, he dragged a large white builder’s merchant’s bag, likely containing her body, to an unit he had rented next door. The space was empty, only he had access to it, and on a sheet of plastic, he cut up her body into pieces using an electric jigsaw; severing both legs, arms, the torso and her head. Anywhere else it would have drawn attention, but with every unit on the estate filled with the sound of hammers and angle grinders, the dismembering of her body was passed off as something innocent. At around 5:30pm, unmanned cameras caught Paizan dragging the bag from the unit, loading it into his car, and again nobody noticed, as why would they? And even as he dispersed every piece of proof in the killing of Agnes Akom into several skips across the city, it looked as if he was renovating a house, and as he parked his car up outside of his flat on Peel Street, nobody knew that inside lay a dead body. Paizan had committed an unseen murder and disposed of the body in plain sight… …but, as we know, one witness was always watching him - the cameras. DCI John recalled “there was one part in the timeline where we had no sightings of (Paizan’s) car”, so slowly and methodically, “the suspect's car was tracked across north-west London by officers moving from road to road and watching at each junction”. It took weeks of trawling these grainy images with many blind spots, but eventually, traffic cameras spotted the car entering a familiar industrial estate. At about 8am on Monday the 10th of May 2021, the day after the murder, Paizan’s car pulled into the Harp View Business Park, just off the A406 North Circular Road, and a few doors down from The Cabin, the old storage facility at the back of Neasden Recreational Ground, where he’d lived a decade before. As before, he had bagged up in a black plastic bag and callously tossed Agnes’ fake white fur coat into a skip. No-one would have known it was key to a murder, as to the casual observer, it was just junk. Next, he dumped something heavy, and although it was wrapped in a bloodstained pillow case, no-one suspected it was blood as almost everything in the skip was spattered with red paint and creosote. And even if they had opened it up and spotted the bloodied electric jigsaw inside, as he had tried and failed to wash it, it took forensic specialists to identify the blood and hair attached the blade as Agnes’. Police had found bloodstains in the shipping container, his car and his unit, with proof of him disposing of her clothes, lying to the police, and the jigsaw he had used to dismember her body. With so many inconsistencies in his statement, on the 24th of May 2021 at Wembley Police Station, just six days after he was questioned, Paizan was arrested on suspicion of false imprisonment and murder. Detectives could prove that Agnes had come to harm at the hands of Paizan, yet without a body, as he shifted his alibi from finding her dead to self-defence having been poisoned and attacked by a woman half his size, this gap in the evidence could mean that he may get away with the lesser charge of manslaughter. Again, it was a faint and distant image on an unmanned camera which provided a hint of a clue. At just after 8am, wearing his non-descript orange hi-vis overalls, Paizan was spotted exiting the Harp View Business Park and carrying a spade. At 9:13am, the same camera caught him pushing a big blue wheelie-bin in the same direction, and clearly being heavy, he struggled to lift it up a kerb. Heading right, there is nothing but a stretch of the A406, Brent Reservoir and Neasden Recreational Ground. Teams of specialists swarmed the waste transfer site sifting 60 tonnes of rubbish, divers plumbed the depths of the reservoir, and ground penetrating radar examined every patch of grass, but nothing was found… until Monday 14th June 2021, 36 days after she had disappeared, a cadaver dog caught a scent. At the north-eastern end of Neasden Rec’, near the jagged fence which borders the industrial estate, the severely decomposed body of Agnes Akom was found. Buried in a shallow grave and covered by logs and branches, she was lying in a foetal position, a cord round her neck, and her decapitated head wrapped in a black plastic bag. DNA proved it was her, and for DCI John, her discovery proved to be poignant: “Each day, I would drive into work along the North Circular Road thinking about where she could be… her resting place was less than 100 metres from where I was driving twice a day every day”. In court, Judge Richard Marks QC stated: “what truly happened there and why you did what you did is something that we can only surmise. Tragically, she never lived to tell the tale, so the court and the jury only had your account, which I am certain was demonstrably untrue and which the jury rejected”. That morning, Agnes willingly walked into Paizan’s shipping container, a place she had been to many times before, to receive a £20 note that he owed her. The Judge continued: “for reasons only known to yourself, you launched into a vicious attack, hitting her over the head at least 20 times with an electric jigsaw”, it was a sustained attack on a vulnerable lone woman which came out of no where. The pathologist said “she had no defensive wounds, and having caught her unaware, she was rendered incapable of even raising her arms in an attempt to defend herself”, as he bludgeoned her, again and again. But why? Nothing caught on any camera gave a hint at the brutal violence he would unleash? Agnes was the girl he said he loved “like a daughter”, and he was the man she called “Grandpa”, but when he finally stopped lying about her poisoning him with a drugged latte, he admitted “she said don't touch me, she didn't feel like it, she wasn't in a mood, she told me to leave her alone", and as a man who had preyed on her vulnerabilities to abuse her, her rejection would lead him to murder her. It was an odd sexual relationship for no clear reason, except he says, she pestered him for money. But there was no remorse in this man, no regret for the life he had ended for entirely selfish reasons. As DCI John recalled “the level of violence Paizan used in his attack on Agnes is truly horrific. What she suffered inside the container does not bear thinking about… and his attempts to hide his crime show a calculated effort to ensure that not only was Agnes never found, but that he would not be caught”. Especially as, in the days after the murder, Paizan had visited Neasden Rec’ five times. (End) On the 19th of July 2022, in Court 8 of the Old Bailey, the jury retired to deliberate. Having admitted to moving the body but denying murdering her, Paizan rejected his initial alibis, and “in an attempt to paint Agnes in a bad light" he falsely claimed that she was a sex worker, which prosecutor Jake Hallam QC said was a pack of lies. Having deliberated the evidence, the jury returned after just one hour. Found guilty of all charges, 64-year-old Neculai Paizan was given a life sentence with a minimum term of 22 years, and given his age and alleged ill-health, it’s unlikely he will ever see freedom ever again. Outside court, DCI Neil John said “what we know about Agnes tells us that whilst she was vulnerable, he has clearly lied about her background and personal situation in an attempt to sway the jury”. In her own statement, Agnes’ mother said “he dragged her through the mud in life, and her name through the mud after her death… he presented himself as a victim… but he is the one who is a liar”. And with her partner, Peter traumatised, stating “she was my love, the mother of my son, partner, and best friend, and took her away from me in the worst way possible”, there is one more victim in this tragedy. Her baby son, who - while currently in foster care – will one day learn about how his mother died. After Paizan’s arrest, Agnes was cremated and her ashes were flown back to Hungary. Not that Paizan cared. After his conviction, he appealed; he stated that the sentence was excessive, that the judge had failed to consider his age and health, that Agnes’ prior convictions were not taken into account, and he even complained that one of the jurors smelled of cannabis. But with it clear he was a liar, as it was proven that he didn’t need a Romanian interpreter, and this was just a tactic to delay the investigation, his appeal was rejected. Paizan remains behind bars, and so far, he’s been beaten up three times. 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 - #334: The Beast of Belvedere - Part Two of Two (Allan Pearey)4/2/2026
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week. 
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOUR:
This is Part Two of Two of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by Murder Mile UK True Crime. From April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks were perpetrated on women and young girls on trains or near train stations on three routes from Central London to the South-East of England and Kent, they were the Bexleyheath Line, the North Kent Line and the Dartford Loop. This prolific serial rapist never disguised his face, he attacked in broad daylight, and he stuck to the areas he knew so well. But who was he?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: The Police were closing in, but how was ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ caught? Find out on Murder Mile. Situated to the side of Bursted Woods, just shy of Barnehurst station and overlooking a roundabout at the junctions of Erith Road and Barnehurst Road sat a tiny flat perched above a car showroom. It was not the kind of place anyone would choose to live, as there was no bed, sofa, telly, or personal items, just a kettle, a cup, an overflowing ash tray, a bin full of empty takeaways and an electric heater. With the bare bulb off, the room was ominously dark so no-one could see the occupant sat at a desk by a window, silent and still, their binoculars spying as streams of women and young girls walked by unaware. Into a log book, the following was written: “Friday 10th of August 1984, 2pm, second shift”. For months, 21-year-old WPC Julie Edwards had been on observation duty; a dull job split into 8-hours, as one of a team of officers keeping surveillance on 18 locations where ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ had struck, including Abbey Wood, Mottingham, Lee, Hither Green, Birch Walk and Falconwood. For many long hours; she would patiently sit and wait and watch, biding her time until a certain someone caught her eye, and oddly, being 2 miles south-east of Lesnes Abbey Woods, this was not unlike his hideout. It had been a year since PC Clifford Thomas had stood on a thick brush of holly leaves, heard a metal clink and moving aside a sheet of corrugated iron, unearthed a 15 foot by 3 foot tunnel full of rapist’s apparel. Being situated between the Bexleyheath and North Kent lines, in the dead centre of the four square miles where he hunted his prey, detectives were buoyed at having found his lair, and soon him. The scene was secured, the evidence bagged and whisked off to the forensics lab, which took weeks. Only their jubilance would soon turn to despair as when the detectives examined the contents further, the basic items he had left behind; like the candle, the brush, the mug, the tea bags, the jar of sugar and the bag of food, proved to be too generic to trace to a shop or purchase, and like the mattress covered in polythene, no fingerprints were found as they had been wiped away by the weather. As for the spare clothes, lab tests showed no incriminating stains like blood or semen, and couldn’t be linked to any known rapists. The blouse, stockings and knickers were examined, but their prior owners were never identified, and perhaps purchased for cross-dressing or stolen for a thrill, they couldn’t be attributed to any reported victims. The empty beer cans and cigarette butts proved equally as fruitless. And believing that this was a “military style hideout”, detectives spent weeks seeking out sex offenders with military backgrounds, but two teenagers later admitted they’d dug the tunnel being Army cadets who were practicing building a den, and stated they had stopped using it a year before it was found. With his hideout blown, the rapist never returned, and it was buried to stop any copy-cat attacks. Detectives could never determine if this was the hideout of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, or one of several sex attackers who were preying on lone women and girls in this area. But as a predator who didn’t sit and wait, as this one had, but changed his times, places and methods, this was unlikely to be him. But why? He last attacked on Friday the 14th of October 1983, having failed to rape a 14-year-old schoolgirl in Bursted Woods. By this point, he was seven attacks into his 15-month spree beginning in April 1983 with a 16-year-old girl at Falconwood station, and they were increasing in frequency and ferocity. Every victim told the same story; he followed them to somewhere isolated (an alley, a station, a train), he struck from behind, muffled their mouth with his left hand, put a knife to their neck with his right, he threatened to kill them if they didn’t do exactly what as he said, and if they struggled or screamed, he battered them with his fists, a bottle or a block of wood, rendering senseless or semi-conscious. He was always calm, quiet, softly spoken, he said very little, and wore no disguise. As for his description being “25 to 30, 5 foot 11 tall, slim with brown fair hair and brown eyes, and was unshaven”, it was so generic, it matched thousands of men across London and Kent, and also said to be “a scruffy manual labourer, with a stale smell who had a local accent”, with his clothes being cheap and commonplace, and having no visible scars or tattoos, there was nothing unique to identify him. His victims were aged 14 to 34, and said to be small but different, he didn’t target one type of woman, but regarded them all as “whores” who he blamed for something which had ripped at his very being. He knew the train lines, the timetables and every isolated spot to commit his attacks, and yet, he never strayed beyond the areas that as a local man he knew so well, likely having been born and raised here. And unlike one rapist who build a hideout to sit and wait, he attacked randomly on instinct and whim. Examining each attack which occurred roughly every two weeks to a month, based on the fact that he never struck in the early mornings or very late at night, mostly on weekdays, and often between the hours of midday and mid-afternoon, Police surmised that he was either intermittently employed, that he worked a shift pattern, and very rarely attacking on the weekends, he was likely to be a family man. As rape isn’t about sex, but power and control, detectives knew that – as is common with many rapists – he suffered with erectile dysfunction, hence he groped and fondled his victims to get himself hard, and ejaculating early, not at all and secreting no sperm, his failed manhood may have fuelled his rage. There were five more women in this spree who would be left traumatised by ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But what detectives had surmised about him didn’t narrow down the search to anyone they knew… …and being so anonymous, it would take a miracle to find him. The Beast’s name was Allan Pearey. Born on the 25th of March 1949, mere streets from Barnehurst station on the Bexleyheath Line, Pearey was the second of five children to Joseph, a fair-haired, grey-eyed man who came from the northern city of Durham, and having fallen in love during the Second World War with Gwendoline Phillips, a local girl from Welling, one next stop from Falconwood, they married in 1945 and a family followed. This area was his home, his everything, and almost every street of it he knew like the back of his hand, as these four square miles is where he would live and work for the whole of life, but also ruined lived. Said to be “not bright”, but good at manual trades and woodwork, Pearey scraped by with a basic pass aged 15, having been educated at Picardy School on Erith Road in Belvedere, not far from the police station where less than two decades later, a team of detectives launched a manhunt in search of him. Little is known about his early life, as the only traumatic moment seems to have been the death of his father in March 1974 and his mother remarrying in 1979, but as by this point he was 25, employed, married and had moved out, it didn’t impact him or his siblings, as it may have done if he was a boy. Predictably, he matched the description of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ fairly well, being 5 foot 10, slim, with brown fair hair, grey-brown eyes, and - like his father - he had a gap between his front two teeth. But no-one, whether friends or family, pointed the finger at him shouting “he’s the rapist”, as although detectives assumed (based on his attacks) that he was confident and direct, in truth, with no violence, abuse, theft or perversions reported in his past, he was a nobody who blended into the shadows. DS Hawkins who headed up the manhunt remarked when he was caught, “there is nothing particularly unusual about him at all. He’s a boring type, perhaps a little strange and pathetic in his own way”, and as his own wife, Linda, would later state “he was a very moody type, but was a real loner basically”. Living an unremarkable life, aged 15, Pearey’s first job was as a trainee machinist at Parkway Timbers in Belvedere, where he lasted for a year, and was described him as “satisfactory”, but nothing special. By 1965, seeking a job with career prospects, Pearey began working for British Rail as a baggage porter at Dartford station; a large local terminus covering the Dartford Loop, Bexleyheath and the North Kent Line, and working shifts by loading luggage on and off trains for 100s if not 1000s of lone women, part of his job was to know every train, every carriage, every station, and every detail about the timetable. After three years at Dartford, where he shuttled suitcases between Charing Cross, London Bridge and Waterloo East, as well as many of the network’s satellite stations, although quiet, he had impressed his bosses, and clearly being passionate about his job, in 1968, he was promoted to trainee signalman. He had found his place in life, and although a little sullen, he would have succeeded… …only he couldn’t control his basest of dark urges. On an unspecified date in October 1968, a 16 year old girl boarded a train at Charing Cross. It was mid-afternoon, on a weekday, and she was heading to her home in Deptford. When a guard’s whistle blew at London Bridge and the train pulled away, 19-year-old Allan hopped into the closed compartment, where she sat alone and vulnerable in this ‘rape trap’. Muffling her mouth of any screams, nicking her neck with a knife, threatening to kill her and exposing his genitals, the violence he used against her was so severe, she had to be hospitalised, and when arrested, he was charged with attempted murder. In November 1969, Allan Pearey was tried at the Old Bailey for a violent and sadistic crime for which he should have been sentenced to ten years, but as his first offence and having a good work record, it was reduced to the lesser charge of ‘attempting to render a woman incapable with intent’. He served his punishment in a little over a year in a borstal for young offenders, and was out by the turn of 1970. He was free, but jobless, having been sacked by British Rail, and as far as we know… …he didn’t attack any other women until the 16-year-old at Falconwood, when his spree began. It’s hard to pin down why this violent rapist suddenly stopped after his first known attack, but he did, and this is most likely why the detectives struggled to identify him as ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. For 15 years, he was a reformed character, a husband, a father and a working man who committed no crimes. In 1968, he met Linda Gillett, she recalled “I knew Allan through friends. He was going out with a friend of mine. When he went to prison I started to write to him and when he got out we went out together… I knew it was for an attack on a girl, but I believed it was for taking a handbag”, so seeing him for the kind man he was, in July 1970, they married at St Paul’s church in Erith, half a mile from Birch Walk. Living in several council houses in Erith, they were said to be “happily married for 11 years”. Together, they raised four children, and as Linda said “he was a good husband really. He worked hard, loved the children, wasn’t a drinker or anything bad, and he never hit me or the children”. He was ordinary, dull and unremarkable, but isn’t that what a wife and her children would want from a husband and father? She recalled “our sex life was normal, healthy”, and with Pearey said to have no sadism or perversions, was this why his dark urges remained hidden for 15 years, because he had found love, and a sex life? After the birth of their last child, being happy, but knowing that any more children on his modest wage could cause splinters in their warm matrimonial bed, they agreed that Allan would have a vasectomy… …but this, he says changed him, and caused ‘The Beast’ to awaken. In 1978, while 30-year-old Pearey was working as a milkman, he met 15-year-old Sharon Wenham. Linda recalled “Allan denied it, but things were not going well between us… when I came back home one afternoon, I found them in bed together. That was the end of it”. They divorced in 1981, Linda remarried, had another child, and she remained friendly with Allan for the sake of their four children. In January 1982, Sharon and Allan married and being young, she wanted children. In late 1982, Pearey had an operation to reverse his vasectomy, but (as he said) “it was a failure, and I felt that I too was a failure… I could see that deep inside this really hurt her… I felt I was no longer a man. After this we argued more and the arguments got worse”, and as the psychiatrist who assessed him stated “it was the angry reaction of feeling less than a man that launched his catalogue of crimes against women”. This may also explain his erectile dysfunction, and why he left no sperm at the crime scenes. The first known attack in his 15-month spree was on Saturday 23rd of April 1983 at Falconwood station. His victim, a 16-year-old girl - “what’s your age?”, “are you a virgin?”, ”no, you’re not, you’re a whore”. He attacked mostly by day and on weekdays when his new wife was busy. He stuck to areas he knew, and may have struck while looking for work. No-one on the network recognised him even as posters of his photofit were plastered on the walls in September 1983, as he’d been sacked from British Rail 15 years before, and since then, he’d become a reformed character, married, boring and unassuming. …but a month after he attacked a 14-year-old in Bursted Woods, he struck again. Wednesday the 16th of November 1983, back at Falconwood station on the Bexleyheath Line, just after 7pm, a 17 year old receptionist exited the Charing Cross train. It was cold, damp and windy. She later gave an interview to the Daily Express in which she used the pseudonym ‘Carol X’. These are her words. “I went to the mini cab office, and was told I’d have to wait. I thought ‘blow it, I’ll have to walk’. I thrust my hands deeper into my sheepskin coat. There were people about, but most of the faces I travel with had gone on ahead”, and exiting the station, she crossed over the bridge at Rochester Way where ‘The Beast’ had raped a 16-year-old girl just 7 months before, and into the darkness of Falconwood Field. It was short, flat, sparse and she knew it well, but so did Pearey. “I was halfway across when I heard footsteps behind me. There’s a pen knife I usually carry, and I remember thinking ‘I wish I had it on me now’”, only its tiny blade would be useless against a prolific sex attacker who’d honed his method. “I was being grabbed round the neck and there was a knife at my throat. A man said ‘shut your mouth or I’ll cut your throat’… it drew blood. I said ‘I’ve got money. Leave me alone and you can take it’. He said ‘I don’t want your money’ and dragged me by the arm to the side of the field”. Lights were on in the houses surrounding them, but being too dark to be seen, too far to be heard, and if she screamed, she knew she’d be dead, “he made me lie down. I begged him not to hurt me”, and then he raped her. ‘Carol X’ recalled “he ordered me to stay where I was and took my money anyway” as he fled in a half run, half walk, but the second he was out of sight, “I went to the nearest house for help”. Alan Angus, a 57-year-old engineer heard her frantic knocking at his house of Welling Way, “she was crying and distraught, and very frightened. We brought her in, we gave her a glass of sherry and tried to calm her down”, and although all she wanted to do was go home and get herself ‘clean’, she did the right thing. ‘Carol X’ said “when the Police arrived… I talked for about half an hour. I kept saying ‘what am I going to tell my mum and dad?’. Nothing like this had never happened to me before. I think I would have gone to pieces if I hadn’t been treated so kindly by the police. Now I am angry more than frightened”. His description was broadcast across the Police radio: “white, late 20s, 5 foot 11, clean shaven, scruffy, slim, brown-ish hair, wearing dark trousers or jeans, gap toothed, smells strongly of stale cigarettes”, and although with him attacking now at a rate of two a month which meant another was imminent, DS Colin Hawkins stated that thanks to ‘Carol X’ “the prospects of finding him have never been better”. A joint operation based at Belvedere Police station was set-up between the British Transport Police and the Met’ Police, expanding the search to cover the 33 square miles from Dartford to Charing Cross. Extra officers were drafted in, patrols were stepped up, and surveillance operations were established… …but prolific rapists don’t just stop, so as predicted, two weeks later, he attacked again. Wednesday 7th of December 1983 at 8pm, back near Bursted Woods just shy of Barnehurst station, a 25-year-old receptionist ran to the bus stop near the roundabout, but her bus had already pulled away. Even though it was beginning to snow, having decided to walk the few stops to Bexley, she passed the car showroom, and sticking to the path, even with the Erith Road being well-lit and busy, she heard the footsteps of a man coming up behind her; she then felt a hand, a blade, and heard a threat to kill. She knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, as coming face-to-face with a late 20s to early 30s man, tall, lean, long nose, scruffy hair, faded jeans, a bomber jacket, a tooth grin and stinking of ciggies, if she screamed, she’d be stabbed by ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, and if she didn’t, then something worse. Frozen in fear, she did as he said. And although cars and pedestrians passed nearby, nobody stopped to help her, as with his hand draped around her shoulders and the two of them slowly walking side by side, they looked like a couple in a loving embrace, as he led her off the path, and into Bursted Woods. For four minutes, he walked her further from the lights, deeper into the woods, her knowing that with every step, her fate was growing closer and her chance of escape becoming more distant, and when he got her to an isolated spot where no-one would be able to see or hear her, there he raped her. He had raped or sexually assaulted at least 9 women, possibly 11, but Police suspected as many as 17. The story hit the papers by the morning, television by the evening, and with anger rising, the day after, a group of protesters waved placards outside of Belvedere Police station, demanding that they catch him, rather than waiting for him to attack again. This was the moment it became a national story… …and then suddenly, he stopped. ‘The Beast’ went silent, still, as even with his crimes escalating in frequency and violence, abruptly, there was nothing. Not a rape or assault committed in the following months matched his description. Detectives wondered, ‘had he quit’, ‘was he in prison’, or had the media coverage ‘scared him away’?’ It’s something we will never know. Maybe he had found work, perhaps he was arguing less with Sharon about having babies, or possibly he was just laying low? But could a rapist really stop his dark urges? No, as seven months later, he struck again. Monday the 23rd of July 1984, a 17-year-old girl left Bexley College, she boarded the 12:02pm train at Bexleyheath travelling to Charing Cross for a job interview. Sat alone in a six-seat closed compartment, at Welling station, Allan Pearey boarded as the train pulled away, and he attacked almost instantly; a hand, a knife, a threat, “shut up or I’ll kill you”, he violently wrenched off her clothes, and raped her. Just two minutes later, when the train arrived at Falconwood, he fled, but with it being daytime, he was seen by not just his victim, but the station master and the ticket attendant. And although she was bloodied and traumatised, having pulled the emergency cord, the train was stopped, the Police were called, the crime scene was sealed off and detectives one knew thing for certain; ‘The Beast’ was back. Surveillance was stepped up. Across the network, teams of officers worked 24-hours a day for weeks, in 8 hour shifts, at 18 covert locations where he’d attacked before, like Falconwood, Welling, Birch Walk, Dartford, and with a 25-year-old receptionist being attacked in Bursted Woods after she had missed her bus last December, on Friday 10th of August 1984, WPC Julie Edwards was sat at a window, with binoculars and a notepad. The hours were long, dull, but vital, and soon her persistence would pay off, when she spotted a man with a ‘startling resemblance’ to him, loitering at the same bus stop on Erith Road. Alerted, two plain-clothed officers arrived in an unmarked car as Pearey boarded the bus, they tailed him, and getting off just a mile away, he headed to Birch Walk, a place with ominous significance for his victims… …and now, being arrested, for ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. Over five days, he was questioned at Belvedere Police station by DS Colin Hawkins. 33-year-old Allan Pearey confessed to six rapes, two assaults the Police knew of and two which hadn’t been reported. On Tuesday 14th of August, he was committed to trial at Bexley Magistrates Court, during which “he trembled and cried during the 10-minute hearing”, and given his violence, his bail was denied. Rapists are quite often loners, but DS Hawkins was excepting a monster when he met Pearey, a callous and cruel maniac given the sadism and cruelty he had inflicted. But instead “there is nothing unusual about the man at all. He appears a boring type, perhaps a little strange and pathetic in his own way”. He was so unremarkable, even his friends and family didn’t believe it was him, as he was so unlikely. During his questioning, Pearey wept: “I’ve caused great suffering to my victims. I hope that my capture will ease their minds in time and I hope they will be able to forget what I done to them and forgive me a little”. But even with detectives able to prove six rapes and two assaults, he was investigated for a string of attacks on the Dartford Loop, North Kent and Bexleyheath Lines since the late 1960s. One case his method matched was the murder of German tourist Heidi Mnilk onboard the Charing Cross to West Wickham train on Sunday 8th of July 1973, as later confessed to by Patrick MacKay, who later denied it. But with the suspect seen by the two boys being 5 inches shorter, 15 years older and with an “Arabic appearance”, this wasn’t ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, but another prolific rapist. (End) Held at Wormwood Scrubs prison, Pearey sent letters to his ex-wife Linda, blaming his sex attacks on others, stating “the kids were pulling away from me after our divorce. Then Sharon wanted children… this hurt me very much and we went to have the reversal operation done… but it failed… I really thought she had rejected me, it was the final blow. I could no longer think straight… I felt like a freak, everyone was laughing. I finally cracked and I couldn’t remember what I was doing. I had to hate”. Which of course was a lie. He blamed his string of rapes and sexual assaults from 1983 to 1984 on his wife’s rejection and his failed vasectomy in 1982, but he was first charged with the ‘attempted murder’ of a 16-year-old girl, having violently beaten and failed to rape her on a train back in October 1968. He told a psychiatrist: “deep inside I knew I had a very bad problem, but I was too scared and confused to seek help. I am glad I have been caught because now I can receive the help I so desperately need”. Declared sane, on Monday the 14th of January 1985, he was tried by Judge Popplewell at the Old Bailey. It lasted just 54 minutes, but unlike his first trial back in 1969, when he was given a pitiful sentence of one year at a borstal, admitting his guilt to all charges, on Monday 14th of January 1985, Allan Pearey was given six life sentences to run concurrently, with two years for each sexual assault. Summing up, the Judge stated “you terrified and humiliated these victims. I think you are a too dangerous a man be left at large. The public have to be protected from men like you, so I propose the maximum sentence”. His solicitor said, he was so remorseful, that he wanted to donate his kidneys to someone “gravely ill”. Linda, his ex-wife, got on with her life. But Sharon, having heard all the evidence and charges claimed “I write to him every day. I’ll stand by him until the end”. Two days after his conviction, Pearey pleaded to the Home Office for permission for him and his wife to have a child by artificial insemination. Sharon said “I don’t care what other people think, I know Allan as a kind, loving man. If it’s possible for him to give me a baby that would be wonderful”, of which Linda retorted, “his own children are going through enough at the moment. Surely there’s no need to put another child through this agony”… …as well as his victims who may never have children of their own. 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 THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE:
This is Part One of Two of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by Murder Mile UK True Crime. From April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks were perpetrated on women and young girls on trains or near train stations on three routes from Central London to the South-East of England and Kent, they were the Bexleyheath Line, the North Kent Line and the Dartford Loop. This prolific serial rapist never disguised his face, he attacked in broad daylight, and he stuck to the areas he knew so well. But who was he?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How did a prolific serial rapist evade capture for so long? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m back at Charing Cross station, off The Strand, WC2; the same street as the last confirmed sighting of the Savaged Prince, just to the side of where the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper said farewell to her pal, the station where German tourist Heidi Mnilk met her death as confessed to by Patrick MacKay, and where a bag of laundry in left luggage bled red - coming soon to Murder Mile. We don’t appreciate how clean and safe our modern trains are; being heated, well-lit and ventilated open-carriages with every angle covered by cameras and communication cords for our safety. I mean, yes, the standard commute is a horrific assault on the senses as the tone deaf play drum n bass via an annoyingly tinny speaker, the stench of ‘the great unwashed’ smells like a flatulent wet dog soaked in puke, every surface is spattered with an ominous sticky residue from any number of foods or orifices, and even a 10 minute journey requires you to be scrubbed with hot bleach, but it was once a lot worse. The design and layout of the train carriages we have to today are as a direct result of the terrifying and deadly incidents inflicted on the fellow passengers in our past, especially on the three train lines covering this network; the North Kent Line, the Bexleyheath Line and the dreaded Dartford Loop. As a busy series of train lines from Central London through the commuter belt of South-East London and into Kent, the Dartford Loop was built in 1866 to alleviate congestion as the city expanded, and it remains a vital part of this link today. Sadly, with so many failings in its design, it became synonymous with crime, and from April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks on women and young girls. This cowardly rapist would be nicknamed ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But who was he? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 333: ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ – Part One of Two. During the height of The Beast’s spree of attacks on lone women across the network, Yvonne Roberts, a journalist working for the Evening Standard published an article titled ‘if only men knew how it felt’. Ringing true with many lone female commuters, she wrote: “a woman sits in the middle of two seats on the Charing Cross to Dartford train, her bag clutched to her like a bullet proof shield”, her only real protection being sat opposite a strange man in a cramped and dimly-lit compartment of just six seats. “It is mid afternoon on a Monday. The man who attacked or raped 17 women on or near this line… has mentally mugged every woman traveller by robbing her of her sense of ease. Women, of course, are accustomed to feeling uncomfortable and just plain frightened on public transport”, as in 1982, the year before, there were 570 assaults and 3 rapes on the networks line in these closed carriages. In 1983, a government white paper on ‘Public Safety on London Transport’ was published, but with 97 of the 106 witnesses who gave evidence being men, its recommendations were less about a woman’s right to be safe, and more about the impact on cost and profitability. By May 1983, the Greater London Council had recommended the installation of CCTV cameras in just 33 of its 247 tube stations, with some cameras (providing grainy and unclear footage) only available in the larger train terminuses. It was a safety system implemented by men who didn’t understand a woman’s plight. Yvonne Roberts continued “…on the Dartford train, even the open carriage has eight communication cords”, a simple pull cord which alerts the driver to an incident (and the conductor, if the train has one, which many don’t). “The police have been surprised that none of the woman attacked tried to use them”, but as she rightly noted, “how can they when, with a knee to their throat or back, they are out of reach?”. Yet, it wasn’t just the train that was a woman’s greatest danger, but the station and her walk home. Unlike many serial rapists, ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ didn’t stick to a single train, time or route, as being fuelled by his base desires, he hunted for lone and vulnerable women; day and night, on quiet and busy trains, and not just across a single trainline, but three, as these antiquated rolling stocks trundled through tiny towns and suburban villages, many of which had few street lights and a lone constable. The Dartford Loop began at Charing Cross, Waterloo East or London Bridge, and called at Hither Green, Lee, Mottingham, New Eltham, Sidcup, Albany Park, Bexley and Crayford. The Bexleyheath Line called at Lewisham, Blackheath, Kidbrooke, Eltham, Falconwood, Welling, Bexleyheath and Barnehurst. The North Kent at Lewisham, Blackheath, Charlton, Woolwich, Arsenal, Abbey Wood, Belvedere, Erith and Slade Green. And with all lines terminating at Dartford, for many, these names may feel as unfamiliar as a foreign land, far from where you feel safe, but to this serial rapist, it was as comfortable as home. Saturday the 23rd of April 1983 was said to be the first attack in this 15-month spree. That evening, at roughly 9:30pm, with a slight chill in the air, the streets were quiet and secluded. On Lingfield Crescent was Falconwood station, a tiny brick-built building in a small suburban village on the Bexleyheath Line, illuminated by a single lamp which cast an ominous orange glow. To the east was the Falconwood housing estate, but in all other directions were vast expanses of green; like Oxleas Wood, Avery Hill, Eltham Park, Shepherdleas Park, and just above the railway line, Falconwood Field. The day was uneventful for most; snooker player Cliff Thorburn was celebrating a perfect 147 break, Spandau Ballet's pop song ‘True’ was heading to #1, and tests had proven Hitler's diaries to be fake. One hour after dusk, a 16 year-old girl, her name rightly left anonymous, entered Falconwood station. With the station master off-duty, the ticket office closed and porters only at larger terminuses, she walked left along the platform and sat on a bench, waiting a few minutes for the train to Blackheath. It was dark, cold, wreathed in shadows, and the only other passenger waiting was a man. As she sat silently, he slowly crept nearer. Standing directly behind her, he stared, breathing deep, then pounced. With one hand firmly clasped over her mouth to stop her screaming, he hissed “don’t make a noise, or I will put this knife into your neck”, as the sharp pinch of small blade drew a few drops of her blood. She froze in fear, terrified, her limbs barely mobile, as with her fate in his hands, he forced her off the end of the platform, down a slope onto the side of the rails, and under a bridge at the Rochester Way. On a grass bank, he made her lie down. He asked “what’s your age?”, but she was too afraid to say. He asked “are you a virgin?”, of which any answer risked horrific ramifications for this petrified girl, so saying “yes, I am”, he glared at her and barked ”no, you’re not, you’re a whore”. Ripping off her tights with force and punching her head to keep her silent, it was as her train pulled away that he raped her. Minutes later, he fled. She was so traumatised, even though he didn’t wear a disguise, her description of him was vague, being average height, build and look. There were no witnesses, no suspects, and as an era where rapes weren’t treated seriously and DNA was a pipe-dream, there was no crime scene. The investigation was short and perfunctory, but several details were clear; she didn’t know him, he knew the area well, and although this was the first attack in his spree, she clearly wasn’t his first victim. A month later, he attacked again. On Thursday 19th of May 1983, four miles north-east of Falconwood station and just shy of Erith station on the North Kent Line, a 31-year-old nurse was walking home from her shift at the Erith and District Hospital on Park Crescent. It was 2:55pm, broad daylight, and the school bells were about to sound. As a cut-through between Bexley Road to Fraser Road, known by locals, Birch Walk is a tight secluded alley way with an industrial area to the left, a road passing nearby and a thin wooded area to the right. Walking down Birch Walk, she later told the Police that she noticed a man, “after I walked a short way, something made me look back”, as she realised he was the same man who had passed her moments before. He was walking behind her, silently, quickly and with a definite purpose, she said “I remember the sound of a squeaking shoe” drawing closer. And then, as was his method, he silenced her mouth with his palm, he placed a short sharp blade to her throat, he barked “if you make a sound, I will kill you”, and having dragged her into the nearest bushes, as cars passed within ear shot, he raped her. Giving a fuller description, she told Police, he was “25 to 30, tall being 5 foot 11, lean and slim, with brown fair hair and brown eyes, and was unshaven”, and although a photofit was compiled, he didn’t match any known attackers, and it was uncertain if he was the same man as the Falconwood rapist. And yet, Birch Walk would have an ominous significance for his victims… …and ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. In those early months, the police had no idea that the first two attacks were connected, as he changed his days, times, locations, and attacked not just in or near train stations, but on the trains themselves. On Monday 6th of June 1983, just two weeks after his last attack, a 20-year-old woman had boarded a North Kent train at Dartford to see her mother who lived in Erith, not far from Birch Walk. Again, he wore no disguise. Again, he gagged her and threatened her with a small blade similar to a potato knife. But having boarded the train as it departed the Dartford station, and chosen this closed compartment of a smoking carriage where only one of the six seats were occupied by a lone woman, once inside, she couldn’t flee her attacker – as he pushed her down into the seat, and groped her breasts – as with the only exit being the door to the platform, if she screamed, no-one could come to her aid until the train stopped. But she did… and although he was strong, she kept fighting him off, shouting, kicking and punching until the train arrived at Erith, and before it had come to a stop, he flung open the door, and fled fast. With her description similar to the rape in Birch Walk, police knew they had a serial attacker in their midst, but a detail didn’t make sense; the train from Dartford to Erith took just five minutes, so either he was so stupid he didn’t realise, or (as detectives suspected) he knew the area exceptionally well. The carriages used were Bulleid & Maunsell BR Mark 1s, the same coaches where German tourist Heidi Mnilk was murdered a decade earlier in a suspected failed rape which resulted in her attacker (said to be Patrick MacKay) throwing her body from the train, which were infamously dubbed as ‘rape traps’. By the 80s, the Dartford Loop, Bexleyheath and North Kent lines were so notorious, many commuters avoided them, with the worst stations said to be Barnehurst, Bexleyheath, Welling and Falconwood. Even the South East Rail manager, Michael Woods said “I’m too scared to ride in them. I’d be happier in an open coach than risk being caught in one where I couldn’t get out”, and in 1987, with the Sunday Mirror stating “callously, British Rail refuses to scrap 63 single compartment carriages on South East routes, even though they have been condemned as hunting grounds for rapists and muggers”. Being described as “places of dread for lone women”, it would take a brutal murder for change to happen. On the 23rd of March 1988, 26-year-old Deborah Linsley boarded the 2:16pm train from Petts Wood in Kent to London Victoria. Traveling in a closed six-seater compartment, although 70 people were on the train, no-one could come to her aid as fighting off a potential rapist who was “scruffy, short, stocky, with dirty blond hair", he brutally stabbed her to death, and fled, as the train pulled into Penge East. It remains unsolved to this day, but it wasn’t ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, we know that for certain… …yet almost being caught didn’t stop this serial rapist from attacking again. On Tuesday 2nd of August 1983, two months after his last attack, a 25 year-old woman boarded a train at Charing Cross station, heading to Mottingham on the Dartford Loop. As it arrived at London Bridge, a man walked the platform, peering into every closed compartment, and as it pulled away, he boarded. In this six-seat closed compartment, he sat opposite her with no-one either side, and again, as was his method, he muffled her mouth, put a small blade to her neck, and hissed “I’m going to have some fun with you”, and as she sat frozen in fear, for the next five minutes, he kissed her and groped her breasts. The next stop was Hither Green, and with a few commuters on the platform, rather than running, risking being caught, he ordered her “kiss me, pretend we’re a courting couple”, and she obeyed. It was just a two-minute journey to the next stop, but during it, he raped her, and at Lee station, he fled. That was his fourth confirmed attack in as many months, and even though he never hid his face, he brazenly struck on busy trains in the day, and clearly knew the train routes and timetables, another detail stood out. It was only a 2 minute journey from Hither Green to Lee when he raped her, and although he’d ejaculated, they couldn’t accurately determine his blood group as he secreted no sperm. So who was he, as at that point, he was a mystery? A special rape squad was established at Belvedere Police station under Detective Superintendent Colin Hawkins, with a team of 50 detectives dedicated to hunting ‘the Beast of Belvedere’. They knew his face, his method, and the four-square miles he stalked his prey, and although well versed in tracking all kinds of criminals, a serial rapist was a different proposition, as too often, the victims just vanish. DS Hawkins told the press: “we have heard of woman being raped, but we have no firm information. The embarrassment and even shame can be shattering to a victim. They want to get home, fling off their clothes and bathe away the ‘dirt’ many of them feel. This destroys important forensic evidence which could be vital to the investigation and give an important lead to the rapist. We do not want another victim, but if it does happen, we urge them to come to us first”. And although they knew that a police officer was likely to be the last person a victim of sexual assault would seek out, “every care will be given and the victim helped by sympathetic and experienced police woman and doctors”. It was one of London’s biggest manhunts, it had to be, as with his attacks increasing in frequency, they were also becoming more violent, as DS Hawkins stated “he has attacked victims with a bottle causing head wounds, another had a broken jaw, and another was struck several times with a lump of wood. The man is strong, fit, a fast runner, and is believed to do heavy manual work”, but except for a brief description - late 20s, tall, slim, with brown fair hair, brown eyes, a toothy gap and an odd smell – he didn’t match any known rapist on the police’s database… and his spree showed no signs of ceasing. Wednesday the 7th of September 1983, one month after the last attack, he struck again. A 24-year-old woman sat alone in a six-seat closed carriage at Dartford station waiting for the 7:56pm train to depart for Charing Cross. She was alone, and the only way to exit the carriage was the door to the platform, but as the guard’s whistle blew to order the train to depart, a man jumped on board. Having perfected his method by picking a pretty young woman, slight and vulnerable, sat alone in a carriage from where she couldn’t get help even if she screamed and couldn’t escape, as the train left the station, he muffled her, stuck a knife to her neck, and hissed “shut up and you will be alright”, and remaining unseen until Abbey Wood station, he sexually assaulted her for the full 13 minute journey. Immediately, she alerted the Police, and with the compartment well lit, she built on his description; “26-ish, slim build, hair parted left to right, long pointed nose, a gold stud earing, a brown crew neck jumper, a red checked shirt, blue jeans and white trainers”, with a toothy grin and he smelled stale. In September 1983, the detectives at Belvedere, in co-ordination with the British Transport Police put up posters across the London, Kent and South-East rail networks featuring an updated photofit of ‘The Beast’. It was a simple ploy to embed his likeness into the eyes of any past or possible future victims… …and it worked. On Wednesday the 28th of September 1983, three weeks after his last attack, he struck again. A 36-year-old dental nurse, possibly leaving the Erith and District Hospital just as the 31-year-old nurse had done who he had attacked just four months before, being just 6:50pm and still daylight, she too used the short but slightly wooded cut-through at Birch Walk to make her way to Erith station. She told detectives “as soon as I saw him, I recognised him. I had a feeling that this was the same man that raped a nurse in Birch Walk earlier this year”, but with nowhere to run except to either end of this isolated alley, before she could, he grabbed her, whispered “don’t scream, I won’t hurt you. I only want to look at you”, and pushed her to the floor, forced her legs apart, and he indecently assaulted her. Barely minutes later, he fled, and with the nurse screaming loud, she was found by two women. The posters made women aware, only if they had seen them… …but his next victim had not. Friday the 14th of October 1983, two weeks after his last attack, was the start of half term. Next to Barnehurst train station on the Bexleyheath Line, just off Erith Road and a mile south of Birch Walk stood Bursted Woods, 12 hectares of untouched woodland with heavy foliage and dense bushes. At roughly 5pm, his youngest victim, a 14-year-old girl was walking her dog, as she usually did, not far from her home. It was daylight and other walkers were in ear-shot. As her dog ran ahead, possibly chasing a squirrel, as a man passed her, before she knew she was in any danger, as was his method; he muffled her mouth, put a blade to her neck, and said “don’t make any noise and I won’t hurt you”. In panic, she pushed his hand away, screaming. Grabbing her, he spat “make a move again and you’re dead”. But as she struggled to break free of his grip, he punched her hard in the face, knocking her down, and although he lifted her skirt, groping her genitals, he repeatedly tried to rape her, but failed. His description matched ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ with the girl adding that he had “a local accent”. The force he had used showed an escalation in his desperation, as Police feared “he may get more violent unless he is caught soon”. Even he would later say of this sexual assault, “I feel very distressed about what I have done to this girl. I know it should not have happened to any woman of any age, but to do it to a child is unforgiveable”. Yet, it didn’t stop his attacks on lone women, traumatising them forever. But was this him? Compiling the four photofits of the rapist seen attacking women in or near to stations across the three lines, as well as on the trains, the Daily Mirror queried “were four rapists on the loose”, as ‘The Beast’ was scruffy, tall, fair-haired and local with a gap tooth, but the others were short, wore glasses, had beady eyes and a heavily pockmarked face, not unlike the man seen leaving Heidi Mnilk’s carriage. So far, detectives could attribute him to the attack on a 16 year old in Falconwood, a 30 year old and a 36-year-old in Birch Walk, a 20-year-old and a 24-year-old on the Dartford train, a 25 year-old on a train near Mottingham, and now, a 14-year-old schoolgirl at Bursted Woods. But a man with a similar description, in the same timeframe and within those four square miles, had raped a 20-year-old at Foots Cray Meadows and a 16-year-old in Abbey Wood, with more in Albany Park and Lesness Woods. But was this him, or someone similar? One attack not attributed to ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by himself was on Monday the 7th of November 1983, three weeks after his last, as a 23-year-old woman boarded the 10:32am to Dartford at Waterloo East. Again, he jumped into her empty carriage as it was departing, he sexually assaulted her, hopped off just minutes later at London Bridge, but this time, her “early 20s, scruffy and gap-toothed” attacker was said to have “sandy or gingery coloured hair”, and – for the first time ever – he stole her handbag. Had he started taking souvenirs, or had he committed so many attacks that he couldn’t recall them? The detectives were stuck and the investigation was slowly unravelling… …but they had already unearthed the biggest clue in their hunt for this serial rapist. On Wednesday the 6th of July 1983, in Lesnes Abbey Wood, 88 hectares of ancient woodland between Abbey Wood and Barnehurst stations near the town of Belvedere, a 16 year old girl was raped. Just a month later, on Thursday the 18th of August, again in broad daylight, a 30-year-old mother was raped in front of her 3-year-old son. Threatened with a knife, she was told he’d be stabbed if she screamed. Both attacks happened just 100 yards apart. And then, just after midnight on Tuesday 30th of August, two dog walkers heard a woman’s screams, their torches shined upon a man as he fled, and although the victim was never found, police flooded the area with more than 100 officers and sniffer dogs. Their plan was to flush him out, but he had already vanished. (End) PC Clifford Thomas was just a regular constable with the Belvedere police force assigned to search the woods armed with nothing but a truncheon and a torch, when he made a startling discovery. Under foot, as his heavy boots stood on a thick brush of holly leaves, something metal clinked underneath. The scene was fresh, having been vacated recently and used often, as with a sheet of corrugated iron covering the hole, when removed, it led to self-dug tunnel, 15 foot long by 3 foot wide. Said to be a “military style hideout”, the rapist had used it as he had lain in wait for his victims, hidden from view. Inside was everything a patient yet desperate attacker needed in his hunt for another woman to rape; a candle, a brush, a mug, tea bags, a jar of sugar, a stash of food, spare clothing, an air freshener, and a single mattress covered in polythene, where he had slept, and possibly attacked several victims. Police admitted it was luck that they had found it, yet being littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts, as well as a blouse, stockings and knickers, forensic scientists could potentially identify him. It was an unnerving insight into the warped mind of this serial rapist, but it wasn’t his only hideout. A day later, over the road and 100 yards away, a second bunker was found. It was smaller, but given its position, detectives believed this was where he would run after his attacks, to flee from any witnesses, to hide from the police, but – as a sexual thrill - to spy with glee as his victims panicked and screamed. Detective Inspector Geoff Cooper stated “the man we are looking for is a danger to the public. We are very, very concerned”, and with the surrounding neighbourhood rightly terrified, everyone was on the look out for ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But is this how a prolific serial rapist evaded capture for so long? Part two and the concluding part of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ 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. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
Stanley Court, Woodfield Road, Ealing @Googlemaps 2026 Sept 2022
EP332: THE EALING CROSSBOW KILLER: On Wednesday the 20th of July 1988, at 8am, 36-year-old business executive Diana Mam exited her flat at Stanley Court. Dressed in a smart green suit and stockings, she placed her handbag and briefcase on the floor, and as she locked the door, she applied a final coat of lipstick, ready for a busy day ahead. Only she never made it to work, she never made it to her car, she didn’t even make it from her door. Who killed her and why?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How can a sadistic killing be both unsolved and (some say) solved? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Woodfield Road in Ealing, W5; four streets north of the home of Alice Gross’s killer, five streets west of the brutal murder of Penny Bell, four streets north-west of the penultimate attack by The Beast and three streets south of the custard eating nonce - coming soon to Murder Mile. In a leafy enclave of Ealing near Montpelier Park sits Stanley Court, a block of 32 brown-bricked self-contained flats built in the 1930s to cater for West London bachelors. Back then, being fitted with a double bed, a modest kitchenette and a soft sofa for savouring one’s leisure time, the ambiance wasn’t sullied by the ear-shattering wail of ungrateful brats in need of a good slap, the feted stench of soiled nappies, and every surface spattered with all manner of bodily fluids and jam, as their sexless, broken and eternally knackered parents count the years until they can get out, flee, or just get divorced. Oh yes, tell me how having children is a ‘magical experience’, and when you’ve finished, tell your face. In 1988 though, with greater (and necessary) changes in equality laws, several professionals who lived at Stanley Court were women; career girls who eschewed marriage and babies for the independence to plough a furrow as a high-flying executive with their own flat, car and future. One woman was 36-year-old Diana Maw, a recruitment consultant who had done everything right in her life. She was well-liked, kind, popular, and had never made a single enemy. So, why would someone want her dead? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 332: The Ealing Crossbow Killer. Diana could be summed-up by the platitudes her family and friends shared when told of her murder. It made no sense “as she was liked by everyone”, “she was a lovely woman”, “absolutely delightful”, “no-one had a bad word to say about her”. And this wasn’t a façade, as it was exactly who she was. Diana Stafford Maw was born on the 2nd of August 1951 in Newcastle upon Tyne in the north-east of England. Said to be a well-rounded girl who skilfully balanced every facet of her life, she was popular, sporty, caring and academic, she had no rough edges or abrasive tone, as for her, life was about living. Her passion for education, travel and success, as well as her bright personality, came from her parents. Married in the Scottish city of Dundee during the cataclysmic chaos of the Second World War, Diana was the only child of Sheila, a GP from the earthy industrial heartland of Blackburn in Lancashire, and Theodore Stafford (who she was named after) being a respected eye surgeon from Warwickshire. They were two doctors who shunned the wealth of a private practice and the calm safety of academia to provide care and compassion for the poorest communities during the post-war gloom and the early days of the National Health Service. She was given a great start in life, but unlike many who felt that being pampered or privileged was their birthright, she never became self-centred, or squandered it. Educated at Cheltenham College, a prestigious boarding school for girls, in 1969 aged 18, she won an exchange scholarship and (already having a thirst for travel) she spent the year being educated in New York, which expanded her mind further to opportunities, but also the life of others, both rich and poor. In 1972, she graduated from Oxford Polytechnic with a Higher National Diploma in Business Studies. Aged 21, being career-motivated, for 13 years she worked as a recruitment consultant for a wealth of high-end executive search agencies gaining a reputation as “a professional of the highest calibre”, until November 1986, when she became an executive at the Industrial Society at 3 Carlton House Terrace. Alaistair Graham, the society’s director said “Diana was held in high regard by everyone”. By her mid-30s, she was a high flying executive on a wage of £25,000 (about £85,000 today), she had a sports car, and her own flat in a desirable enclave in Ealing. It was the era of the Yuppies, the ‘young upcoming professionals’ with their red braces, Filofaxes, cocaine habits, mobile phones the size of bricks, and an arrogant belief (being the Wall Street mantra) that “greed is good”, but Diana wasn’t part of that ilk. What grounded Diana was her faith. Both parents were Quakers, and as a frequent churchgoer, she embraced those same values of compassion, justice and honesty, with a solid focus on helping others. Unlike the city boys who lived a life of bragging, jet-setting and getting STDs, Diana was a dedicated council member of The Shaftesbury Homes and Arethusa, one of Britian’s oldest charities helping the young and unemployed, where “Diana passionately wanted to encourage people working in the city to help those who did not have their advantages”. And when she wasn’t striving to better the lives of those she had never met before, she read books to the elderly at Chestnut Lodge old people’s home. As a strong and independent woman, she had made the best of both worlds; an amazing job, a strong family life, a solid moral compass, she was financially stable, happy and had a good circle of friends. It made no sense that anyone would want to hurt her… …so why did they? Said to be an “all-round sports woman”, Diana was keen but wasn’t competitive; she liked fell walking and tennis, she was a regular at Ealing golf club playing weekly with her friend Anne to improve her 36 handicap, and she was an honorary Oxford Blue at lacrosse, but it was all for health and happiness. In her spare time, she liked playing Bridge, going to the theatre, overseas travel and choral singing, which aren’t the kind of pastimes where she may make a bitter rival and end in a savage blood feud. Maybe someone was jealous? As her life was desirable, her car stylish and her clothes fashionable, she was attractive, beloved, and living in a luxury flat. It’s possible, as we know she wasn’t murdered for her money, as all of her estate of £181000, about half a million pounds today, went to her parents. In February 1988, five months before her death, she met Michael Stevens, a 37-year-old executive at a premium electronics company. Falling madly in love, and being described as ‘the perfect couple’, by May, Diana had put her £130,000 flat at Stanley Court up for sale, as had Michael, their offer had been accepted on a £300,000 Victorian house in exclusive Mount Avenue, and she was waiting to exchange. Her life was good, she was happy, and it was about to get even better… …only someone was watching her. Stanley Court is a four-storey apartment block just off Woodfield Road, a quiet residential street. Encircled by a u-shaped driveway where parking is for residents only, it stands isolated, off-set from the other buildings, and the only way to access the flats is via the communal door. A few weeks prior, two of the flats had been burgled, so with Diana as secretary of the management committee, to nip this in the bud, they had a security door fitted, so the flats could only be accessed by an entry phone. Obviously, that didn’t stop all the crime. On Sunday 12th of June 1988, five weeks before her murder, the window of Diana’s car was smashed and her briefcase stolen. Nothing of value was inside, except her Filofax, so with it more of an annoyance but easily replaceable, she thought nothing more of it. One evening, her phone rang, but the caller hung up just as she answered. It was probably kids messing around, she thought. Days later, it happened again, but this time, the caller remained silent, listening as her voice became more panicked as she asked who it was and what they wanted, but heard nothing. Again, days later, the calls came through at odd times of the night, waking her with a start, disturbing her with heavy breathing, and making her life a misery, as how could she sleep knowing someone was out to unsettle her. And then, when they did speak, twice they would threaten her, using her name. She told her friends, but never said who the caller was, if she knew them, or what they had said. If it was a prank, it wasn’t funny. If it was a prowler, why had they targeted her? If it was a robber, was it him who had stolen her Filofax, but why hadn’t they tried to extort money from her? And who would want to harm her anyway, as it was unlikely to be an ex-boyfriend as she was on good terms with all. If their aim was to unnerve her, it worked, as every time she left her flat, she felt as if she was watched; whether shopping by herself, walking to her car, or going to the cinema with her boyfriend, Michael. On Sunday the 10th of July, 10 days prior, she tried not let it upset her, as her parents were down from Sheffield. Unaware of her fear as she didn’t want to worry them, they had a wonderful day-out at the Royal Horticultural Gardens at Wisley, Surrey, they watched a performance of Aida (the tragic opera by Verdi) at Earls Court, and her mother Sheila recalled “Diana enjoyed it enormously. She was her normal happy self... I last spoke to her on Saturday before and she was as happy as she had ever been”. Then, the anonymous phone calls ceased, as had the supposed stalking… …but now her killer would take a fatal step. Wednesday the 20th of July 1988 was a typical British summer’s day; it was cool and drizzly. Diana was due to give a seminar that morning so that was on her mind when, and at 8am sharp, she left Flat 24 on the second floor. Dressed in a smart green suit and stockings, she placed her handbag and briefcase on the floor, and as she locked the door, she applied a final coat of lipstick, ready for a busy day ahead. Only she never made it to work, she never made it to her car, she didn’t even make it from her door. At 11:30am, three-and-a-half hours later, 15-year-old Ali Farnam exited the neighbouring flat, and as anyone would do, he didn’t expect the worst, but something innocent. Ali stated “I saw her lying on her side at the end of the corridor near the exit. I thought she had fainted and I could see that her face had gone a horrible grey colour. I was really scared so I went to get my friend”. He thought she’d fallen. “There was bits of make-up scattered all around her, and she was still holding a lipstick in her hand”. But when they returned, “there was hardly any blood. Just a tiny drop. I knew something was wrong. My friend said he thought she was dead but I didn’t believe it. We called the police straight away… I’ll always be haunted by what I saw… her lying there with an arrow sticking out of the side of her head”. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Superintendent Malcolm Hackett. The building was sealed off, the street was closed, house-to-house enquiries were conducted, officers with police dogs and metal detectors scoured the area, and forensics examined the scene. But there was not a single witness to her murder, to her murderer, and the murder weapon was never found. Her keys were by her body, but neither her flat nor car had been accessed. Her briefcase lay beside her unopened, yet the scattered lipstick, purse and letters had clearly come from her missing handbag. But the most baffling aspect of the crime wasn’t this pointless theft, but the method of killing itself. Sticking out from behind her left ear was a six-inch aluminium shafted crossbow bolt. All that could be seen was the plastic flight, as able to travel at 135mph, its steel tip had narrowly missed her skull and severed her spinal cord, buckling her legs underneath her, killing her instantly. With no bruising, no scrapes and no sign of struggle, she had been shot, robbed of an almost empty bag, and her killer fled. With the hallway window shut and no broken glass, the autopsy determined that Diana had been shot at close range, which made no sense, as a crossbow is used for shooting at a distance, not inches away. Ballistics determined that the weapon was a Barnett Trident handheld mini-crossbow, like a pistol, as used by amateur hunters or sportsmen. It was small enough to hide in a bag or jacket, and although its 75lb draw-weight prod made it one of the most powerful handheld crossbows, it’s almost silent. Police checked every seller in the UK, but although a lethal weapon, as shops weren’t legally required to record who bought what and when, with 100,000 sold in the country yearly, it was a fruitless task. Several theories were postulated as to who Diana’s killer could have been. Every known burglar was questioned, but with no signs of a break in, that was ruled out. With the new security door fitted weeks before, this should have limited the number of people who had access to Stanley Court, but it was left open from 7am to 9am daily, for the postman, milkman and builders. And with no doorman, witnesses and being before CCTV was standard, anyone could have entered. With the Police describing her killing as “a million-to-one shot”, some queried if this was the work of a professional assassin? Only Diana had no association with crime, and as Detective Malcolm Hacket later stated “it was the kind of toy which somebody would use for target practice… it is not the sort of weapon an intelligent man would use if he was planning a cold-blooded murder”, especially a hitman. Another theory the detective posed was “the crossbow was intended to threaten her, but discharged accidentally” as it had a hair-trigger, or “we are unable to say whether the bolt was used to stab her”, as above everything else, it looked like a basic robbery. But for what, as no money was missing? One month later, Diana’s handbag was found hidden in bushes on a footpath between Mount Avenue and Montpelier Park, a third of a mile from the crime scene, but nothing of any value was taken. On Thursday the 8th of September 1988 at 9pm, an appeal was broadcast on BBC’s Crimewatch, and an eyewitness came forward. The day before the murder, an unnamed ice-cream vendor spotted “a slightly built blonde young man” passing Stanley Court, carrying a mini crossbow in his leather jacket and a set of crossbow bolts in his hand. He was 19 to 21 years old, 5 foot 8, and had “cold hard eyes”. A photofit was sent to all Police boroughs, but who was he? Nobody knew. With no arrests or suspects, the coroner Dr John Barton asked that the body be held at Ealing Hospital for four more weeks “to give the killer a chance to come forward and say that it was an accident”, but as nobody did, Diana was buried in her family home town of Aughton. And with that, the case stalled. A memorial service was held on the 21st of June at St Peter’s Church in Ealing. In her honour, The Diana Maw Commemoration Fund was established to provide unemployed young people with training, as the most fitting way to remember her. But her boyfriend, Michael Stevens, struggled to come to terms with her murder, recalling “I’ve almost given up hope that the killer would be brought to justice… if someone knew something they would have come forward… more appeals aren’t going to help”. It was a motiveless crime on an unlikely victim by a sadistic culprit who remained unknown. Likely, they were the same person who had broken into her car, stole her briefcase, stalked her and terrorised her by phone, but none of that could ever be proven. Yet what baffled everyone most was the reason. Diana Maw was lovely, kind and caring, a woman madly in love, who had no enemies or rivals… …at least, that was what it seemed, as someone had been watching her. Released in UK cinemas on 15th of January 1988, Fatal Attraction starring Michael Douglas and Glenn Close introduced to the world the term ‘bunny boiler’, meaning a manipulative and vengeful ex-lover. Jane Frances Salveson was a 35-year-old design consultant from Brook Green near Hammersmith. Like Diana, they were smart, driven, successful and ambitious, but where as Diana was caring and loving who brought happiness to everyone, although tall, blonde and attractive, plagued by self-doubt and regularly attending group psychotherapy sessions, Jane was said to be jealous, selfish and possessive. In 1982, six years earlier, while on a sailing holiday on the Isle of Wight, she was introduced by a friend to a handsome business executive who had a £17000 yacht called Sodium on Hayling Island. They fell in love, became a couple, and planned to marry and move in together. His name was Michael Stevens. In May 1988, Michael broke up with Jane, and planned to move in with his new lover, Diana. Said to be “depressive, grief stricken” after the break up, anyone else would have let it go, but Jane couldn’t. In court, Janes’ solicitor, Brian Raymond said “she behaved in what she described as an undignified manner… but it should not, however, have been interpreted in the horrendous sinister way it was”. When questioned by Police, having voluntarily submitted herself to be interviewed four times, giving up her fingerprints and allowing the search of her flat twice – admittedly months after the murder - she admitted following the couple on dates to the cinema, but said she “made no direct approaches”. She also denied making the phone calls, or breaking into her car to steal her briefcase and Filofax. Investigating her further, detectives found out that she had posed as a buyer on several occasions to get into Diana’s flat at Stanley Court before the killing, and the house Diana was buying with Michael. On Monday 18th of July, two days before the murder, Jane withdrew money from two cash machines, with one on Haymarket in Piccadilly, perhaps for innocent reasons, or (as the detectives suspected) to conceal her purchase. That same day, a woman – described as “blonde, slim and attractive” - entered the London Trading Post sports shop at 52 Haymarket and bought a Barnett Trident mini crossbow with “a 75lb draw weight prod”, identical to the murder weapon, and a set of six-inch crossbow bolts. Staff remembered her as “crossbows are almost exclusively bought by men”… …the problem was, the suspect seen near Diana’s flat with the crossbow was a man. Jane vehemently denied threatening, stealing from or killing Diana, and although her solicitor retorted “her actions make her a sad woman. She was obsessive, but not a killer”, and yet the Police were rightly suspicious. On Wednesday 30th of November at Ealing Police Station, Jane took part in a ID parade of nine similarly looking woman in front of the three witnesses whose evidence could convict her. The sales assistant who sold the crossbow failed to pick her out, as did the store’s cleaner, yet the ice-cream vendor who said he’d seen “a slightly built blonde young man… with cold hard eyes” picked Jane out, having been asked by detectives about the man he’d seen, “could it have been a woman?”, at which he said ‘yes’. Jane Salveson was arrested that day, even though the evidence against her was purely circumstantial and seven compelling witnesses stated that at the time of Diana’s murder, “she was in a business meeting at the other end of town”, two of whom gave their statements a month before the ID parade. On the 1st of December 1988, at Ealing Magistrates Court, she denied murder, with her solicitor stating “she DID follow her former boyfriend and his girlfriend. But she NEVER threatened violence to either of them. It is a shameful behaviour which she bitterly regrets now… brought about by the break-up”. Committed for trial, her bail was rejected as detectives felt she was unstable, suicidal, and “there may be a very real fear for the safety of her ex-boyfriend at her hands”, and being held on remand at Holloway prison, her solicitor stated “for Jane Salveson to be accused of murder is a terrible mistake”. But on Thursday the 21st of April 1989, all that changed during a routine remand hearing. (End) With Jane bailed in February to a friend’s house on Shakespeare Road in Acton, Clare Reggiori, solicitor for the Crown Prosecution Service admitted “due to the complexity of the investigation, this case was far from clear cut… therefore, on the evidence available we cannot safely seek to convict Miss Salveson of murder”. Jane wasn’t in court, but by the end of the four-minute hearing, she had been acquitted. Her solicitor, Brian Raymond stated “there had been a gaping hole in the evidence” with “the Police becoming fixated by the idea that Miss Salveson was guilty… the real killer of Miss Maw is out there now. Miss Salveson was guilty of no more than being unlucky in love, and her life has been devastated”, adding “there was at least one person with a more potent motive for wishing ill towards Diana Maw”. Jane stated “I am immensely relieved that this ordeal is over and I can become a private person again. I never doubted that my innocence would be proven when all the facts were known”. But by this point, her life had been “irrevocably damaged for wrongful arrest” which no compensation could rectify. With no trial, no further arrests or other suspects, Jane was forced to quit her job, and friends stated “the trauma of the 10 month inquiry left her a recluse and needing psychiatric care… her reputation has been tarnished and she feels it may never recover”. Since 1989, she has not given any interviews. As for the police, whose investigation had serious flaws, rather than the lead detective taking the full responsibility for this abject failure, an unnamed spokesman said “no decision on whether to continue the investigation has taken place, but if new evidence came to light, Miss Salveson could be charged”. Yet the true victims were Diana whose brilliant life was cut short so tragically, her boyfriend Michael whose future with her was taken, and Diana’s grieving parents who stated “one hopes that justice has been done, but it won’t bring Diana back”, as above it all, “the tragedy is that our daughter is dead”. After almost four decades, the murder of Diana Maw remains unsolved… (Fake ending, music distorts). …only that isn’t where this story ends. Having been branded a ‘bunny boiler’ by the press, the Daily Mirror wrote “jilted lover Jane Salveson… denied being the prowler who has been haunting her ex-boyfriend”, and his new girlfriend, Joanna. On the 20th of July 1989, three months after the acquittal and on the one-year anniversary of Diana’s murder, an anonymous letter was sent to the press giving them sordid details about Michael’s life. Two weeks later, his home in Battersea was burgled, a window was smashed but nothing was stolen. Two week after that, damage occurred to his new girlfriend’s garden, and fearing that someone was out to do them harm, as they had begun to receive threatening phone calls at night, they moved out. In the first week of August 1989, Cowes week, Michael’s yacht called Sodium was burgled, and several personal items of his was stolen, including his camera, keys, cheque book, sunglasses, and his diary. And then, in June 1990, while Michael & Joanna were on their honeymoon, a suspected arson attack badly damaged their new three-storey house in Fulham, a fire which could have killed its occupants. Someone hated Michael, his new wife, his happy life, and they wanted them to be truly terrified. Jane Salveson was the primary suspect, with all three cases brought to trial. But again, on the charge of arson and burglary of his home, the CPS dropped the case owing to a lack of evidence. And as for the burglary of his yacht, although his stolen possessions were found in Jane’s flat, she said the diary, keys, sunglasses and chequebook came into her possession “when we exchanged property after our relationship ended”, that a mystery man had tried to frame her by selling her his camera, and again, that she couldn’t have committed the yacht’s burglary as several friends confirmed she was with them. Acquitted of all charges, Jane Salveson was released, and hasn’t been publicly heard of since. In court, her lawyer claimed “she’s felt victimised by the Police and their incessant involvement in every aspect of her life. This is a case that was unlikely to have been investigated with the vigour that it was and she feels bitter that she has borne the brunt of a very powerful and resourceful prosecution team”. And that is where the story truly ends. A sadistic killing which some say is unsolved and yet solved. So, who murdered Diana Maw; was it the jealous and possessive ex-girlfriend of her husband-to-be, or a mysterious unnamed stranger? 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 is an in-depth, intensely research podcast using first hand accounts, court records, declassified police files and a wealth of reliable sources to bring you full and rich accounts of the lives, crimes and backgrounds of many of West London's unsolved murders:
As well as unearthing new angles on lesser known or infamous London-based murders; such as Tudor Simionov, Countess Teresa Łubieńska, Jane Andrews, Charlotte Flanagan, Joe Gynane, Peggy Richards, Peter Fasoli, Victor Castigador, Zakaria Bulhan, Emily Beilby Kaye, Daisy Edith Wallis, Glyndwr Michael, Tomasz Kocik, and John Sweeney to name a few, and a wealth of cases you won’t have heard before, and won’t hear anywhere else, as well as specialists pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury. PODCAST EPISODES:
Andre Mizelas, the celebrity hairstylist, Hyde Park, 1970
Bernard Michael Oliver, kidnapped by a pedophile gang?
Norman Rickard & Alan Vigar (The Twilight Sex Killings)
On Monday 19th of February 1962 at roughly 4pm, the body of Norman Edward Rickard was found in the basement flat at 264 Elgin Avenue in Maida Vale. He had been strangled, tied up and his body left in a wardrobe. Police believed it was gay sex gone wrong. But that same day, 23-year-old Alan Vigar was strangled, undressed, willingly been tied up and asphyxiated, what was believed to be part of this sex play. Only the press suspected this was the Twilight Sex Killer?
Jeanne Western, a prostitute mistakenly killed in a gangland hit
On Monday 12th of May 1975 at 2:40pm, a fire broke out on the first and second floors of 3 Peter Street in Soho, London, W1. Joseph Frendo, Alfred Paul Tabone & John Everett were tried for GBH, manslaughter and murder having deliberately set fire to the building with a petrol bomb.
Soho prostitute Jeanne Odette Juliette Western was mistakenly targeted as the witless gang had got the numbers on the doorbells wrong, and with both Jeanne and her maid, Pietrina Conzimu burning to death, they became the unwitting victims of a campaign of violence and terror between rival gang, one of whom was ‘The Syndicate’. Vice Girl Murders; Marina Monti & Racheal Applewhaite, 1987
Josef Balog "acquitted" of Margaret Cameron's murder,1969
On Tuesday 11th March 1969, a 52-year-old prostitute, Margaret Farlow Cameron, known as ‘Scotch Maggie’ went missing from her home at 3 Oxford Gardens near Notting Hill. Two days later, her semi-clad body was found inside a suitcase in an abandoned house at 140 Kensal Road. But who had killer her and why? Polish rag n bone man, Josef Balog was suspected, but acquitted of her murder. But what piece of evidence may have proven his guilt?
Emmy Werner, The Queen's Hotel, Bayswater, W2,
Gladys Hanrahan, murdered by Albert Butler, 1947, Regent's Park?
Freddie Mills celebrity boxer's murder or suicide, in Soho, 1967
Covering just 20 square miles of West London, Murder Mile gives into thrilling and heart-wrenching cases involving serial killers, assassinations, massacres, hitmen, torturers, drug dealers, cults, child killers, extortion, prostitution, gangland slayings, abortionists, poisoners, slavery, and personal tragedy.
Having garnered more than 3000+ five-star reviews, Murder Mile has been praised in the press as Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, 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. Murder Mile has been the primary research on true crime podcasts Casefile, Morbid, My Favorite Murder, and Michael was also a consultant on highly acclaimed podcast series Bad Woman: The Blackout Ripper hosted by historian Hallie Rubenhold, author of 'The Five'. Murder Mile UK True Crime has had 15 million+ downloads and continues to grow year on year, as it maintains (and improves on) its quality in research, storytelling and sound design. It continually strives to be original, different and always bring the audience a podcast series they can’t hear anywhere else. Murder Mile is unique and its fans appreciate that. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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