Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The Terrace on Richmond Hill where the "first date" of Kate Beagley and Karl Taylor began... and ended
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Terrace on Richmond HIll is marked with a green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Here's two little video to accompany this episode; the one of the left show The Terrace on Richmond Hill and the Roebuck pub, and the one on the right shows the BP garage in Shepherd's Bush where Karl drove Kate's car wiht her body in the boot. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
The Roebuck Pub where they went for a drink shortly before Kate was murdered
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: Sadly, as there is now file in the National Archives on this investigation (as it's still very new) I had to rely on newspapers and yucky tabloid trash so there may (and almost vertainly) will be mistakes with the research, but I've tried my best with limited and dubious sources.
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE FIRST DATE KILLER
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 87: The First Date Killer. Today I’m standing on Richmond Hill, the furthest west we’ve travelled, but a story which visits many places we’ve covered before; starting in a West End club (one street from where The Blackout Ripper met Greta Hayward), the killer living on Kemble Street (where Mary Ann Moriarty axed her abusive husband to death), part of the escape taking place just a few streets from home of Katerina Koneva and the murder itself, within sight off the Thames Towpath Murders - coming soon to Murder Mile. The Terrace on Richmond Hill is world famous. It may not look much - being a sandy gravel track, high on a hill, dotted with trees and lined with rows of wooden bench, all facing west - but with only wealthy townhouses behind and nothing in front, this stunning unspoiled vista of the River Thames snaking through the lush greenery of Richmond Park and Hampton Court is protected by an Act of Parliament. It’s a place of beauty, tranquillity and romance, where many people travel to soak up the sights and even - for those just passing it’s almost impossible not to stop, sit and silently watch the sun set. The Terrace is a place for couples. Here you will see it all; sweet old codgers doddering along, sweaty youngsters playing tonsil tennis, the recently-wed who blew fifty grand to notice discover it’s “same shit different day” and the three-month’ers who (having stopped rutting) realise they’ve got nothing to say, so all they do is hug and kiss every six seconds; as well as the married ones who only have eyes for their phones, the soon-to-be divorced seeking a high ledge for a shove, Tinder dates banging away in the bushes, and - of course – the best relationship ever, anyone with a dog, as it’s all about loyalty, belly tickles and (even though one of them has spent the day licking their arsehole) lots of kissing. This is also a great place to come on a first date, as you don’t need to talk, you just need to sit. And although, it’s pretty much a perfect place for love to blossom, even a romance can turn into a tragedy. As it was here, on Wednesday 30th May 2007, having met just days before, that Kate Beagley would begin her date with Karl Taylor, and this beauty spot would turn into a scene of horror. (Interstitial) Unlike so many tragic stories, Kate’s is not exceptional; she wasn’t cursed or crazy, idiotic or irrational, she was just an ordinary woman doing an everyday thing for a very normal reason. Without the benefit of hindsight, I doubt you would have done anything different, so take Kate’s story as a cautionary tale. 32-year-old Kate Beagley was a delight. Described by friends and family as being a brilliant mix of head and heart, she was smart and savvy, bubbly and bold, clever and kind, an independent lady who many described as the “complete package” – she was brilliant, beautiful, but also very down-to-earth. Born and raised in Hounslow, West London, Kate was raised in a close-knit family who stuck together through thick-and-thin; they taught her to be moral and decent, they encouraged her to be strong and confident, and – living in a big city – instead of filling her head with fear, they armed her with all the precautions a young woman should take, but ensured she had the confidence to live life to the full. If you’re wondering why I’m telling this, it’s because there is no reason why anyone should hate her. She had no big issues, no dark past and no secret life. She didn’t have debts, enemies or fears. She drank in moderation (but preferred to drive), she didn’t do drugs (but didn’t judge those who did) and she didn’t commit crimes (but didn’t preach those who had). She didn’t start fights, curse strangers or rub people up the wrong way. In short, she didn’t have a bad bone in her body. But what makes her different? Nothing. She was special to those who knew her, but unremarkable to those who didn’t; she didn’t stick out and she didn’t slink away, she was ordinary - just like you and me. Taking pride in her appearance, Kate was pretty but never vain, and although - being five foot six with blonde collar-length hair and a big beaming smile - she had been blessed by nature, but like most girls in their early thirties, being worried about her weight, she kept fit by doing cycling, running and yoga. With dreams of seeing the world, Kate graduated university with a degree in tourism. It was a perfect choice for her; as although she loved people, travel and having fun, being also sensible, level-headed and incredibly generous, Kate was a real people-pleaser who always put others before herself. As with most of us, her dream didn’t pan-out, so she ploughed her skills into a regular job as National Compliance Manager for the energy company Centrica over in Windsor, where she had been for about ten years. She was punctual, polite and recently promoted. She had a good team, a steady income, a shiny grey VW Golf as a company car and owned her own flat in Walton-on-Thames. And that was Kate’s life in a nutshell. She liked music and reading. She had a good life balance between family and friends. She was recently single and looking-for-love. She had a few minor worries over her mum’s health and her career, but having made some notes in the self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, she wasn’t unduly worried. And with her 33rd birthday soon, she had planned a city-break in Barcelona and a camping trip in Torquay. Just like you and me, she was ordinary, unremarkable, but special in her own way. With work over and the weekend here, Kate and her pals went out to the West End; where they drank, danced and laughed. That night Kate met Karl Taylor, and twelve days later, she was dead (Interstitial). Friday 18th May 2007 was the weekend before the Bank Holiday - typically for Britain - it was wet and gloomy, so the streets were empty but the pubs were packed with punters. For the girls, it was just a regular night out; they had good fun, no stress and lots of giggles, but – more importantly, as they drank booze and were chatted-up by blokes - they kept an eye out for each other. At 11pm, as the pubs closed, Kate and her chums headed to The C C Club at 13 Coventry Street, W1; a now-defunct West End nightclub between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. Hailed as “host to many celebrity parties”, with a strict dress-to-impress policy, a funky mix of R&B, hip-hop and (what was dubbed) “booty shaking choons”, having been here before, they knew it was safe place to unwind. As often happens, being an attractive bubbly young lady who exuded warmth, it wasn’t a surprise that Kate drew the attention of men - but taught to be savvy around strangers - she knew how to be engaging, polite and yet keep-her-distance until she was certain that he wasn’t a weirdo. One man who Kate was instantly attracted to was 27-year-old Karl Taylor; as a handsome young man with brown cropped hair, a neat designer beard and casual fashionable clothes, he looked good. As a confident, chatty and cheeky chappie, he had the gift-of-the-gab. Being small but athletically built, it was unsurprising to hear that he was a fitness instructor and a martial-arts trainer. But as he also did unpaid coaching for an under-12’s football team, she could see he was serious, but he had a soft side. There was clearly a chemistry between them, a spark, so as they both gave-off all the right signals, and her friends had no reason to disapprove, Kate & Karl exchanged phone numbers. That was it. With the night over, the girls drank-up, hopped into cabs and headed-off home, promising to text each other to say “I made it home safe”, which they did. It was a fun but unremarkable evening. Over the next ten days, Kate & Karl texted, flirted and having got to know each other a little bit better, they agreed to meet on 30th May 2007 – that was their first date together and Kate’s last day alive. Now, you know he is pure evil, but (without the benefit of hindsight) how would Kate know that? Well, she didn’t, so although she planned to have a nice time, being a savvy lady, she took every precaution. Wednesday 30th May 2007 was just a very ordinary day. Kate left work at 5pm, arrived home at 6pm, ate dinner, showered, changed from work clothes to smart casual, popped-in to see her parents and – having told her friends and family her plans for the evening - she left Walton-on-Thames at 7:30pm. Having chosen a mid-week date for this meet-up, as she wasn’t going to drink or stay out late, she opted to drive and agreed to pick him up half-way. The twelve-mile journey took forty minutes and at 8:20pm – as she often did on first dates – she texted her friend, it read; “In Chiswick to meet Karl”. At 8:30pm, spotting him dressed in a black tracksuit and dark fur-lined jacket, she picked-up Karl on Chiswick High Road, drove her silvery-grey VW Golf seven and a half miles south-west to Richmond Hill, and having parked-up under a light on a residential street, just down from the Roebuck public house, at 8:50pm Kate texted her friend, it read; “made it to Richmond”. To inject an air of romance into an awkward situation, Kate & Karl sat on a bench as they watched the sun set over The Thames. With thick leaves in the trees above and a weak glow from the streetlamps behind, The Terrace was dark, but being a public place full of people, she knew it was a safe space. At 9:08pm exactly, with most of May being a typically British drizzly wet wash-out, as the sunset was less of a fiery red orb and more like an old Aspirin dunked in a dirty glass of brown fizz, as the joggers and dog walkers left, so did Kate & Karl, as they headed a few yards away to the pub for a drink. At 9:31pm, CCTV captured the couple enter the Roebuck pub; being a very traditional if slightly old- fashioned British boozer, the bar was brightly-lit, the music was low and it was half-full of regulars. Kate & Karl sat at a table by the window, but it was clear that the mood was sullied. And as much as Karl kept talking, Kate kept texting, keeping her friends abreast of how badly the date was going. After just one hour, she had witnessed the real Karl Taylor and she did like what she had seen. The sweet, kind and charismatic man she had met in ‘The C C Club’ had gone; and in his place was a vain arrogant asshole who was only in love with himself, a self-professed ladies’ man who bragged about his many conquests, an emotionally-unstable boy who would be laughing one second and close to tears the next, and a shameless womaniser who – including tonight - had cheated on his girlfriend. At 10:30pm, having had enough, Kate finished her orange juice, politely told him she was going home, they left the pub and walked a few yards up Richmond Hill towards Kate’s car - the date was over. But Karl couldn’t find his house keys, and as he couldn’t leave without them, and she wouldn’t leave without him, doing the decent thing, Kate helped Karl retrace their steps to find his keys. Of course, we know they weren’t missing, we know they were in his pocket, but Kate had no way to know that. Using the bright beams of their phone’s torches, they scoured the path’s grey stone slabs, the sandy gravel track and the dark recesses by the bench where they had watched the sun set, but with no sight of his keys, they retraced their steps to where this awful date had begun… and where it would end. One hundred yards west is the more famous part of The Terrace; a stunning 18th century garden shaped by black wrought-iron gates, neat cultivated bushes and a series of sandstone steps leading to two ornate terraces. It’s beautiful, iconic and romantic. But at night, it’s also dark, silent and remote. For Kate, this detour was little more than a mild annoyance and being just thirty feet from her car, the road and a few houses, she felt she was safe. But with her head down, her eyes focussed and her ears listening out for the clink of keys, she had no idea who her date really was, or what he had in mind. While held at Wandsworth Prison, he claimed he had accidentally stabbed her as he tried to steal her car. He said “I don’t know what happened. She wouldn’t give her keys to me, then she started moving and shaking, the knife went into her wind pipe and she died”. Only we know that this was a lie. At the Old Bailey, his defence was that Kate was depressed, that she had told him her woes and (using the knife he only carried when he felt suicidal) that she had killed herself, later stating, "I realised she passed away. I lay on the grass. I was crying profusely". Only we know that this was also a lie. And although, in front of her bewildered family, he displayed how she had repeatedly stabbed herself in the neck with his knife, when asked why this fitness instructor who was trained in martial arts hadn’t disarmed her, he replied, "I didn't know this girl. I just didn't know what to do." But that too was a lie. The real truth was truly horrific… Having been distracted by a fruitless search for a set of missing keys, from inside the sleeve of his fur-lined jacket, he pulled a kitchen knife. Kate was subjected to a brutal and frenzied attack, it was over within a flash, but in those brief and terrifying few seconds, Karl had plunged the six-inch blade deep into her face, neck and head, a total of thirty-one times. So fierce was his hate-filled rage that he shattered her facial bones, split open her airway, splintered her spinal cord and – having severed her carotid artery and her jugular vein - Kate bled-out on the cold stone steps and died just moments later. Kate Beagley was a defenceless woman going out-of-her-way to do a good deed for a man she barely knew. She lived and died doing what was right, putting the needs of others over her own and to ensure her own safety – without the benefit of hindsight - she took every possible precaution. Karl Taylor was an arrogant, manipulative and highly dangerous monster who cruelly ended the life of a truly lovely person, all because this emotionally-shallow selfish lothario had been spurned by a girl. And as much as he claimed he was remorseful; he stole her car as callously as he took her life. By 10:40pm, as the dimly-lit street was still quiet, no sirens were heard, nobody passed-by and not a single curtain twitched in the houses opposite, being a cloudy moonless night, Karl dragged her lifeless body up the stone steps, bundled her hacked-up remains into her car boot and drove off. At 11:50pm, the silvery-grey VW Golf was caught on camera crossing Chiswick Bridge. At 12:20am, at the BP Garage on Shepherd’s Bush Green, the car pulled-in, Karl calmly phoned his girlfriend, joked with the other drivers and used Kate’s bank card to fill-up with fuel; her corpse was hidden by his fur-lined jacket and the thick spatter of her blood was masked by his black tracksuit. At 1:40am, 15 miles north-east, he arrived at Oxhey Woods car park; a dark isolated wooded-space used by visitors of the nature reserve, but being a weekday and after midnight, it was empty. There he stripped her of her clothes and her dignity, used water to wash away his DNA, dumped her dead body in the bushes and casually tossed the knife and her clothes from her car window as he fled down the M1 motorway. His only thoughts were for himself; not for Kate, her friends or her family. He didn’t call an ambulance, he didn’t call the Police, and he didn’t leave Kate anywhere where she could be found, and although knowing that she was dead wouldn’t be as traumatic as never knowing her fate, for the days that Kate wasn’t found, it gave her loved one’s false hope that she was safe. The next morning, when Kate failed to show-up for work, her colleagues knew this was unusual. When she didn’t reply to any calls, texts or emails, her friends grew concerned. And with her car missing and her flat empty, her family suspected the worst. Having been missing for 24 hours, Kate’s father (Alan) alerted the Police, and although her disappearance was initially classed as a ‘missing persons’, with her vanishing being so out-of-character, they escalated it to a possible kidnapping. Her friends and family checked everywhere, asked everyone and did everything, but Kate was nowhere to be found. For five days, Kate was missing… but Karl didn’t care. Just hours after her murder, as this supposedly remorseful killer sped around the streets of Harlesden – the car boot still soaked, his tracksuit stained, his fur-lined jacket bloodied – as the VW Golf’s wheels screeched outside of his friend’s flat, although Adrian Cardbow was fast asleep, he was rudely woken by Karl who cockily crowed “wakey-wakey, rise and shine”. It was early, very early, but being in high spirits, the callous killer was all smiles, as he wanted to brag to his pals and take his new car for a spin. As Kate’s colleagues stared at her empty desk, terrified for her safety and painfully missing their friend; Karl was whizzing about having a merry-old-time, as he zipped around in his brand new VW Golf; for trips out with his chum and shopping trips with his girlfriend, he even drove his nephew to playschool. To his passengers, it must have seemed strange that although Karl had he said he had bought the car, it was still filled with the previous owner’s stuff; like Robbie Williams CDs, Marks & Spencer’s vouchers, a self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, and a Nokia phone which (when it started ringing) Karl ripped out the battery, the SIM card and tried to flog it off to Adrian? Or maybe it didn’t strange. Either way, that night, they went out to the West End and drank, as Kate’s loved one’s barely slept a wink. But finding Karl Taylor wouldn’t be difficult; having only met him once in the booming darkness of The C C Club almost two weeks prior, collectively Kate’s friends recalled his name, his face and his job, with the Police searching Kate’s bank cards they found crystal-clear footage of the suspect buying fuel, and with Kate’s work mobile still in her flat and containing a text from Karl, he was arrested the next day. On Friday 1st June 2007, barely thirty-six hours after her murder, Karl was questioned. At first, he refused to give any answers and simply replied “no comment” to every question. Then, being vague and evasive, the claimed the date went well and she’d dropped him off in Twickenham. After that, he concocted an implausible story about her suicide, having gleaned her personal thoughts from some notes written in her self-help book. And finally, after several hours of cross-examination in what was still a potential kidnapping, he broke down and confessed to the murder of Kate Beagley… …all the while, still implying it was her fault - “She pushed me away. She was grabbing me and I stabbed her in the throat. I constantly and consistently cut her in the neck because she was going for my face". Later that day, Karl lead the Police to Kate’s car which he had parked on Leopold Road in Harlesden. Inside, they found DNA for both the victim and suspect; her blood still stained the boot, the steering wheel and his clothing; his fingerprints were found on her phone, purse and bank cards; along the M1 they found her torn clothes, the bloodied knife, the water bottle he had used to bathe her; and on the morning of Monday 4th June 2007, just five days later, among the nettles, weeds and broken branches of Oxhey Woods, the naked and decomposing body of 32-year-old Kate Beagley was found. (End) Karl Joseph Taylor was tried at the Old Bailey; he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder, he stuck to his story that Kate had committed suicide and (even used his time in the witness box) to brag about his success with women. But after an eight-month investigation, a two-week trial and overwhelming evidence, a unanimous jury took just two hours to find him guilty and he was sentenced to life in prison. From his prison bunk, always being arrogant-to-the-last, Karl wrote a letter to Kate’s grieving family, in which he called the prosecution ‘obscene’ and made himself out to be this case’s real victim; it read; "We live in a world where life is hard for all, and those who try and embrace good nature get rejected! Without any doubt what I did was wrong!!! But ask yourself this? Whose life have I really taken?” Kate’s dad paid tribute to his daughter saying "Kate was a loving thoughtful daughter, sister and friend, as devoted to us as we were to her. Our family has been devastated and life seems empty. I left her looking forward to an evening out but she was brutally murdered by the man she went to meet”. Kate had done nothing wrong, made no mistakes and took every precaution when she went out on a date. He could have been anyone; a nobody, a new friend or a future husband? But instead she met her death. So, although Kate’s story is a cautionary tale, I don’t mean for you should live in fear, but to live your life to the fullest, as Kate would have, because you never know which day will be your last. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, as always, we have some Extra Mile goodness after the break, so plop a bag in your mug, a splash of milk and two sugars, and get ready for some utter drivel from yours truly. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who this week are Nicola Zieba and Amy Hussain, I thank you. With a big thank you to anyone who shares Murder Mile in person or on social media. As this podcast is, let’s be honest, an acquired taste for only the best and most intelligent of true-crime fans, these personal recommendations are hugely appreciated. If you do one, please feel free to tag Murder Mile in and I’ll share it far and wide. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Twyford Avenue in West Acton where The Beast lived
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-FOUR: Today’s episode is the final part about the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva; by pure luck her killer had been caught, and what seemed like a one-off attack led to “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” and unravelled a catalogue of failure by the authorities in both Britain and Poland.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
As the exact location of the flat where Andrzej Kunowski lived and where the Korean student was raped hasn't been publicly revealed, I've added the location of Twyford Avenue, but not the exact number. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: See Part One. MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART THREE OF THE BEAST.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is the final part about the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva; by pure luck her killer had been caught, and what seemed like a one-off attack led to “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” and unravelled a catalogue of failure by the authorities in both Britain and Poland. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 85: The Beast – Part Three. Today I’m standing by bus stop K on the Goldhawk Road, W12; an eight-minute stroll from the former family home of Katerina Koneva, a nine-minute chug from her old school, three tube stops east of The Beast’s flat on Twyford Avenue, a full day’s drive from the Koneva’s homeland in North Macedonia, but nine hundred and sixty-four miles west from where this story actually began. Stop K is just a regular bus stop on an ordinary West London street; it has a single-sided Perspex shelter (barely big enough for three pensioners, a pram, a small poodle and half a posterior, but at least having only one wall the whiff of BO, eggy-breaths and bum-boffs doesn’t linger), it has a plastic wipe-clean bench (dotted with cigarette burns as if someone’s written “help me” in Morse code), a stinky bin overflowing with the salad from burgers and kebabs (meaning the bin’s healthier than half the kids) and a countdown clock which never works (so one minute here feels like a week in Groundhog Day). Twenty-three years after her murder, many of the family-run shops on Goldhawk Road (the barbers, the bakers or the tailors) have gone, and although it seems innocent enough, bus stop K still remains. As it was here, on Thursday 22nd May 1997, from the comfort of his regular seat, that a sadistic and predatory paedophile would watch twelve-year-old schoolgirl Katerina Koneva exit her bus and follow her home. His name was Andrzej Kunowski and he would be known as The Beast... (Interstitial) …but Katerina wasn’t picked at random, she was chosen, thirty years before she was even born. In 1956, in the Polish city of Warsaw, Andrzej Kunowski was born Andrzej Klembert, the only child of Elzbieta Klembert; an unmarried mother and a habitual thief struggling to survive behind the Soviet side of the Iron Curtain, as - having signed the Warsaw Pact alongside several states in the Communist Bloc including Albania, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, East Germany, Hungary and Romania to form an uneasy alliance with the Soviet Union - until the fall of the Berlin Wall, Poland would struggle. Conceived by accident, even as a baby, Andrzej wasn’t loved. With an absent father, few relatives and no brothers or sisters, although he had no competition for his mother’s affection, still it never came. Aged two, Andrzej was committed to the Warsaw orphanage; a bleak concrete prison full of unwanted babies and abandoned boys, but it wasn’t for something bad that he had done. As coming from a small family – with his mother a thief, his father a burglar, his grandmother a fraudster and his grandfather committed to a psychiatric hospital for sexual offences – as all of his family were in prison, the little boy had nowhere else to go. So, for seven months solid, all he did was cry; he had no-one to love, hug or cuddle him, he had been abandoned and he was too young to understand why. Upon release, Elzbieta fled to Mlawa (“Mwarva”), an industrial town north of Warsaw and married a builder called Stephan Kunowski; hoping to make a better life for herself. But by then, Andrzej had become obsessive and clingy; unwilling to let go of his tiny mother’s legs, he cried whenever she pushed him away, he threw hysterical fits anytime she ignored him and should his dark-haired mama dare show an ounce of affection to anyone but him, the unruly child would explode in a volatile temper, only calming once he was returned to her. And his school life was no better. As an anxious five-year-old, to Andrzej there was no difference between school and the orphanage, so as the little boy stood at the school gates crying for his mother, having been mercilessly teased for being short, messy and smelly, the bigger boys also branded him a “momma’s boy”. And although he was only little, being cursed by quick fists and a short fuse, these early fights taught him to stand-his-ground, to use force to get whatever he wanted and by gripping his bullies by the neck and squeezing - until they apologised or passed-out - he also learned to love the feeling that he could control others. As Andrzej grew, feeling unloved and inferior, he became fastidiously clean - with pressed shirts, shiny shoes and an excess of aftershave – as he directed his affections on the girls which appealed to him most; all who were petite girls with pale skin, small-features, a child-like frame and long dark-hair. At first, his intentions were not sexual, he just wanted to feel loved, but again he was rejected. As puberty hit, hormones raged and (unlike the bigger boys who had sprouted-up) being a little fatty stuck at five-foot-three, Andrzej became more solitary, isolated and insular; a chronic masturbator who spent hours silently sat in his bedroom, spying the streets and peeping in windows, obsessively seeking a very specific sort-of girl and fixated by tiny pale brunettes – not unlike his own mother. In 1969, aged 13, Andrzej was arrested for the first time; it was a small offence for the minor theft of a young lady’s handbag, and for that he was sentenced to six months in a juvenile detention facility. The crime was frivolous, irrational and spontaneous; he didn’t need the money, he didn’t want the item and (with much of his trauma stemming from his time in the orphanage) he was terrified of being locked-up, but the mugging of a young dark-haired lady wasn’t about financial gain, it was about control. And it marked the start of new and very violent phase in the life of The Beast (Interstitial). In May 1973, aged 17, having progressed from muggings and robberies to car thefts and burglaries, Andrzej was released from juvenile detention; his behaviour was good, his attitude was fine and having participated in a few programmes – including tailoring, for which his chunky little digits seemed too big for such fine work, but his skill was undeniable – the prison felt he had been rehabilitated. Only he hadn’t. This incarcerationiHi had only made his obsession worse, every day was a cruel reminder of his time at the orphanage - when trapped behind iron bars and concrete walls - all he could think about was the affections of his mother… and now, free but unable to have her, he would go after the next best thing. In June 1973, a few weeks after his release, he dragged his 13-year-old neighbour off his own street, into some bushes and raped her. It was daylight, she knew him and he didn’t wear a disguise. That may seem odd, almost bizarre, but everything which became the hallmark of his attacks (including the brutal murder of Katerina Koneva) started right here. As with each and every victim:
He was arrested, tried and (with two more girls having identified Andrzej Kunowski as their attacker) as a convicted rapist and highly dangerous paedophile, he was sent to prison for just three years. He served his time; he was released and - with his obsession now worse – his terrifying spree of the rape and strangulation of young women and little girls started immediately, were triggered without reason and never ceased; sometimes he attacked once a year, but often he attacked several times a day. What follows are only the rapes that a court could prove:
Why he hadn’t been caught still beggar’s belief? By the start of a New Year, with his attacks seeing no sign of abating, on 26th January 1978, in a single day, he raped three more women. Thankfully, owing only to luck, having recklessly left fingerprints at the scene, Andrzej Kunowski was arrested and finally – as one of Poland’s most prolific rapists and paedophiles – he was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. But even in an all-male-prison, his sexual assaults continued; on 24th February 1979, he forced a small dark-haired cellmate to perform oral sex on him, one week later he raped another cell-mate and – as a fine example of just how incompetent the Polish justice system was – somehow, on 25th April 1979, he escaped from prison. Six weeks later, he raped a 13-year-old girl as she walked home from school. He was arrested, re-escaped from prison and committed six further rapes before being re-arrested in 1983 and sentenced to thirty years in a maximum-security prison - from which he would never escape. And he wouldn’t. No, instead, they let him out. By 1989, following the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of Communism and to celebrate the election of Poland’s first democratically elected president - Lech Walesa – as part of an offender amnesty, the Polish government released hundreds of prisoners, one of whom was Andrzej Kunowski, having served just six years out of thirty. In 1992, he was released, he married, he fathered a daughter, he got a job as a door-to-door cosmetics salesman, and raped at least five more girls, the youngest was just ten. But the authority’s incompetence didn’t end there… Andrzej Kunowski was a violent, calculated and deeply disturbed psychopath who was unrepentant for his crimes, unsympathetic of his victims and unable to stop his spree of rape and strangulation; he was a repeat offender with no chance of rehabilitation, who over thirty years was convicted of more than seventy charges for rape, abduction, sexual assault and the attempted murder of young women, girls and children, leaving possibly hundreds of victims physically and emotionally scarred for life. So, given his history of lying, burglary, prison breaks, rape and paedophilia, it would be unfathomable to think that the Polish legal system would give him any leniency in his sentence... But on 24th June 1996, whilst re-imprisoned for further counts of child-rape, having falsely claimed that he needed urgent hip-surgery, a judge released him from prison, for three months - unsupervised. Over the next three months, he sold his flat, he packed his bags, he emptied his bank account and he applied for and received a tourist visa from the Polish government, and when those three months were up – having never had an operation or knocked on the prison gates asking to be let back in – only then did the Polish authorities realise that their most prolific and dangerous sex-offender was missing. His fingerprints, his photographs and his DNA were submitted to Interpol, so that every country in Europe could protect their people and catch this violent escaped criminal. Only he was never caught. His getaway wasn’t a high-speed chase, it wasn’t clever, brazen or covert… Instead, on the morning of Monday 14th October 1996, having bought a fake passport in a false name, Andrzej Kunowski boarded a coach in Warsaw. And armed only with a box of sandwiches and a bag of crisps, over the next twenty-four-hours, he sat there quietly watching his old life vanish into the distance, as (for a one-way ticket that cost just twenty pounds) he was waved through the immigration checkpoints in Germany, Belgium and France, unchallenged, until his coach boarded the ferry at Calais. In a catalogue of colossal errors, the Polish authorities had failed every woman, girl and child who had come into contact with one of their most prolific rapists… and now, he was on a boat to England. I would love to tell you that the British authorities spotted his fake passport. I would love to tell you that they suspected his false name. I would love to tell you that they saw his well-publicised face and with alarms ringing, dogs barking and guns drawn, he was dragged from the coach, searched, arrested and swiftly deported back to Poland before his tiny size five boots could set foot on English soil? I would love to tell you that’s what happened… but it didn’t. On the morning of Tuesday 15th October 1996, Andrzej Kunowski had his passport stamped, his visa approved and having arrived at Victoria Bus Station, he vanished amongst the crowds of London. But he didn’t go into hiding… instead he blended in. With the fake passport of a Portuguese national, false papers in the name of Jose Marco da Dias, an appearance which looked Spanish or Portuguese but was often mistaken for Greek or Arabic, and speaking in an accent many people could only describe as ‘foreign’, this new arrival didn’t stick out. With sad eyes, small hands and a smooth face, this fastidiously neat little man with starched shirts, pressed trousers and highly-polished shoes, who had needles and thread in his bag for his embroidery, and milk and biscuits for his nightly cup of tea, this new stranger didn’t seem a threat to anyone. So, the unassuming little man known only as Jose Marco da Dias acquired himself a ground-floor bedsit on Twyford Avenue, and (being a skilled tailor) found a nice little job at a dry-cleaners on Goldhawk Road, just a few feet from Bus Stop K and just one street from the home of Katerina Koneva. With no witnesses to her murder, what follows is based on the Police investigation and the testimony of the many young girls who survived those terrifying and brutal attacks at the hands of The Beast. Thursday 22nd May 1997 was just an ordinary day; it was warm, clear and dry. Since 8am, Andrzej sat at his usual spot in the window of the dry-cleaners; a neat little man on a neat little chair at a neat little desk - perched behind a tidy array of bobbins, needles and threads - as he watched the world go by. Being a pleasant chap, some people passed and waved, others popped-in for sewing tips, and where-as – with his chunky little digits seemingly too big for such fine work, but his skill undeniable - many handed him their most intimate garments which once clung to their bodies. His window seat was a perfect vantage point; as a tailor it had good natural light; being an occasionally monotonous job this busy street was never dull; and as a convicted paedophile, being perched within sight of bus stop K, the school-run was like a conveyor-belt of loveliness, as bus-after-bus of delicious little girls - in short skirts, white socks and tight blouses - were paraded before his eyes. And although he liked to look at them, most didn’t appeal to him, as he knew what he liked, he had a type. With his shift coming to an end, as the clock neared ten-to-four, with a reassuring clunk of his sewing machine, Andrzej finished stitching the hem onto the skirt of a school uniform, and packed up for the day. His plan? To go home, have a bath, a meal, a bit of telly and a sleep – the same as anyone else. But all that changed at 3:50pm, with the arrival of the 94 bus from Notting Hill Gate… and Katerina. In his eyes, it was a spontaneous decision by a chance encounter with a total stranger, as they all were, and although he hadn’t sought a little girl to rape, that primal urge (he had to act on that instant) was triggered by the sight of a pretty petite girl with long dark hair who reminded him of his mother. Fixated, staring and obsessed, unable to think about anyone else, he didn’t know her name, he didn’t care who she was, but – having chosen her – he needed to control her and hear her say “I love you”. Keeping a safe distance, as he watched the soft swish of her grey skirt and the bounce of her Virgin Airlines bag which was slung across her tiny chest by a thick red strap; her walk was quick, but not fast as if she was frightened but eager as if she had exciting news, and as he followed the little girl down Hammersmith Grove, Benbow Road and onto Iffley Road, she unwittingly led him right to her home. Behind the corner of Hebron Road, the front of 35 Iffley Road was completely visible. From this spot he saw her unlock the door, call for her “daddy” and get no reply; via a small glass panel above he saw her pop on the hall light, trot upstairs and – with the blinds of the bay window open - he watched as she went from room-to-room, calling “daddy” but still getting no reply, until finally in the front room overlooking the street, she slung her bag, popped on her TV and closed her bedroom blinds. From outside, three times, the home phone rang, which she never answered. Perhaps she had music on, perhaps the TV was too loud, or perhaps she was in the shower? But as she didn’t answer it, and no-one else did, as he broke in, he knew one thing for certain… that this little girl was all alone. What happened next to Katerina was never reported publicly, but as his method didn’t deviate in almost thirty years, it is based on the testimony of his last Polish victim, as well as many others. On 16th May 1995, two years before Katerina’s murder, The Beast had spotted 14-year-old schoolgirl Agnieszka Grzybicka (“Gryzbika”) hop off the bus, walk down her street and enter her home, all alone; she was a petite elfin-faced teen with a tiny body and long dark hair - just like his momma. Easily lifting the latch, The Beast crept in, the empty house was eerily silent except for the soft creak of his footsteps and the muffled hum of kid’s tv; with a little girl’s uniform slung on the floor and her schoolbag dumped by the door, it was clear – with no adults inside – there was no-one to protect her. So, having followed her solitary sounds, The Beast pushed open her bedroom door. Inside, the little girl was sat on a small pink bed, a dark-haired dot among a sea of soft toys and plush teddies – happily playing, as this was her safe place. Hearing the door creak, she turned, expecting to see her daddy, but instead - in her home, in the doorway, of her own bedroom - stood a stranger. Before she could say a word, The Beast shushed her: “It’s okay, I’m here to see your father. Is he in?”, confused she shook her head, her instinct should have been to shout or scream, but as the neat little man with sad eyes and a sweet smell didn’t seem threatening, when he said “then I wait here, okay?”, it seemed fine, as he sat beside her on the bed and made small-talk about dollies to pass the time. Having gained her trust, The Beast asked “can you keep a secret?”, she nodded, “good, I want you to kiss me”, he said as he stroked her long dark hair. The terrified girl froze, “come on, kiss me” he barked, but the little look-a-like of his beloved momma said nothing. And as his anger rose, “kiss me, now, love me” - as the petrified girl wept and shook her head - gripping her soft pale throat in his hairy little hand, The Beast repeatedly strangled and raped the little girl, taking her close to the point of death, again and again and again, in a sustained and brutal attack, lasting over an hour, until he was done. And then, as he would have done with Katerina (had he not been disturbed by her daddy), untying the cord which choked her, The Beast asked “you do love me, yes?”, the terrified teen nodded, “so kiss me”, which she did, and having got exactly what he wanted, The Beast left… and this little girl lived. Having fled the first-floor-flat at 35 Iffley Road, chased by Trajce and left Katerina for dead, he hijacked a black Fiat Uno, and in a plume of dust, sped off down the side streets… and was gone. Over the next five years, until the rape of the Korean woman, The Beast would vanish, but just like the Polish authorities whose catalogue of errors let a prolific paedophile roam free, so would the British. Speeding south, Andrzej Kunowski dumped the stolen car by Hammersmith bus station and caught the District Line tube home. Moments later, the Police found the car, recovered his fingerprints and although they proved a positive match to Katerina’s killer, they didn’t match anyone on the UK National Police Database. Of course, the Police could have checked with Interpol… but they didn’t. One month later, having been arrested for stealing a small amount of petty cash from Siddington Farm in Ledbury (Herefordshire) where he worked as a strawberry picker, for the minor offence of theft he should have been fingerprinted, but as the charge was dropped… he wasn’t. Having admitting to immigration officers that he wasn’t Portuguese but was Polish, even though he was using a fake passport in the false name of Jose Marco da Dias, in 1998 (one year after Katerina’s murder) he applied for asylum, and whilst his application was considered, he was allowed to walk free. As he had entered the country illegally, the UK Immigration Service should have taken his fingerprints. If they had, they’d have known that Jose Marco de Dias was an alias, that Andrzej Kunowski was his real name, that he was a wanted fugitive with a thirty-year history of child-rape, abduction and attempted murder… but they didn’t. Instead, during three years his asylum application was assessed, he worked a series of regular jobs in and around West London, he lived in a ground-floor flat just yards from The Japanese School (a prep-school for petite preteen brunettes) and – even though he was arrested in July 2002 for falsely claiming benefits – he was released, and underwent a heart bypass operation courtesy of the British taxpayer. On 14th August 2002, his UK asylum application was rejected, and although (as only a benefits thief) the British authorities ordered him to be deported back to Poland, he failed to show-up and they failed to track him down to his own flat. One month later, he brutally raped a South Korean student… …that attack, and only that attack, having left his DNA at the scene, finally led to the imprisonment of Poland’s most prolific child-rapist and the murderer of twelve-year-old Katerina Kovena. (End) Andrzej Kunowski was given a whole-life tariff, an indefinite sentence (reserved for the most serious offenders) which he served at HMP Frankland, one of the UK’s toughest maximum-security prisons. As a risk to women, children and even other prisoners, he was kept in solitary confinement, supervised 24 hours a day and – for the rest of his natural life – he would never see beyond the prison walls. Unlike in Poland, where he had broken-out of prison three times, The Beast would never escape HMP Frankland… but it wasn’t through want of trying. Instead, it was his own fat little body that proved to be his executioner, as on 23rd September 2009, 52-year-old Andrzej Kunowski died of heart failure. But even his death brought very little comfort to the Koneva family. In a statement, the family said “today I do not feel happy. I wish that I was not giving this statement and that Katerina was still here by my side. I am relieved that this evil man can no longer murder or sexually assault another young girl, but my daughter is gone”. Trajce and Zaklina have since divorced, the family continue to try to rebuild their lives, and each birthday and Christmas they take presents to Katerina’s grave, but every day is a struggle, a constant reminder of their beautiful little girl, cruelly taken so young – "I talk to her every day, and every night, I always say goodnight to my daughter." This episode is dedicated to the memory of Katerina Koneva and the hundreds of women and girls who were attacked by The Beast, having been failed by the authorities in Britain and Poland. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was Part Three of a three-part series on The Beast. Next week, we return to single-part episodes and – as always - after the break there’s more nonsense with Extra Mile. But first this. (add promo) Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Tracy Keech and Dark Master, I thank you, I hope you enjoyed your goodies and all of the extra online goodies you’ve received via Patreon. Also a thank you to Amy Hussein for the cakes, which mysteriously disappeared. Burp! Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Shepherd's Bush Police Station
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-FOUR:
This is part two of three about the shocking murder of Katerina Koneva; an innocent little girl who was brutally raped and strangled to death in her own bedroom by an unknown assailant, it was a devastating attack which would destroy a family forever, but not for the reasons you might expect.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Shepherd's Bush Police Station where the Police first suspect in the murder of Katerina Koneva was held, it's marked with a yellow triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: To name a few:
MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART TWO OF THE BEAST.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is part two about the shocking murder of Katerina Koneva; an innocent little girl who was brutally raped and strangled to death in her own bedroom by an unknown assailant, it was a devastating attack which would destroy a family forever, but not for the reasons you might expect. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 84: The Beast – Part Two. Today I’m standing on Uxbridge Road, off Shepherds Bush Green, W12; one street north of the home of murdered school-girl Katerina Koneva, half a mile south of Old Oak Road where Marta Ligman was shoved into a suitcase and drowned in the canal, a few yards from the First Date Killer’s bloody pitstop, and two stops south of the death of eight-year-old Peter Buckingham – coming soon to Murder Mile. Shepherds Bush is dreary and grim. What began as a quaint little village dotted about a crisp little green on the outskirts of London, has since been swamped by an ever-growing city sullied by the same old deadbeats sitting in the same old shops; whether fat waddling sprogs wheezing into a McDonalds, the permanently pissed piddling away their benefits in Paddy Power, shit parents letting their sweet little angels run-like-loons among the blisteringly hot liquids in Costa (because buying a coffee is easier than going to a park and cheaper than hiring a babysitter), and the usual rag-tag band of old bigots banging on the Wetherspoons doors at 6am, to celebrate their fiftieth year of “taking a sickie”, with a pint, a pie and a perusal of their favourite fascist tabloid featuring a headline about how the “benefits sponging illegal immigrants killed the Queen Mum” – all while whinging about anyone who’s brown, gay or “looks like a terrorist”, having started every sentence with the phrase “I’m not racist, but…”. Keeping tabs on it all, at 252 Uxbridge Road, just by the green and one-street north of Goldhawk Road is Shepherd’s Bush Police Station; a truly ugly Soviet-style building made of concrete blocks, where usually a panicked victim could pop in to report a viscous assault, but since the former Home Secretary and (now) Britain’s second worst Prime Minister in history (Theresa May) decimated our police force, closed almost every station and had the front office at Shepherds Bush shut, all that remains to inform the terrified is a little sign telling you to either call 999, report it online, or to go elsewhere. And although the cells at Shepherds Bush still house not only thugs, muggers, burglars, rapists and terrorists, it once it held the Police’s prime suspect in the murder of twelve-year-old Katerina Koneva. As it was here, on the evening of Thursday 22nd May 1997, following the initial investigation and just hours after her murder, that the Police began questioning their prime suspect. (Interstitial) The Koneva’s first floor flat at 35 Iffley Road was no longer a family home… it was a crime scene. As the sun began to set over Shepherd’s Bush, the silent thrum of flashing blue lights illuminated both sides of this quiet residential road, and where-as just hours before, babies had squealed, parents had chatted and children had played, it was bathed in the reverent silence of shock, disbelief and horror. No-one but neighbours had any reason to walk down Iffley Road, but now – being blocked by squad cars, sealed off by police tape and packed full of forensics – it was bookended by a throng of nosey people and irritating press with eager eyes, loose lips and the selfish flash of cameras, all hoping to snap an exclusive for their tabloid rag or a sick souvenir of their little detour to show-off to their chums. And although, within the cordon, those same neighbours who just hours before had been too busy with their own lives to aid a desperate father’s cries (“help me, help me”), now their curtains twitched as they impatiently waited to see their home on the telly (“ooh, there’s us, look”) and warmly opened their doors to any hack, hoping to become a pointless platitude on the nightly news, their selfish excitement at minor celebrity to be replaced by the dark realisation that a murderer was in their midst. Outside of 35 Iffley Road, over the black iron gate, the small brick wall and the tiny garden, through which little Katerina had last walked, stood a blue forensics tent; the dark front door was guarded by officers and the family home swarmed with strangers in black uniforms and white paper suits. Inside, the flat was untouched, everything was as they had left it that morning; with dishes in the sink, socks on the radiator and crumbs on the breadboard, just everyday items, as well as a calendar marked with days-out, duties and exams, and adorning any spare space were the cherished photos of this perfect little family of four, sweet little snaps of happier times never to return; like holidays, birthdays, Christmases and their former homeland in Macedonia – the country they had fled to be safe. In her bedroom lay reminders of this timid girl’s tragic life; her teddies on the bed, her idols on the wall and a little keyboard on which she’d dreamed of being a pianist. All scattered among the debris of her last moments alive; her school uniform, her English exam paper, her chair used to wedge the door shut, her daddy’s handprints on her chest as he fought to make his baby breathe, the kitchen knife he had dropped having failed to sever the strap of her much-loved Virgin Airlines bag, it tightened so tight that her last sight was her frantic daddy struggling to cut the suffocating tourniquet which strangled her, and in the centre of all this horror and pain – with her cardigan dishevelled, her white t-shirt bloodied and her tracksuit bottoms all ripped and torn – lay the tiny little body of Katerina. At 5pm, as the paramedics stood down, the tiny girl was pronounced dead and the family home was declared a crime-scene - although his daughter lay lifeless on her bedroom floor – he wasn’t allowed to hold her, kiss her or cradle her, as she was no longer his baby, now she was evidence. Later that evening, after her distraught father was led away, a hushed silence fell across Iffley Road, as in a small black bag, her miniscule frame was loaded into a discrete black van, and as the ambulance crept away at a solemn speed, the residents of this quiet little street were left with an unnerving thought that even behind the walls, doors and locks of their own homes, no-one would ever be safe. A few hours later, in the cells of Shepherd’s Bush Station, the Police already had a prime suspect for the murder of Katerina Koneva… but the man behind bars wasn’t The Beast. (Interstitial). For the Police, most murders aren’t a mystery… The most obvious suspect is usually the guilty party. In almost every murder, the suspect is often a friend, a family member, a colleague or a rival of the deceased. In family murders; usually the husband kills the wife, the wife kills the husband, the father kills his daughter or the mother kills her son, but rarely is it the opposite, as most murders feature a strange Oedipal twist. The murderer is usually someone with something to lose or gain (whether money, pride or status), who has a direct connection to the location, who often owns the weapon, who commits the crime in the heat of passion – murders are very rarely premeditated – and the prime suspect is quickly arrested as it’s almost impossible to leave no trace of yourself behind. There’s no conspiracy, no mystery and no very few surprises. When questioned, Trajce had claimed that Katerina had been attacked in her bedroom by a stranger. But stranger-related murders in your own home are incredibly rare. You don’t kill someone you don’t know, in a place you don’t know, for no reason. So, although this grieving father would blame his daughter’s death on a mystery man that the press would later dub as ‘The Beast’, in these early stages of the investigation, the Police’s prime suspect in the murder of Katerina Koneva was her own daddy. Of course, it’s easy to sit there and condemn the Police for their decision to suspect an innocent man; having only listened to one episode of a podcast written by a person who wasn’t even there, twenty-three years after the murder and based on the culmination of a six-year police investigation; the details of which (as all podcasts do) have been cherry-picked and condensed into an easily-digestible thirty-minute chunk, so the story appears clear and logical… but the Police didn’t have that luxury. So, as Trajce stood alone in a Police cell - still shocked by the scenes he had witnessed and traumatised by the guilt that (had he not chased The Beast) he might have saved his baby – dressed in nothing but a white paper suit, taped at his wrists and ankles to preserve any evidence, although he knew he was innocent, to the Police, his story seemed implausible and aspects of this case just didn’t make sense. If he was innocent why did none of the neighbours see anyone but Trajce and Katerina enter the flat that afternoon? If the culprit was a burglar, how did he get in and why was nothing taken? Why were only his and her fingerprints found inside the room, on the knife and on the red strap used to strangle her? Why did no-one hear her scream but everyone heard him shout? If this was a premeditated murder, why did the killer not bring a weapon? If this was a crime-of-passion, why would a stranger choose to murder a twelve-year-old schoolgirl in her own home? And how would a stranger know that on this particular day, Zaklina would be out, Trajce would be late and Katerina would be alone? We know he was innocent and the Police would later prove it, but being held in a police cell with his daughter’s blood on his hands, he looked like a guilty man… to his wife Zaklina and their son Christian. "Zaklina started shouting ‘What have you done?'. She was kicking and screaming at me. All I wanted to do was hug my wife and cry with my family. I had lost my little girl—but my wife was attacking me and my six-year-old son was looking up at me with hate in his eyes. I remember banging my head from wall to wall in my cell, I couldn’t believe what was happening. They thought I had killed my Katerina”. A thorough Police investigation would exonerate Trajce and prove the presence of a stranger. The size five boot prints proved the culprit was a short stocky male, matching the man Trajce said he had chased. Finding no other fingerprints inside the bedroom, the Police suspected the culprit had worn gloves, but having removed them to flee this first-floor flat, the attacker had left several sets of short fat fingerprints on the window sill, glass and ledge. With no obvious signs of a break-in, as the front door initially looked untouched, although burdened by stubby-fingers, the attacker was clearly skilled with locks, highly dextrous and adept as a burglar. Using her strap to suffocate her and her pen to fix the tourniquet, this unique combination of found-items fashioned as a garrotte showed that he was a very calm and confident strangler. And as nothing in the flat was stolen or smashed, he had only one motivation - the violent rape of a young girl. A day later, although the sight of a man brandishing a knife and the theft of a black Fiat Uno seemed unrelated, seeing the news report on Katerina’s murder, four eye-witnesses came forward and gave a description of ‘The Beast’; he was stocky, five foot six inches tall, with dark receding hair, of Greek or Arabic appearance and as no-one could identify his accent, they simply said he sounded ‘foreign’. Police had his fingerprints, a vague description, a few grainy frames of CCTV footage and a strand of his short dark hair found on Katerina’s cardigan. But it wasn’t enough. What they didn’t know was who he was, where he was now and why he had targeted Katerina? And as the Police hunted for The Beast, although Trajce was innocent in the eyes of the law, he wasn’t in the eyes of his family… Once the forensics team had left and the first-floor flat was no longer a crime-scene, as this was still their home, what remained of the Koneva family moved back into 35 Iffley Road. Everything was as they had left it; the dirty dishes, the drying socks and the breadcrumbs, only now their happy home was sullied by a series of cruel reminders; bare squares where carpet once was, black powder prints on white surfaces, a speckling of bloodstains on the bed and the memory of where her little body lay. The grief of losing their beautiful baby in such a tragic way would prove too much for them all, and as tensions and resentment mounted, the fragments of this little family of three began to implode. "My son told me repeatedly that he hated me. I was so angry, full of rage and guilt, I would argue all the time with my wife. It was small things that would set us off—anything which reminded us of the pain of losing Katerina. I frequently told my wife I hated her. I felt like I had gone mad with grief". Three years later, Trajce and Zaklina separated, Christian disowned him and being wracked with the guilt at his failure to save his daughter’s life, Trajce attempted suicide several times; "I wanted to die. I was in so much pain from losing Katerina, I thought I deserve this pain and I have to suffer". And although their grief would never end, sadly the investigation would. Despite house-to-house enquiries, no-one could identify this 5-foot 6-inch Greek or Arabic male. His unique criminal profile didn’t match any known offenders. His fingerprints and DNA didn’t appear on either the Police or Immigration databases. And even after an extensive inquiry and three separate appeals (in 1997, 2001 and 2004) as well appearances on the BBC's Crimewatch, the trail went cold. One week after the murder, with no fresh leads, the press moved on. Two months later, Princess Diana was killed in a car-crash and the people forgot that Katerina existed. Two years later, the senior officer in the case was moved onto the high-profile murder of TV presenter Jill Dando – and as investigation stalled, the culprit disappeared and the case went silent… …but a beast will always be a beast, and with his appetite for young girls never sated, he would go in search of another victim. On Sunday 22nd September 2002, five years later and four miles west of Shepherd’s Bush, an unnamed South Korean woman - who had arrived in England just three weeks prior - was trawling the adverts in a local newsagent’s window near Ealing Broadway Station, looking for a cheap flat or bedsit to rent. She was a twenty-one-year-old student, but being blessed with youthful skin, long dark hair, elfin-like features and a slim petite frame, she was often mistaken for a little girl. With her English limited and struggling to decipher the adverts, it was then that a man approached and offered to help; he was mid-to-late forties, short, stocky, dark-haired and Greek or Arabic, with an unplaceable foreign accent. But he didn’t look like a maniac or a monster, a bastard or a beast, he seemed like a good Samaritan doing a nice deed for as a lady in need. She had no reason to be scared; his eyes were sad, his hands were small and his face was smooth, and although he wore a black wig to hid his disappearing hairline, it wasn’t a disguise, he was just a fastidiously neat little man with starched shirts, pressed trousers and highly-polished shoes, with needles and thread in his bag for his embroidery, and milk and biscuits for his nightly cup of tea. His kindness seemed genuine, his calmness reassuring and his demeanour unthreatening, so when he said he knew of a cheap bedsit nearby, she knew she would be okay. Hopping on the Central Line and taking the tube one stop east to West Acton, they walked down Noel Road onto Twyford Avenue; a respectable treelined street full of kid’s bikes and family homes, and on this busy residential street, in broad daylight, he calmly led her into his ground-floor flat. As expected, it was basic; a solitary bed in a single room of a communal flat; there was a kettle, a telly, an ironing board, a rail of neatly pressed shirts, a black bag full of useful tools and photos of his mum. Being a small room, there wasn’t much to see and - after a minute - there was nothing more to say. She went to leave but he wanted her to stay. As his door wasn’t locked, he’d asked politely and as the other tenants could be heard moving about in the flat above, she assumed she would be safe… …but (little did she know that) she was alone with The Beast. Without warning, he attacked; with his full fifteen-stone of bulk bearing down on top of her, he pinned her to the bed and began to stroke her hair, kiss her lips and lick her face. As she squealed, he shushed her. As she struggled, he smothered her. And as she screamed, he began to strangle her, squeezing her neck harder, and – unable to shout, move or even breath – moments later, she passed out. When she awoke, her hands were bound, her mouth was gagged and over the next three hours, The Beast subjected his tiny little sex-toy to a truly horrifying ordeal, as she was repeatedly choked and raped, choked and raped, choked and raped, taking his semi-conscious victim to the brink of death each and every time he violated her, until he was done. And then, as if nothing had happened, he kissed her, cuddled her and - only after she said she loved him and promised to call him the very next day - he let her go. Obviously, she didn’t call him back… …instead, she went straight to the Police, and giving them his name, his address, his description and his mobile phone number, The Beast was arrested that very same day and charged with sexual assault, false imprisonment and multiple counts of rape. Tried at The Old Bailey, in his defence, he arrogantly claimed that the sex was consensual, a thank you for helping find her a bedsit. But following her brave testimony, a unanimous jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to nine years in prison. Nobody knew this, but The Beast was finally behind bars, and without this vicious attack, he may never have been found. Having entered the UK illegally, he knew how to stay under the radar; he went under a false name, he used fake papers, his bedsit was by verbal agreement, he worked for cash-in-hand as a tailor in a West London dry-cleaners and his only criminal conviction in the UK was for petty theft. They didn’t know it but Police had been looking for him for five years, but the witness descriptions of him were wrong; he wasn’t five foot six, he was five foot three, he wasn’t mid-to-late forties but forty-one, and he wasn’t Greek or Arabic. In fact, the ‘foreign’ accent the witnesses described was Polish. His name was Andrzej Kunowski; to them, he was a nothing, a nobody, a one-time opportunist. But being a recently convicted criminal and a registered sex-offender, his details, DNA and fingerprints were uploaded onto the National Police Database, the DNA Database, the UK Immigration Service and Interpol, and they proved to be an exact match to a cold case. The soles of his size five boots were unique, the swirls of his fingerprints were perfect, and - although his hair that day had been neatly trimmed - a single miniscule strand of his short dark hair had become trapped between the weave of Katerina’s cardigan, as she was strangled and raped in her own home. On 29th July 2003, Andrzej Kunowski was charged with the murder of Katerina Koneva. In March 2004, he was tried at the Old Bailey, and although he claimed this was a case of mistaken identity – using the eye-witnesses description of the killer as being taller, older and Greek or Arabic – his fingerprints, his DNA and the testimony of the Korean student were irrefutable, and based only on the evidence presented before them, a jury of eight men and four women took just three hours to find him guilty. Passing sentence, Judge Beaumont declared “you took the life of a child who was beginning to enjoy what this country had to offer. It was a life of great promise and you ended it with great violence and terror”. Andrzej Kunowski was given a whole life tariff, meaning he would never be released. (End) Having collapsed in court at hearing the horrifying injuries inflicted on her daughter’s body, Katerina’s mother Zaklina said “I hope this evil murderer burns in hell. Knowing he is in prison is not enough. I hope he suffers every minute of the rest of his life”, her one consolation being that this sadistic rapist and paedophile could never attack a little girl ever again. And although Trajce would state that they had “beaten the devil” and this conviction would help heal the rift between husband and wife, it was a hollow victory; their daughter was dead, the family were split, and all they had of their beautiful little daughter was photos, memories, a gravestone, and the dreams of what she could have been. Had Katerina lived, she would be thirty-five years-old; maybe married, with two kids, a nice home, and a successful career as a teacher or pianist, and spending her spare-time travelling the world and filling her much-cherished Virgin Airlines bag with souvenirs, perhaps – one day – she may have returned to her now-peaceful homeland in Macedonia - the place her family had fled to ensure she was safe… …but instead she was buried in a small grave in Mortlake Cemetery. With the Beast in prison, the case was over, and the investigation was finally closed. But to ensure a fair trial, one piece of evidence had been deliberately withheld from the jury – his criminal record. And what began as a DNA link to a hauntingly similar attack, unearthed a story of the systemic failure of the authorities in Britain and Poland, which let a sexual predator, a sadistic paedophile and “one of the most prolific and dangerous sex-offenders ever” attack again and again and again. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part Three of this three-part episode of The Beast continues next week. If you’re new to Murder Mile, don’t forget to stay after the break as there’s more fun with Extra Mile. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Dan Jackson, Victoria Norris and Jillian Payne Johnson, I thank you and I hope you enjoyed your goodies. And as always, thank you to everyone who listens to Murder Mile and shares it with their friends. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE EIGHTY-THREE:
On the evening of Thursday 22nd May 1997, behind the locked doors and secure walls of her own family home, twelve-year-old schoolgirl Katerina Koneva was viscously raped and murdered by a stranger, by a man the Press would dub 'The Beast'. This is part one of three.
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of the first-floor-flat at 35 Iffley Road where Katerina was murdered as a red triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left is 35 Iffley Road today (unchanged), top right is a wider shot of Iffley Road and bottom right is the bus stop where Katerina would end her journey from school
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: Sadly, as this is a very recent case, there is no original declassified police files held at the National Archives, so I had to use press reports, local interviews and my own research. Some of the sources include:
SOUNDS:
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART ONE OF THE BEAST.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the shocking murder of Katerina Koneva; an innocent little girl whose doting parents had done everything to protect her, she had a nice home, a loving family and a happy life, but in the one place she should have been safest, her innocence shattered at the hands of The Beast. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 83: The Beast – Part One. Today I’m standing on Iffley Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W12; further west than we’d usually trot into the wilds of West London, but just one road east of the Seven Stars café where Reg Christie picked-up Rita Nelson, a six roads north of the Hammersmith nudes murders (which talentless tabloid hacks still blame on boxer Freddie Mills), four roads south of the infamous Wormwood Scrubs police massacre, and two roads west from the strange killers of Vincent Keighery - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated four miles west of Soho, Shepherd’s Bush is a melting pot of world culture (but mostly food); here you can munch on a pie n mash, giggle at a Nigerian sauce called Shito, taste the West Indies with a slug of “cock-flavoured” soup, stare at suspicious sausages in the Romanian deli and dodge those avocado-quaffing hipster twats who pretend to prowl the market for tacky crap like the world’s worst hair-weaves, the world’s longest fingernails and the world’s curtest service - where you’re told that everything is “very good, very cheap”, until six seconds after the sale, when it breaks and suddenly it’s “no refund, you leave” - and although Tarquin & Fenella Tosspot claim to frequent the shit-bits of The Bush where every third shop sells fried chicken, everything they buy is actually ordered from Acado. But for many people seeking safety, Shepherd’s Bush is a sanctuary from the hardship and horrors of the homelands they have fled; it’s a home-from-home, with little pockets packed full of familiar voices, reassuring smells, joyous sights and the traditional skills of barbers, bakers, preachers and tailors. One such sanctuary was at 35 Iffley Road. For the Koneva family it seemed so perfect; a solid house, on a quiet street, in a safe area, it was just a very ordinary home for two loving parents who had done everything to ensure the safety of their two children. Everything. Or so they thought. As it was here, on Thursday 22nd May 1997, behind the brick walls and locked doors of their own little home, that Katerina’s life would cruelly be cut-short by a man known only as The Beast. (Interstitial) Twelve-year-old Katerina Koneva couldn’t have asked for better parents… Born in 1985 to Trajce (“Tradjz”) and Zaklina Koneva, and raised in the south-eastern European country of North Macedonia, the first decade of Katerina’s life was spent among the tranquil beauty of a region steeped in a history and culture untouched since the days of the Ottoman Empire. Hailed for its stunning natural wonders and its striking manmade structures, being just one-tenth the size of Britain with a population smaller than West London - although (for almost every country in Europe) the twentieth century brought about a prolonged period of instability - the peaceful state of North Macedonia had always prided itself as being more diverse than most European countries. Comprising mostly of Macedonians, but also Turks, Greeks, Albanians, Romani Gypsies, Bosnians and Serbs from the Baltic States it borders, as well as embracing two main religions - Eastern Orthodoxy and Islam – two official languages and five regional languages, its racially diverse culture reflected this. For Trajce and Zaklina, this was their home; here they had family and friends, livelihoods and social lives, a past, a present and a future. North Macedonia was the perfect place to build a house, earn a living and raise their babies in safety - they had no reason to leave… …but as the world changed for the worse, they knew that the day would come when (for the sake of their children) the Koneva family would be forced to flee. (Neville Chamberlain quote) As World War Two raged on, economies were crippled, continents were bathed in the blood of innocents and the true horrors of the holocaust skulked in the shadows, with Eastern Europe ripped apart in a tug-of-war between the Fascist, Communist and Allied powers, six socialist republics – Macedonia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia and Herzegovina and the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (known as Serbia and Montenegro) formed the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. And whilst the world burned, dead were buried and the freshest water the so-called winners of the war saw were the bitter tears of loss they had wept, the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia was (to many) a beacon of stability in an unstable Europe, as guided by authoritarian dictator General Josip Tito, across the 1960’s and 70’s when Communism was seen ‘the way of the future’, Yugoslavia had blossomed into an economic success story and - in comparison to the ruins of the West - life was good. By 1980, before Trajce and Zaklina had met, General Tito was dead, and as thousands of Macedonians lined the streets of Skopje (Scorpia) to mourn a man some saw as great, his death marked the end of an era and for many Yugoslavians, and as ethnic tensions rose, for many it marked a death sentence. Five years later, Katerina was born - a beautiful little baby with long dark hair and elfin-like features, who was so pretty, so delicate and so sweet, she was impossible not to love and fight to protect. (Ronald Reagan quote - “bring down this wall”) But by 1989, as many countries cheered the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent collapse of communism, Yugoslavia’s stability seeped away and unleashed a tidal wave of bigotry and hatred, as the six socialist republics divided down ethnic lines. By 1991, as Katerina’s little brother Christian was born, Slovenia and Croatia had split, the Soviet Union would fall and with the Bosnian Serbs declaring independence, Yugoslavia would soon collapse and four years of brutal war and genocide would follow. One and a half million people would be displaced, thirteen and a half thousand were murdered or vanished, and countless numbers of men, women and babies were beaten, raped and dumped in mass graves, many of which are still being discovered today. And although the tiny country of North Macedonia was still peaceful, for now, being bordered by both Bosnia and Serbia, as the Kosovo conflict escalated, it was clear to all that the wolf was at the door. In 1993, being out-of-options, Trajce fled to England to seek sanctuary for his loved-ones, but forced to leave his wife and kids behind, every day he phoned, praying but never knowing if they were alive. In 1995, after two long years apart, Trajce and Zaklina wept tears of joy as finally their little family was reunited. They had risked everything, lost so much and now they owned nothing but what they could carry, and although they stood in a strange land, unable to speak the language, at least they were safe. As ten-year-old Katerina took her first steps on English soil, across her tiny doll-like frame hung a bright red strap, as clutched tightly to her chest was a red-and-white Virgin Airlines bag packed full of her most cherished possessions; photos of home, a colouring-in book and a teddy. For such a timid little girl, she must have been scared, but as she held her parent’s hands, she knew she would be okay. Only two years later, Katerina would be dead. (Interstitial). By 1997, as Macedonia teetered towards the brink of all-out-war, now aged twelve, Katerina and her family had settled into a safe and comfortable routine in their new home in West London. Home was a first floor flat at 35 Iffley Road in Shepherd’s Bush; it was a little small for a family of four, so with the kitchen as a sitting-room, a bedroom for the adults and Katerina and Christian sharing a room at the front, it was a little cosy, but the higher rent meant they could live in a better area. And Iffley Street was just that; two long rows of terraced houses, all with solid walls, good locks and strong doors, on a street lined with bright lights, good neighbours and big windows. It was perfect for a family. For Katerina, being a little girl in a big city, this strange new world was no longer scary, as at the top of her own street was Goldhawk Road; a strip of family-run stores staffed by overseas visitors (just like herself) but also a mix of Turks, Greeks and Albanians - their words were familiar, their faces were right, their market stalls wafted with the joyous smell of foods from her homeland and (as it was back in Macedonia) in the drycleaners window sat stocky little tailor intricately hand-stitching the hem of a school uniform, his chunky little digits seemingly too big for such fine work, but his skills undeniable. Shepherd’s Bush was now her home and although her mum and dad juggled their busy schedule of being parents, workers and part-time students, learning English and new skills to give them all a better life, to keep their babies safe, Trajce and Zaklina always kept to a tight routine, ensuring that at least one of them would be home, when Katerina left for school, and when she returned. For two years, it had worked perfectly… but sometimes life would get in the way, sometimes their best laid plans would go awry, and sometimes, even in the safety of their own home, a small unavoidable delay of just a few minutes would cost their beautiful daughter her life. Thursday 22nd May 1997 was just an ordinary day; it was warm, clear and dry. Coming to the end of her first year at Holland Park School, a secondary school snuck between Hyde Park and Notting Hill - although (being just one day before the half term break) a ripple of excitement bristled amongst the students – Year 7 sat in silence, their heads down, their eyes fixed and the only sounds being a ticking clock and the scribble of pens, as all were eager to finish their English exam. Among a sea of charcoal grey jackets, black shoes and blue blouses, Katerina wasn’t difficult to spot; as although she was only slight, framed by her long dark hair, brown eyes and cheeky little smile, her cherubic face beamed with a mix of excitement and pride. Described by her headmistress as an "exceptional pupil", Katerina had done well, she’d worked hard, she’d studied, and as a bright girl who had only began learning English as her second language two years before, to make her parents proud for all the sacrifices they had made, she had excelled. Finally, her future looked as rosy as her cheeks, as she dreamed of either becoming a pianist or a teacher. It was ironic that on the day Katerina took her test, Trajce would also sit an exam, and although (like many adults) he had struggled to learn the language, being a quiet, sweet but truly smart girl, Katerina had come top of her class in English. It was news that she so wanted to share with her beloved daddy… …but she never would. Trajce later said "we found out how well she'd done afterwards. She never got to tell us herself. She was so bright. I will always be very proud of my beautiful daughter". As was her routine, at 3:15pm, Katerina exited Holland Park School and headed up Campden Hill Road to Notting Hill Gate, her tiny steps a little quicker than usual, as she was eager to get home. As always, across her chest was her red-and-white Virgin Airlines bag - little tattier than before but no less loved. At 3:36pm, at Stop D by the Coronet Cinema, Katerina boarded the 94 bus. Her button nose pressed uncomfortably close to the sweaty pits of the older kids, and made even more torturous as the eightminute journey down to Shepherd’s Bush Green took almost twice as long in the school-run traffic. At 3:50pm, savouring the fresh air and waving farewell to her school chums (for what would be the last time), the familiar little frame of 12-year-old Katerina - in her grey/blue uniform, short white socks and long dark hair - exited the bus at Stop K by Goldhawk Road tube and turned left into Iffley Road. …unaware that someone was watching. Her walk from bus-to-door took eight minutes. It was a week day, in broad daylight and the street was a usual mix of kids heading home, playing-out or biding their time till dinner. Never once did she pass any parks, alleys or bushes; derelict buildings, abandoned cars or suspicious strangers. The only sounds heard was the reassuring din of kid’s TV, the thud of thwacked footballs and the squeak of bikes. Pushing open the wrought-iron gate, as Katerina passed brown brick wall and entered the tiny front garden (which like most of the houses had no grass, just pot plants, bikes and space for the bins), excitedly she pulled out her key and opened the large dark-blue front-door at 35 Iffley Road. …unaware that someone was waiting. At roughly 4pm, as expected, she entered the hallway; to the left was a door to the neighbour’s ground floor flat, and ahead, a set of stairs up to her home. Eagerly she called “daddy?”, but there was no reply. She called again, “daddy?”, her awesome news burning a hole in her throat, but still there was no reply. And as she closed the dark heavy door behind her, the Yale lock made a satisfying click. …unaware that someone was listening. Oddly the flat was quiet and empty. For the first time ever; mum, dad and six-year-old Christian were out, so Katerina was all alone, but she wasn’t afraid. Being a few months from the awkward onset of her teenage years, this was a hint at the freedom and space she would ultimately crave, and besides being inside her own home, behind locked doors and shut windows, she knew she would be safe. So although a little deflated, knowing her daddy must be near and that she would have to hold onto her news for a few minutes more, in the first-floor bedroom she shared with her brother, she popped on the telly, pulled down the blinds of the large bay window which overlooked the street, and changed out of dull grey uniform and into a woollen cardigan, a white t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. …unaware that someone was approaching. As Trajce finished his exam and put down his pen, his shattered nerves weren’t over how well he had done but how quickly he could get home, as with the start of the exam having been delayed and everything else running late, by four o’clock his work was done, but he knew Katerina would be alone. The first chance he got; he called his home phone, (rings) she should have been in by now, (rings) but the phone just kept ringing (rings). Minutes later, he tried again, (rings) but she never replied. And as his college was still several miles from Shepherd’s Bush, “I raced home fast on my bicycle, because it was the first time my daughter was alone in the house after school”. …unaware that someone was already entering the flat. There were no witnesses to her murder, so what follows is based on the Police investigation. At a little after four thirty pm, as Katerina sat watching TV, she didn’t hear him pop the lock, she didn’t hear him open the front door and she didn’t hear his boots silently ascend the stairs. In fact, nobody did, none of the neighbours across the street, nor the man in the ground floor flat. And although her parents had never been late before, having watched her, he knew that this little girl was all alone. A few moments later, the lounge door squeaked as a man pushed it open. Excitedly, little Katerina sprung to her feet; her instincts were to give her daddy a big hug, her lips were desperate to tell him how she had been top-of-the-class in English, and her face eager to see the pride on her daddy’s face… …only it wasn’t her daddy. Nobody heard her scream, nobody heard her cry, nobody heard her whimper; there were no thumps, no bumps and no bangs; nothing shuffled, moved or creaked. The Beast had silenced her, and over the next ten minutes, the terrified little girl was all alone in her own home with the stranger. At 4:40pm, a little sweaty and tired having sped through the rush-hour traffic, Trajce pulled into his garden, and as he locked-up his bike, everything looked normal and nothing looked out of place. His front door was closed, his lock was undamaged, the hallway was neat, and as he walked up his own stairs, into his own flat, he heard no sounds but the din of kid’s TV and his own voice calling “Katerina?” With the kitchen empty and the bathroom vacant, being a small flat, there was only one place that Katerina could be – her bedroom. Again, Trajce knocked “Katerina?”, but strangely, she didn’t reply. Maybe she was listening to music? Maybe she was annoyed that he was late? Or maybe, as a pre-teen girl, so close to puberty, she needed a little privacy to change? So, to give his baby space, Trajce stood quietly outside of her bedroom door and patiently waited. (Silence; no sounds but telly and breathing). …but she never came out. As a sweet, bright and timid little girl; her door was always open, her reply was always polite and when called, she would always answer, but this time she didn’t and it worried him. Again, he knocked, (knocks) “Katerina?”, louder this time, (knocks) “Katerina?”, but still – nothing. He peeped through keyhole, she was definitely there, as dumped on the floor was her red-and-white Virgin Airways bag and her charcoal grey uniform, and although the bedroom door had no key, when he yanked down the handle, the door wouldn’t budge, as a chair was wedging it shut. Fearing his beloved child may have fallen, Trajce tried pushing it, but it didn’t move; he tried shoving it, but it wouldn’t shift, so he dropped to his knees to peek through the gap between the door and the floor to see what heavy object was blocking it, and when he did, his heart stopped dead. As behind the door of his little daughter’s bedroom, he saw a black pair of men’s shoes. Terrified for his daughter’s life, Trajce barged it hard, he kicked it and threw his body at it, screaming, punching, yelling, doing anything he could to get to Katerina, but the stranger was forcing it shut. With the bedroom door shut, knowing the man’s only escape route was through a first-floor window, Trajce dashed down the stairs, screaming “police” at the top of his lungs, making as much racket as possible and alerting the neighbours, a few who came to their windows and doors, but many did not. And as the frantic father burst through his own front door, his path was blocked by those same pair of black shoes which now dangled off the first-floor ledge, and as they plunged to the floor, Trajce came face to face with The Beast. "I remember the way the man looked at me, he was so cool, so calm, I ask him ‘What are you doing in my house?’ he said nothing, he just looked at me and ran away”. Unsure who the burglar was or what he had stolen, Trajce chased the dark-haired brute down the residential streets of Iffley Road, up Hebron Road, along Armor Road and over Hammersmith Grove, all the while screaming “help me, help me” as he bared down on the short stocky stranger. But as he turned into Trussley Road, and grabbed hold of the fleeing housebreaker’s hood, on his heels, The Beast spun and glared at Trajce - a small drop of blood on his dusky face, a large knife in his hairy hand. Unarmed and afraid, although the mild-mannered dad was desperate to confront the fleeing bastard who had broken into his family home, two workmen from a nearby warehouse wisely held him back. And as he stared for that brief moment at The Beast – the stranger’s eyes all dark and circled, his barrel-chest all raspy and heaving and his thick eyebrows like rotting slugs on an old boiled egg, above his fat sweaty chin was plastered the shit-eating grin of a man who knew he would be free. And having hijacked a black Fiat Uno, in a plume of dust, The Beast sped off down the side streets… and was gone. By the time Trajce had raced back to his flat and broke down the bedroom door to see what the burglar had stolen and to comfort his terrified daughter, he had been away for no more than two minutes. And although nothing appeared to have been touched, The Beast had taken something truly precious. Crumpled on the bedroom floor lay the little frame of twelve-year-old Katerina; her cardigan, white tshirt and tracksuit bottoms all dishevelled and torn, her long dark hair a tangled mess and her sweet pixie-like face a hideous swollen shade of blue, as fastened in place with a school pen and wound tightly around her tiny neck, Katerina had been garrotted by the strap of her Virgin Airlines bag. And although she lay there, with her mouth agape, her face contorted, her little body all bruised and bloody having been raped by a violent monster, and a jagged series of scratches across the throat as (during the attack) her delicate fingers had struggled to claw herself free from the thick red strap which strangled her, although motionless, she was still barely breathing and clinging onto life. "I tried to release it. It was too tight. I could not get it”, unable to unwind the strap, Trajce ran into the kitchen, "I took a knife. I cut it. I started to cry and call her name – ‘Katerina, Katerina’. I was bending over her crying when the Police arrived. I remember one of them telling me to help him to resuscitate her. He showed me where to push her chest. But I just couldn't do it. I was just so shocked. I felt weak and hopeless. I didn't want to touch her in case I hurt her"… but it was too late. At just after 5pm, having been raped and strangled, twelve-year-old Katerina Koneva was pronounced dead. (End) As if witnessing the death of his beloved daughter wasn’t enough; knowing that she was terrified, knowing that she was alone and knowing that her beloved daddy had been unable to protect, a postmortem later concluded that Katerina had been strangled for no longer than two or three minutes, which meant that, whilst Trajce was chasing The Beast, his baby daughter lay dying. Mary Marsh, headteacher at the Holland Park School wrote to all parents saying: "It is with profound sadness that I write to tell you of the tragic death of Katerina Koneva. Katerina was attacked at home soon after she returned from school. I know you will share our shock and deep distress about this. Katerina was an exceptional student. She is a great loss to us all". Outside of their flat at 35 Iffley Road, neighbours placed flowers, friends left messages and a service was held the local church - but for Trajce, Zaklina and Christian - their home was no longer filled with happiness, their lives no longer had purpose and their hearts would forever be broken. The tiny coffin of innocent little Katerina Koneva was buried in Mortlake Cemetery; her dreams were gone, her life was over and she had been slain by The Beast who had vanished into thin air, so there would be no justice, no trial, no arrest, and having given up so much – by fleeing war-torn Macedonia and restarting a new life from scratch in a strange land, all to protect their beloved babies – tragically, Katerina had been murdered in the one place she should have been safe – her own home. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part Two of this three-part episode of The Beast continues next week. If you’re new to Murder Mile, don’t forget to stay after the break as there’s more fun with Extra Mile. Before that, a big belated thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Renee Rasanen, Leon Hargreaves, Stephanie Hughes, Karen Rees, Danny Rolfe, Julia Diamond, Linda Davidson, Tasha Fischer, James Paris and Michelle Dutton, who all get exclusive Murder Mile goodies in the post, and – whilst Murder Mile was offline – some secret little videos about places which changed the world. And a big thank you to you all for listening to and sharing Murder Mile with your chums. And just to say, if you love the murder location videos I post on my blog, all videos for past episodes are now available via my Youtube Channel, there’s a link to it in the show-notes and even more exciting goodies and information about the live shows in Extra Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #82: Sulphuric: 6 - Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon24/12/2019
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Queen's Gate in South Kensington where John George Haigh lived for almost five years and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon, his final victim
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-TWO:
On the evening of Friday 18th February 1949, serial-killer John George Haigh murdered his sixth and final victim Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon, also known as Olive at his storeroom at Leopold Road. Six people had been murdered, as English Law states that “corpus delicti – with no body, there can be no crime”, having dissolved their bodies in acid, he knew he could literally get away with murder… but Haigh had made a fatal error.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
Ive added the location of The Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Quen's Gate where John George Haigh lived for the last four years of the murders and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
here's two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is Wandsworth Prison (still a prison today) where John George Haigh spent his final days and where he was executed, and on the right is The Onslow Court Hotel in South Kensington where Johnny lived and where he met Olivia Durrand Deacon, his final victim. These videos are links to youtube, so they won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Left to right: Henrietta "Olive" Durand-Deacon, Constance Lane and John George Haigh. Photos taken from Wiki Commons
Left to right: Olive's dentures (which didn't dissolve in the acid), Haigh rubber apron and Olive's necklace (which also didn't dissolve). These photos were taken from the negatives in the declassified police investigation file and are used under permission of Government License 3.0
Left to right, top to botom: bones fragments of Olive (pieces of pelvis but mostly her left foot), a tray of "sludge", the plastic handles of Olive's bag (not dissolved) and believed to be Olive's gallstones (also didn't dissolved). These photos are from the oriignal negatives, processed by myself and used with permission of the National Archives via Government License 3.0.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART SIX OF SULPHURIC.
Johnny Haigh seemed such an unassuming little fellow; small and slight, neat and polite, and being just a few weeks from forty – blessed with a boyish face, dimpled cheeks and an unbroken voice - as he nibbled his toast and supped his tea, the quiet little choir-boy whose mummy had dressed him in bow-ties was still easy to see… but not the monster that he claimed to be. For the last few hours, the four men had sat in the stuffy cramped confines of Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station, and as Chief Superintendent Barratt, Divisional Detective Inspector Symes and Detective Inspector Webb listened, little Johnny Haigh candidly recounted his callous crimes with the calmness of a man for whom murder was routine. And as each delicious detail tickled him, his feeble moustache bristled, but behind the dark dots of his marble-like eyes, there was nothing. (Haigh) “I have made some statements to you about the disappearance of Mrs Durand-Deacon. The truth is, we left the hotel together and she was inveigled by me into going to Crawley. Having taken her into the store-room at Leopold Road, whilst she was examining some paper for use as fingernails, I shot her in the back of the head and disposed of her in a tank of acid”. Having befriended the McSwan family and the Henderson’s, assumed their identities, inherited their estates and drained their assets, all five had mysteriously vanished and almost no-one had noticed. Any investigation would prove fruitless; years had passed, evidence was sold, and with no fingerprints or witnesses, basing his murders on the legal loophole that (Haigh) “corpus delicti - with no body, there can be no crime”, all that remained of his victims was a yellowy-green sludge. And so, cocky in his confidence, having already confessed to five perfect murders, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would now confess to a sixth; the how, the where and the when, every single detail… but without a body, the Police could do nothing. (Interstitial*) Give or take a few minor mishaps, his first five murders had been a doddle and his sixth would be easy-peasy, but unlike the pitiful scraps he had been tossed having popped-off the supposedly wealthy McSwan’s and the Henderson’s, this time, Johnny would hit the jackpot… and not a moment too soon. Johnny was broke! Again! Having first fleeced the fortunes of the McSwan family and blown every penny in two and a half years, as the Henderson’s deaths had netted him a hefty £7700 (almost a quarter of a million pounds today), this should have been enough money to last a lifetime… only after just eight months, Johnny squandered the lot, and worse still, his bank account was overdrawn. How? Don’t ask! He didn’t drink, barely smoked, didn’t do drugs and – described by his on/off lady friend as a “bit of a cheapskate” – although he wore sharp suits, drove fancy cars and ate in the best eateries, that was all just for show, as his idea of a good date was tea, toast and scrambled egg. But then, nobody’s perfect. Of the three vices Johnny had, all would bleed him dry; as a bad gambler he couldn’t tell a dead-cert from an old nag; as a wannabe entrepreneur, he couldn’t see a done deal from a dodgy dud; and – most bafflingly of all - although he never had an ounce of empathy for anyone but himself, this working-class boy aspired to be accepted by those he secretly despised. By the first week of February 1949, being neck-deep in debt and having bounced his last cheque, owing six weeks back-rent at the Onslow Court Hotel who had told him to “pay-up or get-out”, the middle-class reputation Johnny had cultivated was now in tatters and his name was becoming mud. Business was bad. Nothing came of the silent jackhammer, the needle-threader, the toy rocking horse, the battery powered fan, or the other silly ideas he had no skills to build, and with Edward Jones sick of his so-called partner’s stupid schemes, Johnny’s only other means of income had come to an end. As hard times bit hard, having sold Archie’s Lagonda and Saloon 12, shamefully this supreme swindler (who’d been half way to becoming a millionaire) scuttled back to his old tricks, by illegally refinancing his Alvis for just three hundred quid, a petty scam he last did a decade ago, only now, being so in love with living the high life, this pittance wouldn’t last him a day. But for Johnny there was no going back. He’d been poor, broke, hungry and homeless, and he didn’t like it, not one jot. For this boy born in the stark austerity of the Plymouth Brethren, there was nothing finer than sleeping on Indian linen sheets and taking tea and tiffin in the Tudor Room of the Onslow Court Hotel. It was civilised, cultured, sophisticated and – as one of its few male residents - being swarmed by a wealth of lonely widows, easily ensnared by the cheeky charms of a harmless man who (even during rationing) could slip his girl’s a little treat - like tights, bags and silks (just ignore the scorch marks) – oh yes, here he was adored… but taking tea with Johnny was like putting a famished shark in a paddling pool. Since Christmas, wreaking with desperation, he had struggled to lure several ladies to their deaths at Leopold Road, and now he was out of money, out of time, out of luck… but not out of persistence. (Haigh) “When I discovered there were easier ways to make a living, I did not ask myself whether I was doing right or wrong. That seemed to be irrelevant. I merely said “this is what I wish to do”. And as a means lay within my power, that was what I decided… if you’re going to go wrong, go wrong in a big way. Go after women – rich old women who like a bit of flattery. That’s your market”. Unlike the pitiful pay-out he had been bequeathed from his old dead pal Mac McSwan and his fleet of pinball parlours, the day Johnny met Mrs Durand-Deacon, he knew had hit the jackpot… Mrs Durand-Deacon was blessed with an impressively regal name which reflected her upper-middle class status, born on 28th February 1880, she was christened Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Fargas, although for brevity’s sake, she preferred to be called “Olive”. As the first of five children to Henry, a prominent solicitor and Helen, a solicitor’s wife, raised among the royal parks in the wealthy borough of Richmond, shielded by the ornate wrought-iron gates of an affluent country villa with private tutors, four servants and a nurse, the upbringing of Olive could easily be described as privileged, and although she had money, above everything else, she had morals. Being smart and fiercely independent, Olive was protective of her younger siblings; Nigel, Angela, Fred and Esme, and as a big sister - in every sense - being five foot ten and fourteen stone, as a stoutly built and strong-willed girl, she stood-up to bullies, shielded the weak and had a fire in her belly to fight for the rights of those less fortunate; not an easy a feat in an era where women were second-class citizens. Having rejected the shackles of marital subservience, for Olive, the early 1900’s was a time to fight… By the death of Queen Victoria - one of Britain’s wealthiest and most powerful women – the average woman had less rights than a horse; education was limited, careers were denied, prospects (beyond marriage and babies) were bleak, and denied the right to vote, women had no say on their own lives. In 1903, infuriated at the ineffective women’s groups whose crusades culminated in a strongly-worded letter to the all-male British government, Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Sylvia and Christine set-up The Women’s Social and Political Union; a small but powerful group who through “deeds not words” would fight and (if needed) die to give women the right to vote - one of their group was Olive. Seen as little more than weak women, the government grossly underestimated the passion with which these women would fight, refusing to be silenced and unfazed by the threat of arrest, in order to draw attention to their cause, they relied on new tactics, what they referred to as “direct action”; whether by heckling, threats or protests, hunger-strikes, suicides and even bombs. Under the name of ‘Mrs Drew’, Olive was unabashed about her own direct actions; over three years, she was expelled from the Albert Hall for shouting-down the First Lord of the Admiralty, she publicly harassed Prime Minister Herbert Asquith and Cabinet Minister Winston Churchill as they strolled along Whitehall and being a staunchly vocal and physical supporter of women’s rights, she took part in the Black Friday protest of 1910 and two city-wide campaigns of targeted criminal damage across the West End in November 1911 and March 1912 - the second of which would land Olive in prison. On Monday 4th March 1912 at 8am, The Women’s Social and Political Union congregated in Parliament Square for what their invite implied would be speeches by well-known suffragettes, but in truth, this rally of little women was nothing but a cunning ruse. As the speeches began, in a simultaneous attack, over 150 women armed with hammers, stones and clubs smashed shop windows right across the West End. Olive and her pal, the radical suffragette Maud Joachim broke six panes of glass at a jewellers and tea-shop on Regent Street, causing £32 worth of damage, and although the press initially dubbed this as an act of mindless violence, it was actually a very calculated political statement, designed to prove the government cared more about broken windows than a woman’s life… and they were right. As one of the 126 women arrested, Olive spent five days at Holloway Prison, was fined £50 and was bound-over for one year, but it was a small price to pay, as vowing to fight on until every last women, regardless of class, wage or education had the right to vote… by 1928, they had won. On 13th August 1918, 38 year old Olive married Reginald Durand-Deacon, a Captain in the Gloucester Regiment who later became a wealthy London lawyer, and although (a little late in life) she had finally found true love, standing true to her beliefs, her life would be good but her fight would never be over. In short, unlike his other victims – a thin timid drip, a weak pair of old recluses, a bankrupt impulsive boozer and a bed-bound neurotic - Mrs Durand-Deacon would be no push-over. Compared to Johnny, she was taller, heavier, stronger, bolder and a real force-of-nature who never let a mere man boss her about. But as Johnny knew, every victim had their fatal flaw, and hers… was that she was lonely. After twenty years of wedded bliss, on 25th January 1938, Reginald died. With a will of £5800 (just over £360,000 today) and no debts or dependents, her financial stability was assured, but a large pile of money is a poor substitute for the love, warmth and companionship of her beloved husband. For the last eleven years of her life, Olive never remarried, and although she was lonely, she was never alone… …which was bad news for Johnny. In fact, almost everything about Olive Durand-Deacon made her unsuitable for his murderous plan. Olive was a well-known face in South Kensington high society, who was liked by everyone and was an active participant in groups such as the Six Points women’s suffrage, the Francis Bacon Society, Christian Science and Solicitor’s & Artists Benevolent Fund, all of which she gave sizable donations. Olive was predictable; a precise and punctual lady who disliked surprises and rarely deviated from a schedule she openly discussed with her closest friend Constance Lane, and hating waste, she always informed the staff at the Onslow Court Hotel if ever she planned to be away (which was rare) or late. Olive was easy-to-spot; as a tall, broad and regal looking lady, with immaculate make-up, who turned heads in her royal blue dress, black Persian lamb coat, large black hat, tortoiseshell spectacles and a bright red handbag. And as a lover of exquisite jewellery – who was never without her twin-set of pearl necklaces, pearl studded earrings, 18 carat gold watch, five rings (studded with rubies, sapphires and diamonds) and a large Russian crucifix on a gold chain – whenever she walked, she sparkled. But worse still for Johnny, her disappearance would be entirely out-of-character and unexpected… …Olive was an honourable lady; she had no vices, debts or enemies, she lived sensibly, spent frugally and although she tipped well, she never withdrew more than £5 a week to cover her needs. And with no psychological issues, as an older overweight lady, she had no major medical problems, except for gall-stones which gave her a mild stomach ache and a new set of dentures she had recently had fitted. As his next victim, she was entirely unsuitable… …only Johnny was blind-sided by one bright shining detail. Olive was rich, very rich, as having been bequeathed a small fortune by her late husband, as a savvy businesswoman and a shrewd investor in her own right, Olive had turned this £5800 into £37000 – a lonely widow who today would be worth £1.2 million pounds. To Johnny, he had hit the jackpot, and all it took was a little flattery. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “She was inveigled by me into going to Crawley. Having taken her into the store-room at Leopold Road, whilst she was examining some paper for use as fingernails, I shot her in the back of the head. Following that, I removed her coat, jewellery and disposed of her in a tank of acid. Oh, I should have said that in-between, I went round to a cafe for a cup of tea and scrambled egg”. But she was so strong, so confident and so feisty? She was a fiery independent woman who harangued Prime Ministers, shouted down an Admiral, smashed shop windows and scraped in the street with the Police, where-as little Johnny Haigh, the skinny little weasel had repeatedly lied in his so-called confession, so was her death really that simple? (BANG, SLUMP, FIZZ) Well, yes, it was. With his first five deaths a doddle and his sixth easy-peasy, having learned his lessons, murder really had become routine for Johnny… and yes, as always, he made a few cock-ups here-and-there… only this time, being so broke and desperate to sink his claws into Olive’s fortune – with his cocky calmness replaced by an impulsive recklessness – his mistakes weren’t just big, they were bloody stupid. The killing Mrs Durand-Deacon wasn’t a well-though-out plan but a last-minute decision… On Monday 14th February 1949, four days before her death, as Olive took lunch in the Tudor Room with her friend Gwendoline; overhearing the ladies discuss a lack of suitable alternatives to artificial fingernails and offering to mock-up a solution, Johnny invited Olive to his workshop in Crawley. It seemed inconsequential, but several witnesses heard the killer, lure his victim, to the murder location. On Tuesday 15th February, Johnny ordered thirty gallons of sulphuric from Alfred White & Sons, being broke and his cheques having bounced, and although their relationship had fractured, he was forced to loan the cash off his unhappy business partner Edward Jones, and get Thomas Davies to deliver it. On Wednesday 16th, as a years’ worth of wind and rain had rusted the steel drums he had stashed in the yard, yet again, unable to replace or repair either, he was forced to order a new one, but with no money to pay the bill, he didn’t, and for days afterward, risked a bailiff being sent round to collect it. And yet, his worst mistakes were yet to come – this time, his crime had witnesses, a lot of witnesses. Friday 18th February 1949 was Olive’s last day alive. As usual, as she took tea with Constance Lane in the small but tightly-packed Tudor Room, Olive said “I’m going down to Mr Haigh’s place in Crawley where he experiments on different things”, her appointment was at two-thirty and the time was ten passed two. This exchange was overheard by Constance, several residents and three waitresses. At 2:10pm, Hilda Kirkwood (the hotel’s bookkeeper) witnessed Johnny leave via the front door, cross Queen’s Gate, enter his garage at Manson Mews and drove two and a half miles east in his dark-blue Alvis (registration plate BOV463), which was odd, as he was meant to meet Olive in fifteen minutes. At 2:15pm, distinctively dressed in a royal blue dress, a large black hat, a black Persian fur coat, two pearl necklaces and a bright red handbag, Hilda watched as Olive hailed a taxi and headed in the same direction, to the Army & Navy Stores on Victoria Street where Olive purchased a set of false nails. His plan was simple, as before, by meeting in a pre-arranged place, Johnny could ensure he was never seen with any victim on the day they died. Only having picked-up Olive, he was spotted… twice. First at 3:45pm, as Johnny’s 20hp Alvis trundled passed Maurice Laudauer’s garage at Povey Cross at a sedate 35mph, the owner (who knew him well having serviced his car on many occasions) saw Johnny, in broad daylight, driving his Alvis towards Crawley, with a lady who fitted that description. And second, a little after 4pm, with her gall-stones giving her gip, Olive needed to use the loo, so they stopped-off at The George; a local hotel, where (for the last five years) Johnny had often ate and slept, and having politely asked “Would you don’t mind if I use your bathroom?”, the manager Hannah Caplan would later positively identify Mrs Durand-Deacon... and Johnny Haigh; together, in Crawley, just three streets from Leopold Road and a few moments before her death. (BANG, SLUMP, FIZZ). With Symes & Barratt having stepped away a while ago, as Haigh concluded his confession to Detective Inspector Webb, although his mouth grinned, the soulless glare of his cold dead eyes gave away nothing, “Mrs Durand-Deacon no longer exists. She has disappeared completely and no trace of her can ever be found. How can you prove murder if there is no body?” And with that, the callous killer slurped his tea. He loved to toy with this simple copper, knowing his intellect was vastly superior… …but there was one thing Johnny didn’t know - the Police were one step ahead. Being a master of silence and subtly checking his watch, Webb waited till Johnny had ran out of things to say and segued into small-talk, Haigh asked “so, where are the other two?”, suitable baited Webb replied “Well, they shouldn’t be very long now, they’ve got a fair way to come”, leaving that little morsel dangling on a hook, (Haigh) “They’ve been a long time, haven’t they?”, and with that Johnny fell into Webb’s trap (Haigh) “Where are they coming from?” to which Webb replied “Oh, they’ve been down to Crawley”. Johnny didn’t react; no smile, no blink, no wince, just a single solitary gulp. But what could they prove? Nothing. For Johnny, the evening of Olive’s death was like any other (Haigh) “disposal had become automatic by then. I am not aware of any remorse. It was a fatiguing business getting a fourteen stone carcase into an oil drum on one’s own, it took me two hours”. So hungry and tired, he had tea, toast, scrambled egg, a good night’s sleep, and the next morning, pumped the drum four-fifths full of acid and left. There was blood on the walls, a handbag on the floor, tortoise-shell spectacles on the bench and a dead body dissolving in a drum, but with so much money to spend, Johnny was gone. And yet, before his cunning subterfuge of writing letters to lawyers and siblings began, it all took an unexpected turn… On the afternoon of Sunday 20th February, with the usually punctual lady now missing for two days, Constance Lane, a long-term resident at the Onslow Court Hotel walked into Chelsea Police Station and reported her close friend – Olive Durand-Deacon - as missing… and she was aided by Johnny Haigh. Eager to limit the damage, as Police Sergeant Dale took down Olive’s particulars, Johnny vainly barked “You have written down Mrs Lane’s name and address, but you haven’t asked for mine”. A decision which would prove fatal, as being so prominent in South Kensington’s high society, her disappearance made the papers… and so did Johnny’s name… a detail which didn’t go unnoticed by Arnold Burlin. On Monday 21st, three days had passed, but the body hadn’t dissolved, (Haigh) “I returned to Crawley to find the reaction almost complete, but a piece of fat and bone was still floating in the sludge”. Being taller than Amy & Rosalie, having pumped the drum four-fifths full of acid, just like Archie, although her flesh, muscles and bones had dissolved into a black acrid soup, parts of her left foot still bobbed about on the thick sticky surface of yellow-green gloop. (Haigh) “I emptied off the sludge with a bucket and pumped a further ten gallons of acid into the tank to decompose the remaining fat and bone”, having tossed in her red handbag for good measure. A day later, “I dumped it in the yard”, and with that, the body was gone, evidence was destroyed and Mrs Durand-Deacon had vanished (Interstitial*). …but the Police were closing in. As a matter of routine in a missing person’s case, WPS Alexandra Lambourne questioned everyone at Onslow Court; their answers were solid, but one resident stood out; as being too eager to tell his side of the story, although this neat little man came across as harmless, something about him caused her skin to crawl, and unhappy with his answers, she alerted her boss - Detective Inspector Albert Webb. Across the week, Johnny volunteered several statements in connection to her disappearance, but with his details vague, his facts shifting and his eyes cold and unemotional, having pulled his criminal record - although he had no history of violence – the detectives were in no doubt that they were dealing with a fraudster, a forger and a professional liar, so treading carefully, they brought him in for questioning. On Monday 28th February at 4:15pm, when asked to assist the Police once more, Haigh exclaimed “I’ll do anything to help you” and was driven to Chelsea Police Station… but instead of being free to speak, as Webb awaited his colleagues’ return, for the first two hours, all they did was sit and wait in silence. Exuding the calmness of a man who knew he would never be caught, Johnny supped tea, nibbled toast and even snoozed, but the delay was deliberate, and being so desperate to show-off just how clever he really was, although he would brazenly confess to his six perfect murders… the wait gave Barratt and Symes time to examine the storeroom at 2 Leopold Road. Given permission by Edward Jones to break the lock, everything was a Johnny had left it a few days prior; his clean-up wasn’t even slap-dash, it was non-existent, but he knew he didn’t need it to be. With the later investigation headed-up by Home Office pathologist Dr Keith Simpson and Detective Chief Inspector Guy Mahon; inside, they found three carboys of acid, an Enfield Mk1 revolver, eleven rounds of .38 calibre ammunition (three spent), a rubber apron, a set of rubber gauntlets, an Army-issue gas-mask, several items marked with a large monogrammed H, ten strips of red cellophane (believed to be a prototype for artificial fingernails), a broken monocle, a spatter of bloodstained whitewash removed from between two windows, an attaché case full of passports, driving licences, identity cards, ration books and marriage certificates in the names of William Donald McSwan, Donald McSwan, Amy McSwan, Archibald Henderson and Rosalie Henderson, and outside in the yard, three 40 gallon steel drums (two badly rusted and one nearly new but empty and dry) and a large quantity of yellowy-green sludge. It was a wealth evidence, but it was all circumstantial, and it wasn’t a body. From the basement at 79 Gloucester Road, they recovered some unspecified sludge from inside the manhole and an old worn axe, gifted by Johnny to the estate agent, Albert Marshall, but not a body. From Room 404 at the Onslow Court Hotel, they found a large stash of personal possessions belonging to all six victims, including Mac’s typewriter, Archie’s suits, every piece of forged paperwork relating to the theft of their estates, a shopping list written in Johnny’s handwriting for (Haigh) “a drum, acid, stirrup pump, gloves, apron, rags, cotton wool, red paper etc”, and amongst his dirty linen they found a bloodied shirt. And although he fully confessed (Haigh) “that must be Mrs Durand Deacon’s blood. I was wearing that shirt when I shot her”, again, it circumstantial evidence, but wasn’t a body. After a painstaking examination of the yard at Leopold Road, having sieved 400lbs of soil, the Police found the smashed frames of Olive’s spectacles and the plastic handle of her red handbag, as well as several fragments of bone identified as the left foot of an elderly female, the broken pieces of Olive’s dentures (identified by her dentist) and amazingly even one of her gallstones. But once again, it wasn’t a body, in fact, with everything having been dissolved into an unrecognisable stew, these random bits of a dead woman were as close as the Police ever came to finding the remains of Mrs Durand-Deacon. When shown all of the legal letters he had forged, although Johnny cockily crowed “yes, I wrote all of the signatures”, even going so far as to quip, “I signed Mac’s name, I remember I didn’t make a good job of it, instead of Donald, I write Ponald”, they could only arrest him for fraud but nothing more. Even his diary, in which he had celebrated each killing with an initial “A is for Archie, R is for Rose”, knowing that “with no body, there can be crime”, as circumstantial evidence, it meant nothing. (End) He had given the Police everything, and having confessed to the murders of six innocent people – the McSwan’s, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon - all of whom had vanished completely, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would never be convicted. (Interstitial*) …or so he thought. Across his six (supposedly) perfect murders, little Johnny Haigh had made a lot of mistakes, many of which he had miraculously got away with, and although many were big, they weren’t the biggest, as back in Lincoln Prison, on the day he had concocted his murderous plan, he had made a fatal mistake. Back in Interview Room Three at Chelsea Police Station, bored of waiting, Johnny impatiently pressed (Haigh) “What are they doing now? Symes and Barrett I mean”. (Webb) “Well John, I don’t really know, but I should imagine they are working hard in order to get you hanged”, (Haigh) “Hanged, what on earth for?”, (Webb) “Oh, you know very well that they only hang people for one reason in this country, don’t you John?”. And he did… but having once read in a law-book about Corpus Delicti, Johnny knew (Haigh) “You can’t prove that I murdered anybody… you can’t prove a murder without a body”. To which, as his trap snapped shut, Webb retorted (Webb) “Oh yes you can…” and as Webb listed two trials off the top of his head, with that cocky grin firmly wiped off his smug little face, Johnny gulped. Johnny was right though, “Corpus Delicti, with no body, there can be no crime”, but his mistake was to assume that by “body” the law meant a human body, but it doesn’t, it means a “body of evidence”. All the Police needed was enough circumstantial evidence to prove where the victim had been, how they had died and been disposed of and – more importantly - who had killed them, and having confessed to six murders, including Mrs Durand-Deacon’s - Johnny had given the police everything. On 2nd March 1949, Johnny was charged with the murder of Henrietta Helen Olivia Robarts Durand-Deacon, to which he replied “I have nothing to say”. The irony lost on him, as many-moons before, he had boasted to his cell-mate “who can tell if a murder has taken place if a person completely disappears? Only the murderer would know and if he kept his mouth shut, he would be safe”. On 18th July 1949, at Sussex Assizes, he pleaded his innocence, but after a two-day trial and having deliberated for just seventeen minutes, a unanimous jury found him “guilty” and he was sentenced to death. On Wednesday 10th August 1949 at 9am, taking just seven seconds from the opening of the cell door to his little torso dangling from a taut hemp rope, as seasoned executioner Albert Pierrepoint perched the tiny trembling monster on a chalk ‘x’ - granted no last words, no final requests, no quick cigarette, no speeches, no bullshit, not even time for tears – with his last ever sight blocked by a thick white hood, as his skilled slayer pulled the lever, the trap doors parted and as his little body plunged seven feet and four inches into a dark cold void, as the hemp rope tugged tight, the top two vertebrae of his neck snapped to the right and little Johnny Haigh was dead. And with that, the killing-spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial killers finally (for the very last time) came to an end. (End) But was his death really that simple? (Rope/Pull/Creak) Well, yes, it was. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile, that was the final part of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the omnibus editions of this series and a special Q&A episode rolling out next week, to mark the end of the season. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter – Mir Razavi – as well a big thank you to Julie at Nostalgia Knits for sending me the lovely hand-knitted sock, very cosy, and April McLucas and Emily Lock for the kind donations sent via the Murder Mile website. I promise you, it will be spent on beer and cake. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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