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:
On the morning of Thursday 12th February 1948, two years after the triple murder of the McSwan family, with John George Haigh having blossomed into a respected businessman with enough money to last a lifetime and had no plans to kill ever again, he lured his new pal - a wealthy man of dubious morals Archie Henderson - to his workshop at 2 Leopold Road, where he murdered him and dissolved his body in acid. But why did Johnny return to a life of crime?
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 22 Ladbroke Square with a blue dot, where The Henderson's first met John George Haigh. 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.
Left to right: Archibald Henderson (Captain), 22 Ladbroke Square (home where the Henderson's first met John George Haigh), Rosalie Henderson and 14 Dawes Road, the "Doll's Hospital" toy shop with their flat above where Johnny stole the revolver (used to kill Archie) and the gas mask.
This is the original plan of the two-storey storeroom at 2 Leopold Road in Crawley, where Archie was murdered, as made by the Police for the investigation and trial.
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 FOUR OF SULPHURIC.
“William, Donald & Amy McSwan have gone to Scotland… or Ireland… or was it America? It was one or the other. I mean, does it really matter?” Johnny’s ruse was simple; a shy reclusive family - who were never reckless, impulsive and rarely went out – had unexpectedly fled to the country, in the dead of night, leaving behind everything that they had ever owned; from their homes, businesses, stocks and savings, to their teacups on the table, their bread in the basket and their clothes in the cupboard… …but somehow it worked. The McSwan’s were an intensely private, tightly-knit and deeply-loyal family who kept-to-themselves, so with no close friends or concerned family, no-one reported them missing. And why would they? Armed with a set of keys, a forged letter and a Power of Attorney, over the next few months, Johnny paid the remaining rent on their top-floor flat, settled any bills, collected the post, tipped the milkman, topped-up the gas-metre with coins and even paid Mac’s monthly subscription to the Amusement Caterer’s Association. On paper, the McSwan’s still existed, just not in person. But as clever and calculated as Johnny was, being so uncaring and eager to fritter-away the family’s fortune, he was also brazen and callous; and having let himself in, rifled through drawers and flogged-off the dour clothes and sparse furnishing of the recently deceased, Johnny sold everything. Every item, asset or account; whether their wallets, purses, ration-cards or chequebooks, and – before he sold all four of their houses in Beckenham, Wimbledon and Raynes Park – cocky in his confidence, he even collected the monthly rents, in person, having signing the rent-book himself. And yet, as for the McSwan’s pitiful pensions of a piffling 22 shillings per week? He left that. It wasn’t worth his time. Within a few months, having stolen the equivalent of £210,000, Johnny had dissolved every single asset of the McSwan family, until – just like their corpses – nothing existed. And as no-one had noticed, with the law of Corpus Delicti still valid and stating that “with no body, there can be no crime”, even if he was arrested and gave the Police a full confession, with no evidence, he could never be convicted. By August 1945, having made enough money to last a lifetime, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers should have come to an end… but it didn’t. (Interstitial*) Johnny Haigh was jubilant. Yes, 1944 had been a right dog’s dinner, but with 45 going great-guns, 46 being a real pip and – although Britain was in the grip of post-war austerity with millions either jobless, penniless or homeless, blah-de-blah-de-blah - for Johnny, 1947 was looking to be a bit of a doozy. One month after he had casually flushed the whole McSwan family down the sewer – a laborious deed which severely ate into his social schedule and soiled his trench coat, leather gloves and his once shiny shoes – billowing with bank notes - Johnny permanently moved into the rather upmarket Onslow Court Hotel at 108 Queen’s Gate in South Kensington, one street up from the acid-stained basement. Room 404 was his man-pad; an exclusive serviced room with Indian-linen sheets on the soft sprung mattress, an armchair for entertaining his chums, a wardrobe full of his tailored suits, drawers for his dress-shirts, silks shorts, ties and hankies - so Johnny the entrepreneur always looked dapper - and at his desk; a fountain pen, a diary, a waste bin, several books on mechanics and an Imperial typewriter. Catering to his every whim; the bellboy polished his shoes, the maid cleaned his room, the concierge collected his dry-cleaning and the night-porter emptied his waste-bin, so with nothing to do but to choose between breakfast, luncheon, tiffin, high-tea, drinkies, din-dins or a little late supper, he busied himself by mingling in the dining room with the wealthy, the cultured, the respected and the widowed. Ah yes, this was the life alright – civilised, urbane, stylish - and it had all been worth his struggle. That said, as much as South Kensington’s most eligible bachelor loved to tootle about town in his dark green Armstrong Siddeley saloon - the bright glint of its waxed body, the subtle squeak of leather seats, the luxurious whiff of walnut dash and the solid rumble of its 20hp engine really turned some heads - but he felt it was a bit fuddy-duddy for a real go-getter, so his new wheels would have to go. But it wasn’t all play you know. Johnny’s company - Union Group Engineering – was up-and-running. Established to give legitimacy to his purchase of large quantities of lethal acids, now as a legitimate businessman, he used his money to develop ideas with inventors. Okay, he’d lied a little bit; his business address was a hotel room, his title of Technical Liaison Officer was self-appointed, the BSC initials after his name related to a phony degree and he had no training as an engineer, but then again, half of success is confidence, right? In 1945, he invested in a needle-threader. In 1946, he dabbled in toy rocking horses made from tubular steel, and in 1947, having invested £225 in Hurstlea Products Ltd to develop a silent jack-hammer and a battery powered fan, the boss Edward Jones appointed Johnny as nominal director. Eager to make-a-go of it, Johnny didn’t take a wage, but instead relished the role’s credibility, the extra petrol rations (vital in post-war Britain) and – keen to develop his own inventions – having purchased it off Allan Stephens, Edward gave Johnny access to a small storeroom in Crawley, based at 2 Leopold Road. So had the sadistic serial-killer stopped his killing-spree to become a serial-investor? Well, yes, he had. Ex-con Johnny was gone, as having realised his full potential and blossomed into a respected company director who lived well, dressed fine and spoke properly, moving in middle-class circles, this gave him the perfect opportunity to meet likeminded people… like Archibald & Rosalie Henderson. (Haigh) “I met the Henderson’s by answering an advertisement for the sale of their property at 22 Ladbroke Square. They were staying at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. I took Dr Henderson to the storeroom at Leopold Road, disposed of him by shooting him in the head and put him in a tank of acid. I brought up Mrs Henderson, shot her too and put her in another tank of acid”. Simple. Of course, the Henderson’s were not part of his original plan. Johnny wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, he was a cool-headed businessman, but sometimes, try-as-you-might, life has other ideas. (Interstitial*) Johnny liked Archie, they were so similar, but where-as Mac was the little boy Johnny once was, Archie was the older brother he aspired to be; rich, flashy and confident, heartless, selfish and cruel. Archibald Henderson was born in Glasgow on 20th July 1897, eleven years before Johnny, and although identical in many ways, Archie’s upbringing was a blue-print of how Johnny wished his life had been. Raised in the prosperous Scottish suburb of Partick to a housewife mother and a banker father, unlike Johnny, Archie was proper middle-class, not an uppity coal-miner’s son with lofty aspirations. As part-time Presbyterians who embraced a faith when it suited them, Archie’s early years weren’t silent and stuffy like the Plymouth Brethren, but bright and joyous affairs, full of music, colour, laughter and life, and as intensely social people, they were liked, trusted and welcomed. Educated at the affluent High School of Glasgow, one of Britain’s oldest grammar schools and the seat of learning for two Prime Ministers, just like Johnny, Archie was gifted a great education but as a day-dreamer who wasn’t academically blessed, although he loved science and mechanics, he struggled. Conversely, where-as the quiet undersized boy in bow-tie with no siblings and no friends saw school as a very solitary experience; being tall, sporty and a big personality, Archie loved school, had oodles of chums and (unlike this only child) he would never be lonely, as by his side was his big sister – Ethel. Archie had everything that Johnny did not; money, style, class and status. And as a strapping six-footer with chiselled features, an athletic physique and a very manly moustache, although unconventionally handsome with sticky-out ears, pursed lips and a stern stare that glared over the dark bags of his world weary eyes, being a real man, Archie was someone that little Johnny Haigh literally looked-up to. And yet, as two frustrated men who hated hard graft for little reward, they struggled to find their full potential, but where-as Johnny was always patient, sober and distant - as a deeply unhappy man with unfulfilled dreams of living a kept life to a wealthy wife - Archie was often angry, violent and drunk. As a conscript, Private Henderson served in World War One, unlike Johnny he didn’t dodge the draft, but being a lowly-squaddie with little respect for rank, routine or regiment, he was never promoted, and yet, he held onto his medals, his gas-mask and his Enfield Mark 1 service revolver as souvenirs. Demobbed in 1919, ten years and several tries later, he qualified as a doctor from Glasgow University, but being superior, stubborn and self-important, with a dreadful bedside manner and style other doctor’s described as “clumsy and inept”, instead of patients, he preferred golf, gambling and girls. Archie was unpredictable, being crippled by Spondylitis (a stiffness of the back), Kyphosis (a curvature of the spine) and intermittent spasms in his shoulder, as a debilitating and degenerative illness, his moody demeanour was made worse as he was forced to temper it with drink and prescription drugs. Just like Johnny, Archie hated hard-work. (Haigh) “When I first 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’. Go after women; rich old women who like a bit of flattery. That’s your market”. And although Johnny was yet to bag himself a biggie, Archie was way ahead of him. On 18th January 1930, 33 year old Archie married 29 year old Frances Dorothy Orr; a wealthy socialite with several lavish pads in Mayfair, Knightsbridge and Kensington, who spoiled him with shirts from Harrods, suits from Saville Row and a bright red Lagonda sports car, as well as many expensive trinkets including an 18 carat gold cigarette box and lighter engraved with her name ‘Dorothy’. Squandering his wife’s wealth, Archie quit work to live a truly hedonistic life of drinking, gambling and womanising; a heartless cheat who spent wildly, racked-up debts and shagged copiously, as to Archie - who only loved her money - she wasn’t his wife, she was his meal-ticket. So disgusted were his family, that just weeks after the wedding, Archie cut all ties with them… except with his beloved sister Ethel. As heavy-drinkers and unhappily-married, their South Kensington suite at 3 Grenville Place echoed to her volatile screams, as always cursing, fighting and living in fear of his fists, Dorothy sunk into a deep depression. And for the last few months of their marriage, being drugged-up and drunk, crying and catatonic, she lay there (bedbound and broken) cuddling Pat - her Red Setter puppy. Not that Archie really gave a rat’s ass, as with his wife wasted on scotch and sleeping pills (which he had prescribed), he openly flaunted his torrid affair with their friend and neighbour Rosalie Errens. On 20th April 1937, simply to escape his abuse, Dorothy moved into a private suite in The Bailey Hotel at 140 Gloucester Road. Three days later she died. And although her family suspected foul-play at the hands of Dr Henderson her money-grabbing husband, her death was declared natural causes, her body was cremated and Archie inherited her entire estate, a total of £20,000 (almost £800,000 today). Johnny liked, admired and respected Archie. He was the older brother he never had, the only pal he ever wanted and the affluent business man he aspired to be. So it must have been a real bummer to have to bump-off Archie? But hey-ho, that’s the way it goes. (Interstitial*) By August 1947, two years had passed since Johnny had slopped the hot melted mess of the McSwan’s down the festering manhole. He was a new man now – respectable, honest and successful - with a company to run, a full life to lead and enough money to last a lifetime… or so he had thought. During the post-war austerity, although he’d invested in several inventions with Edward Jones - a silent jack-hammer, a battery powered fan, a needle-threader and had dabbled in the mass–production of a toy rocking horse made of tubular steel – nothing came of them. It was nobody’s fault, it happens. But being shamefully shy on his rent at Onslow Court, forced to sell his dark green Armstrong Siddeley, (which left just two cars in his rented garage, a sporty Alvis and a sedate Saloon 12) and with his good name sullied owing £353 to five bookies having placed a few bad bets on the doggies and gee-gee’s, so with every last penny shaken out of the McSwan’s and flatly refusing to turn – with tail-tucked between his leg - back to Wakefield, once again, Johnny was one month away from being broke. So… somebody had to die. He knew Edward Jones, of course, but why should he murder Edward? Yes, he liked him, and yes he had some assets; a tidy house, a small engineering firm called Hurstlea Products and a storeroom at 2 Leopold Road, which (as co-director) Johnny the enthusiastic but painfully unskilled inventor would turn into a little workshop, but – just like his old pal Allan Stephens - his small income didn’t amount to much, so setting aside their friendship, yes he could kill Edward, but what would be the point? No, Johnny needed money, a lot of money… so he had to murder Archie. The day he met Dr Archibald Henderson, having bungled the first three (supposedly) perfect murders, Johnny started making a mental checklist to ensure that the fourth would be just that - perfect. (Haigh) “I found The Henderson’s interesting and amusing, we went about a good deal together, and they liked me to play to them, I sat at their piano interpreting the classics. The Henderson’s talked a lot about themselves, and from many conversations I learned a great deal about them. But I never had any great affection for any of my victims. None”. On 6th October 1938, one year after his wife’s abrupt death, Archie married his mistress Rosalie Errens. Logistically, this was a tad inconvenient as with the silly cow legally his next-of-kin, she had unwittingly volunteered to be Johnny’s fifth victim. Which was a bit of a waste of his time to be honest, but having done a double-drum murder before, and as a nervous lady who was often drunk, drugged and bed-bound in a style strangely similar to the first wife, should she die too, the Police would probably blame Archie. And with their closest relatives being his sister Ethel Norman in Jersey and her brother Arnold Burlin in Manchester, they couldn’t affect the Power of Attorney, so legally it would be a breeze. Asset-wise. Archie had frittered away his dead wife’s estate, but as an impulsive investor who had recently sold his doctor’s practice in Upminster, a 20 bedroomed guest house at 22 Ladbroke Square in Holland Park and still owned a flat and toy shop called The Doll’s Hospital, all worth £600,000 today, so including a sizable military pension, a bright red 20hp Lagonda sports car and a half-blind elderly Red Setter called Pat (who Johnny was rather fond of), they would – most definitely - be worth killing. Medically; Rosalie was a depressed neurotic with drink and drug issues, a history of secret affairs, wild spending sprees and a suspicion of sadomasochistic sex; Archie was a crippled pill-popping alcoholic with a violent temper, a succession of mistresses and a string of bad debts, so (although a very social couple) their impromptu vanishing wouldn’t be unexpected, with it attributed either to suicide, stress, self-abuse or starting a new life together (as they had discussed) in the South African city of Durban. Luring the Henderson’s to their deaths would be a piece-of-cake; as a budding entrepreneur eager to make-a-mint without lifting a finger, who was crippled by a bad back and wore a monocle to read, Archie’s bait was obvious. And as for Rosalie? A bed-bound chronically-depressed drunk? Ha! He had easily pried the reclusive McSwan’s out of their little hidey-hole, so how hard could she be? No, as far as Johnny was concerned, boxes were ticked, plans were made and (with his overdraft fit to burst) he set-about preparing their deaths. His one major ball-ache was he never thought he’d be back here again, murdering for money, it was so vulgar, and besides everything was gone; the drums (gone), the acid (gone), the cosh (gone), the drain (gone) and the basement (gone). Urgh! So, again, for the second time in two and half years, he would have to rebuild his murder basement from scratch. Thankfully, luck (or maybe God) was smiling on little Johnny Haigh, so this time it all sought-of fell into his lap, which was rather nice, and having turned his back on the old boy for a bit, Johnny did consider going back to Church once-in-a-while… but maybe not to confession… obviously. As co-director of Hurstlea Products, Edward Jones had given Johnny access to 2 Leopold Road; it wasn’t much, but as a small isolated storeroom thirty yards from a remote side-road in an industrial part of Crawley, with thick brick walls, no immediate neighbours, a messy yard chock full of indecipherable scrap and hidden behind a six foot high fence – even though it had no drain - it was private and perfect. Sadly, the two steel drums he’d shipped to Allan’s had been scrapped, as a caustic mix of rain and acid had caused them to irreparably rust, but having spied two in a nearby yard, he blagged both for just an ounce of tobacco and called in a freebie from his welder pal Thomas Davies to fix any holes and fit both with a lid to limit the leakage of toxic gases, so actually, they were better than the old drums. With a black mark against his company’s name, which slightly sullied his business terms with Canning & Co, he ordered a Winchester of hydrochloric and three 10 gallon carboys of sulphuric from chemical wholesaler - A White & Sons – at the cheaper price of £4 pounds 8 shillings and 7 pence. Money saved. As for the rest? The previous occupier had left behind a stirrup-pump, so instead of slopping out 535lbs of highly corrosive acid by bucket, Johnny could safely full up the drums without any risk to himself. Also being gifted a thick rubber apron and pair of rubber gauntlets – from neck to knees and fingers to forearm - Johnny was now fully protected from any acrid splashes, and all at no extra cost. And as a frequent visitor to the Henderson’s flat over their ‘Doll’s Hospital’ toy shop at 16 Dawes Road, when the sticky-beaked manageress (Daisy Roundtree) wasn’t being so bloody nosey, Johnny swiped Archie’s old Army-issue respirator (so it was goodbye to the old gas mask made from cardboard and string) and (saying farewell to the pinball table leg, the length of lead-pipe and the old rusty hand-axe) he pilfered Archie’s Enfield Mark 1 service revolver and an envelope of eleven .38 calibre bullets. So, to be honest, starting from scratch was all pretty simple actually. Admittedly, with the tiny storeroom still in use until 1st January 1948, and unwilling to split it – with one side for storing engine-parts and the other side for a spot of serial-killing – Johnny put his deathly deed on hold. So being broke, his Christmas was a present-free affair and his New Year’s Eve with the Henderson’s was all on their coin, but (as patience is a virtue) it did bring him some unexpected treats. Two Christmas cards sent by Archie and Rosalie to his sister Ethel and her brother Arnold, stating they were fine, well, selling-up and maybe moving to South Africa. Which was rather sporting, as it did irk Johnny somewhat to chug to-and-from Scotland to post a few forged postcards from the McSwan’s dead son, so how bothersome would it have been to do likewise… in Durban? Lucky Johnny eh? And as for the rest, it was child’s play. On Friday 5th February 1948, in the workshop of Thomas Davies, Johnny dangled a tasty morsel – a rocking horse made of tubular steel. As a toy-shop owner, Archie loved it; being short-sighted, he popped on his monocle to inspect it and with his back aching, he winced as he bent over the bench, but with no sale made, Archie left empty-handed, Thomas was annoyed, but – for Johnny – it was fine. On Saturday 6th, with Rosalie unwell and eager to recuperate, the Henderson’s packed three suitcases, a holdall and two bags (all exquisitely marked with a monogrammed ‘H’) into their red Lagonda and accompanied by Pat, their elderly Red Setter, they drove from their flat to the more-isolated Kingsgate Hotel in Broadstairs (Kent). Away from their social life, routine and anyone who knew them. On Tuesday 10th, with the Kingsgate being too-quiet, they moved to the Metropole Hotel in Brighton, just twenty-one miles from Leopold Road. Having checked in for six nights, with Rosalie unwell, the housekeeper brought her a hot-water bottle and a portable radiator, the maid delivered her meals to her bed and asked to walk her elderly dog, the night porter noticed a vast array of medicines on the side table, as in the evenings, the waiter served Archie and a small boyish man with a little moustache. As a busy hotel which catered to their every whim, they saw nothing suspicious. And why would they? On the morning of Thursday 12th, with Rosalie still very-much bed-bound, Archie left for a business meeting. No-one was concerned, no-one reported him missing and he was never seen alive ever again. (Haigh) “The Henderson’s were staying at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. I took Dr Henderson to the storeroom at Leopold Road, I disposed of him by shooting him in the head with his own revolver and I put him in a tank of acid”. But was it really that simple? Well, yes, it was. Miraculously, no longer being a murder virgin, but instead a seasoned serial-killer with three dead, one due, and a fifth he was planning to pop-off a little later, Johnny Haigh had learned his lessons. Convinced to leave behind his rather ostentatious red Lagonda sports car, as planned, Archie caught a train from Brighton, he was picked-up at Crawley station by an unidentified man in his slightly drab Saloon 12 and sedately driven to an industrial part of town, down a remote road and into a secluded yard, hidden behind a six-foot high fence and the closed double-gates of 2 Leopold Road. If this is true, at no–point from the hotel to the storeroom were Archie and Johnny seen together? Being mid-morning and mid-week, of the few neighbours whose premises surrounded this street, with their own busy lives to lead and money to make, neither the laundress, the metal-presser or a stable yard owner saw, heard and smelled anything out-of-the-ordinary from this engineer’s workshop. As per usual, as Johnny pulled-in and parked-up his car inside the private yard, his new pal Archie got out. It was an odd little place; around the fences was a scruffy sea of tangled trash; tyres, boxes and mechanical bits-and-bobs, and dead-centre was a laughably tiny box-like storeroom barely the size of Archie’s bathroom, with one door, two windows and a reassuring sign which read ‘Hurstlea Products’. It was just as Johnny had described; small, simple but suitable for an ambitious entrepreneur. So led in by his pal and potential business partner, having toasted at Christmas, New Year and (hopefully) many more celebrations beyond, although Archie’s bad back made his walk slow and laborious, Johnny took his time. He was in no rush, as death comes to us all eventually… and to some, sooner than most. Unlocking the only door with the only key to the storeroom only Johnny had access to, Archie sensed no danger, no threat and no suspicion, as (in broad daylight) he entered the small brick-lined room of a keen inventor who dabbled in plastics. As expected, hung on a hook on the white-washed walls was a thick rubber apron and two rubber gauntlets, nearby were three carboys of unidentified liquid, two steel-drums and flush to the walls was a waist-high bench, on which, something which drew his attention. Perhaps the designs for a needle-threader, a silent jack-hammer or a battery-powered fan? Popping on his monocle to his dark-circled eye to inspect an invention his pal had placed before him, as six-foot Archie craned over the three-foot bench, he winced a little as a familiar sharp pain shot up his stiff spine causing his movements to slow to a crawl. But again, Johnny was in no rush, this was all part of his superior plan, as with his victim being short-sighted and partially-crippled, facing away, this gave Johnny ample time, as from behind, he took aim with Archie’s own revolver. (BANG). In a single shot, his head exploded, as at close range, the 38 calibre bullet ripped through his skull, brain and face, as a fine mist of mucus and blood spattered down the white-washed wall, causing his monocle to crack as his half-mangled head thumped against the bench, and the lifeless (and almost faceless) body of 50 year old Archibald Henderson slumped in a heap on the dusty floor, dead. It was brazen to shoot a man dead, in broad daylight, between two windows… but Johnny was unfazed. With one down and one to go; pockets were emptied, limbs were hog-tied and the body was slid into the drum, but before the acid, the disposal and the death of Rosalie - which (as a mere formality) really was a huge waste of his time - before all that, he had lunch. Tea, toast and scrambled egg. Yummy. Johnny liked, admired and respected Archie. He was the older brother he never had, the only pal he ever wanted and the affluent businessman he aspired to be. And although it should have been a real bummer to bump-off his buddy? Actually it wasn’t all that bad. So, with his body dissolved, his assets legally swiped and the man himself having vanished completely, Johnny would literally become Archie. Everything would now be his; from his home, his bank, his bags and his business; to his shirts from Harrods, his suits from Saville Row and his 18 carat gold cigarette box engraved with his dead wife’s name. He took everything, right down to his cuffs, collars, shoelaces and slippers, even his blue silk dressing-gown exquisitely marked (as everything was) with a monogrammed ‘H’. Everything he liked, wanted or was fond of was taken; even Pat, his elderly Red Setter. And as Johnny drove the corpse’s bright-red Lagonda through the West End, although the open-top sports-car ruffled his immaculately parted hair, the throaty roar of its 30hp engine and the high-pitched squeal of its racing wheels announced to the city that Johnny Haigh has arrived. The colour even matched his red tie and socks. In his diary, Johnny marked the occasion (Haigh) “I wrote an A for Archie and the sign of the cross. He came to his end before midday”. Unlike the McSwan’s, his death had been a doddle. Everything had gone swimmingly; Archie was dead, Rosalie was next, his tools worked well, the storeroom was secure, the body was hidden, the assets would soon be legally his and the scrambled eggs were smashing. So why should the rest of it be anything but simple? As a cocky little man, high on arrogance and stupefied by his own superiority, having overlooked a small detail, Johnny would be faced with a big problem, and although the fourth of his six (supposedly) perfect murders was exactly that – it was perfect – his fifth was not. The murder of Rosalie Henderson should have been easy-peasy… but something would go horribly wrong. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part four of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the penultimate part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Steff Thomas, Jim Hendry and Paxoman, with a special thank you (as always) to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. 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.
Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance of 79 Gloucester Road where John George Haigh murdered and dissolved the bodies of William, Donald and Amy McSwan in acid
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 SEVENTY-NINE:
On Monday 2nd July 1945, British serial-killer John George Haigh lured the reclusive parents of his first victim and friend – William Donald McSwan – to his basement at 79 Gloucester Road to be murdered and their bodies disposed of in acid. But how did he do this, and why?
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 murder basement at 79 Gloucester Road where the murder of William, Donald & Amy McSwan took place where the yellow dot and their home at 45 Claverton Street marked with a purple dot. Their home to the basement is 2.8 miles away, so (with no car) he had to lure them into his basement. 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.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance to 79 Gloucester Road (where Johnny lured Mac in, had the acid bottles delivered and came stumbling out when he almost gassed himself to death) and on the right is 45 Claverton Street in Pimlico where Donald & Amy McSwan lived (now demolished).
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: a rare photo of Amy McSwan (sadly there are no photos of Donald), the invoice for the acids to dispose of Amy & Donald's bodies, the Power of Attorney of William Donald McSwan in favour of John George Haigh and the forged signature of William Donald McSwan by Johnny Haigh, in which instead of Donald he wrote "Ponald". He found this most amusing.
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 THREE OF SULPHURIC.
(Drain) Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the forty-gallon steel drum from tipping too far over, the thick black gloop slowly slid into the dark festering sewer, hidden behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road. As the smoking stew slopped up the rim, the acrid stench of acid stung the air and the last of the shapeless fatty goo oozed down into the drain - seeing no eyes, hair or skin, just a yellowy-green layer of ominous grease – this was all that remained of 33 year old William Donald McSwan. And with the manhole cover replaced, Mac was gone. Being the first of six (supposedly) perfect murders, although this baby-faced psychopath would soon bloom into one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers, in truth, as a murder virgin, Johnny had badly bungled his first slaying, but somehow – with his deathly cherry popped – he had got away with it. But as a convicted fraudster, experienced forger and a charming liar, the rest would be textbook. (Haigh) “I had known McSwan for some time, and on seeing his mother and father, I explained that he had gone off to avoid his ‘call-up’. I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him and posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh, explaining various details of the deposition of assets”, which included a company, four homes and seven bank accounts, worth a quarter of a million pounds today. Last seen on Saturday 9th September 1944, as a shy introverted recluse who hid in the shadows, Mac would be missed by nobody but his doting parents who would swallow an entirely plausible story that their only son - a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual, with so much to lose – would flee the city, leaving his only friend in charge of his affairs. It seemed logical; so strung-along by a sweet little man that Mac saw as a sibling and for fear of leading the Police to their terrified child, his timid parents kept up the pretence that their boy was away on business, all the while unwittingly aiding his murderer. And just as Johnny had done with his body, the cocky little killer would strip, dissolve and dispose of all Mac’s assets… until not a single trace of him would ever be found. (Interstitial*) Only Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name. On Tuesday 12th September 1944, with the trifling little matter of murder ticked-off his ‘to-do’ list and Mac’s sludgy remains slopping its way towards one of several sewage plants across the city - after a decent night’s nap, a solid breakfast and another quick peek at a rather-nifty dark-green Armstrong-Siddeley saloon he had his eye on in a nearby car showroom - Johnny set-about cleaning the basement. There was no real rush though; having rented the premises for three months he had barely used just a week, the landlord (Albert Marshall of Taylor Lovegrove & Co) was fully aware that any odd whiffs emanating from the floor below was due to Johnny undertaking “experimental work for a government contract”, and so with Mac only missing, the Police wouldn’t find this crime-scene until five years later. Being a filthy basement soiled by several previous tenants, Johnny’s clean-up would be (at best) a slap-dash affair; he swept a bit, moved some stuff and tipped a bucket of hot soapy water, but as he disliked hard work, he really wasn’t all that bothered, especially now that Mac’s money would soon be burning a hole in his pocket. Desperate to get the job done, Johnny had a scrap man destroy the steel drum, Canning & Co collected three empty bottles (a 6lb Winchester and two ten-gallon carboys) and seeing no reason to waste a £7 a month on a perfectly serviceable (but now seemingly pointless) place for a murder, Johnny sublet the dingy basement to Ronald A Fontana… a pleasant fellow who needed the storage space and was happy to be left a few odd and sods that Johnny really couldn’t be bothered to bin; you know, stuff, like pinball table legs, a length of lead-pipe and an old rusty axe. And so, eager to turn his tatty threads into a tailored suit, his sofa-surfing spree into a private room at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel and his scuffed shoes into a sports car - having treated himself to a slap-up dinner - the almost bankrupt Johnny Haigh assumed the identity of the wealthy Mac McSwan. In an era where the best security was a signature, becoming Mac would be no biggie. Besides, having swiped his ID, although dead, for Johnny’s scheme to work, he would only need Mac to exist on paper. Clutching the keys he had rifled from the corpse, Johnny helped himself to a few necessary knickknacks he had filched from Mac’s ground-floor flat at 22 Kempsford Gardens; a cheque book, a suitcase, some clothes, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, a surprisingly good suit and Mac’s Imperial typewriter. Not that this crime was as uncouth as a common burglary, or as petty as pilfering a fridge. Johnny wouldn’t stoop so low as to half-inch a few cheap trinkets to pawn off for a pound. No, these personal possessions had purpose… and besides, it was entirely coincidental that, on that same day, some low-life broke into Mac’s workshop - although quite what this hoodlum had nicked, may never be known. That aside, the banks and lawyers would be a push-over, a few stuffy old men easily duped by a legal letter and an ID, signed in an identical scrawl, but for his superior scheme to truly work, Johnny needed Mac’s parents to believe that their beloved son wasn’t dead… but that he had voluntarily disappeared. And yet, with a little bit of effort, a large dollop of knowledge, a few days spare and several pounds in his dwindling account, Donald & Amy McSwan swallowed it whole… and Johnny did most of it by post. But how did it work and why? Well, the McSwan’s weren’t all that different to his parents - The Haigh’s. Born in a staunchly Presbyterian house in Menstrie, a small rural village in the Scottish lowlands snuck between Edinburgh and Glasgow, Donald was the second youngest of seven siblings; to Christina, a devoted housewife and William, a ball-man (who tested the quality of whiskies) at the local Glenochil Distillery; a skilled profession for a strict teetotaller who was always punctual, steady and sober. As with The Haigh’s, Donald’s upbringing was dictated by two core beliefs; the family and serving God. So the rest of his early life, you can probably guess. Raised to be neat, clean and polite, just like his son, Donald was a slightly undersized boy with a long weary face and a thin weedy frame, all barely held together by the expression of a haunted boy who fear was forcing him to fold-in on himself, as (owing to an awkward birth) he walked with a stoop. And being just one in a family of nine; he never stood out, never felt loved and always hid in the shadows. Surviving many brutally bitter winters in an austere Victorian era where only the rich had nest-eggs to save them from the hard-times ahead, although the family were far from poor, their faith had taught them to spend frugally, live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away whatever they could. Graduating Menstrie Public School aged 13, young McSwan - who was Donald to his mum, never Don; “boy” to his dad, never “son”, and to his friends… well, he didn’t have any friends – eager to appease his domineering father who was never drunk just disappointed, he earned a living at the distillery. But being swamped by three burly brothers, as a quiet bookish boy and the runt-of-the-litter who had learned to type and to take shorthand, instead of a tough sweaty manual job, Donald became a clerk. Throughout his life, Donald feared his father and as an unmarried man being denied his independence, although he had never set foot out of Menstrie, let-alone to the nearby cities of Edinburgh or Glasgow; in 1908, aged 30, holding all he owned, Donald fled his home, his county and his country, travelling 475 miles south to Tunbridge Wells in Kent. Had he fled any further, he’d have drowned in the sea. Whatever had caused this rift is unknown; he missed his family, he grieved their deaths and he longed to be loved, but – so deep was the pain – that Donald never spoke or wrote to his parents ever again. That year, Donald became the secretary at the Tunbridge Wells Spa Hotel; here he found work, a wage, a purpose and a place to stay… as well as falling for the woman he would love until his dying day. Amy Beatrice Paige was a waitress. Just like Donald; she was slight, quiet and neat; a painfully shy Presbyterian who spoke in a tiny whisper, stood with a timid stance and always avoided eye-contact, but was forced into unsuitable work to earn a modest wage for a large fractured family. And yet, with Donald as her manager, she found love, support, strength and someone who made her feel safe. Donald & Amy were a very decent couple, moral but modest, fiercely loyal but easily forgettable; they never kissed in public and yet always held each other’s hand, they never wore bright colours except for a little flower he popped in her lapel, and – as two recluses - they said and did very little, but were always happiest together in their own home, away from the dangers of strangers. In October 1910, Donald & Amy fell pregnant. It was a blissfully jubilant time for the two solitary lovers who (one day) dreamed of becoming a family, but conceived by mistake and born-out-of-wedlock, that month, Donald & Amy hastily became The McSwan’s, having married in secret. On 12th May 1911, William Donald McSwan was born; a small but healthy boy who (as their only child) was always loved and hugged; given everything and denied nothing, raised well but never spoiled, being different he was never forced to be anything but himself, and – no matter what – The McSwan’s would do anything to protect their beloved boy… whether he was alive, dead, or (allegedly) in hiding. And yet, it was their lives which shaped the future of Mac McSwan… for better and for worse. In December 1915, with World War One raging, just as it would for his son a quarter-of-a-century later, 36 year old Donald was conscripted to fight with the 6th Royal Fusiliers on the French Frontline. As a small, weak, terrified pacifist with a stoop, whose religion forbade him to kill and who cried every night that he didn’t see his wife and baby, it’s nothing short of a miracle that (being little more than cannon-fodder) Donald survived more than two years in the trenches. But in February 1918, his luck ran out. Blasted by a mortar shell, his only physical injury was small scar over his right eye, but the bloody war had taken its toll on Donald, and for the rest of his life, traumatised and plagued by night terrors, his right-hand would perpetually-shake with an involuntary tremor, a sad souvenir of the (so-called) Great War. Demobbed in July 1918, although he was hailed as a hero and given two medals, Donald swore that (from this day onward) he and his family would never be apart, ever again. For the next twenty-five years, Donald, Amy and William McSwan spoke daily, were parted rarely and always wrote… …but all that changed the day they met Johnny Haigh. His subterfuge was simple… (Haigh) “I explained to them that Mac had gone off to avoid his call-up”, a dilemma Donald understood which was why he supported his son’s decision to do whatever he could do to avoid the draft. “I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him”; the typed one’s matched his typewriter, the signature was a perfect match and the handwriting on the postcards mirrored his style, tone and grammar. And having “posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh”, the two nearest cities to Donald’s hometown, he explained the “various details of the deposition of assets” which were to be left to his old pal Johnny. The retired recluses reassured by their boy’s words that he was fine, well and would be home soon… …unaware that he was already dead and dissolved. As per his letters, on the 18th September 1944, one week after the murder, Donald arrived at his son’s office to inform the workshop’s owner (Herbert Woodman) that Mac was “out of town, on business, indefinitely”. On 5th October, Donald paid his son’s rent at 22 Kempsford Gardens, ended the tenancy and removed his boy’s belongings, noting the items that Mac must have taken with him; a cheque book, a suitcase, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, his best suit and his Imperial typewriter. The McSwan’s totally believed this logical ruse that their beloved son had vanished by choice, was laying low and for fear of alerting the Police to his whereabouts, they never reported him missing. All the while giving his killer ample time to destroy any evidence, assume his identity and steal his assets. Johnny’s plan to murder for money was perfect… sort of. The McSwan’s were so like The Haigh’s, two devoted parents - neat, shy and reclusive - who would do anything to protect their boy, but as Mac’s life collapsed, as much as he trusted his old pal, Johnny was too arrogant to see his fatal mistake - Mac liked Johnny as a brother… but he wasn’t family. On 5th November 1943, just as ex-con Johnny was seeking his first victim having been released from Lincoln Prison, with the war draft looming closer, Mac did what many serviceman and civilians in war-time did and visited his bank - the Belgravia branch of Lloyds - where he signed a Power of Attorney granting financial control of his affairs to the only people he trusted without question – his parents. Everything; from his bank accounts, to his stocks, shares and his company, everything but his homes. Again, Johnny had made another fatal mistake… only this one was obvious. Just like his own parents, and to some extent Mac himself, Donald & Amy lived a very frugal life in a small, sparsely furnished top-floor flat in a less desirable part of town, rented weekly for just £1, and – as a solitary couple who didn’t own a car, didn’t socialise or go on holiday – they scraped by on a meagre pension of 22 shillings a week. To Johnny, they looked like they didn’t have two farthings to rub together, but to Donald & Amy, they had everything – their family, their faith and their fortune. Technically, Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name… but his family did. They always had. As their faith had taught them to live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away their nest-eggs, all three McSwan’s jointly owned and rented-out the four homes in Beckenham, Wimbledon and Raynes Park, so with total control over their son’s assets; as much as Johnny’s letters lied, it was all for nothing. Johnny’s bank account was empty… …of his last £26; the basement had cost seven quid, the acids three and with a few shillings for sundries like letterheads, business cards and his victim’s last meal, in total Mac’s murder had cost him a tenner, and although (anticipating a rather wonderful windfall) he had slightly prematurely toasted his success with a teeny little spending-spree of a few suits from Hawkes of Saville Row, exquisite din-dins at The Punch Bowl Club, good seats for classical concertos at the Albert Hall, a few big bets on the gee-gee’s and doggies over at the White City Stadium, and several decent snoozes on soft linen sheets at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel for the princely sum of £5 a week (plus 10% service charge, obviously), but what irked him the most was the endless expensive of chugging back-and-forth from London to Edinburgh to Glasgow to post a few forged letters from the McSwan’s dead son… …a now-needless charade, which - having cruelly teased him with a taste of ‘the good life’ and left a nifty little Armstrong-Siddley saloon stuck in the showroom - this whole grand plan had bled him dry. On 12th January 1945, aided by a stolen chequebook, a forged signature and a devious little dollop of duping Mac’s dad, Johnny syphoned-off monies from one of Mac’s accounts, a scam he would repeat on 3rd February and 8th March, draining £210 (almost £8300 today). Admittedly, this was a pitiful little sum which would tide him over for a bit, but it wasn’t a quarter of a million, which was rightfully his. If only there was a way to make Donald & Amy McSwan vanish completely? Hmm. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “I had known the McSwan’s for several years. I took them to the basement, disposing of them in the same way as their son”. As before, he made it sound so simple, so precise and so superior, but with no plan to become a serial-killer and believing that he was made-for-life having offed a big mark like Mac, with all of the tools of his murderous deeds either destroyed or disposed of, Johnny would have to start from scratch. And although he was no longer a murder virgin, where-as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders was laughably inept, the second and third would be totally absurd. It’s safe to say that Johnny Haigh hadn’t learned his lessons… Having leased the basement at 79 Gloucester Road to Ronald Fontana, his perfect execution site was gone. So being unwilling to totally give it up, on 22nd January 1945, the two men agreed to split it; Ronald had the front-room for his storage and (separated by a thin wall and a single door) Johnny had the back rooms for his murders. Still, at least he had sole access to the drain, so that was something. On 10th February, Johnny ordered a Winchester of hydrochloric and three ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric from Canning & Co at a cost of £4 pounds 12 shillings and 4 pence, but with his funds dry, the cheque bounced, so the usually swift delivery of the bottles were delayed by a further two weeks, and Johnny’s company - Union Group Engineering - had a black-mark placed against their name. Having scrapped the drum and needing two, Johnny borrowed a set of old, rusty and warped but (hopefully) watertight 40 gallon steel drums off a builder’s merchant. Having almost scorched his hands and suffocated on the fumes, this time he would wear protection; only being too cheap to buy, too lazy to borrow and too superior to steal, he made-do with an old tatty trench-coat, a pair of leather gloves and a makeshift gas-mask made from cardboard and string. Again, having forgotten how impossible it was for a 150lb man to decant a 165lb carboy into four foot high steel drum, which took two men to lift, once again he opted to slop the lethal liquid in by bucket. And yes, as before, he failed to purchase (possibly) the most important thing – a murder weapon – so instead, the same shoddy crap he left lying around would have to suffice; a pinball table leg, a length of lead pipe or an old hand-axe, whatever… I mean, it had worked fine last time… hadn’t it? With the preparations for the double-murder of the McSwan’s done and dusted, now all Johnny had to do was to lure this frail old couple into his lair, just as he had done with their son, but (once again) he had overlooked one small detail which would prove to be his biggest mistake… …Mac McSwan liked Johnny, he trusted him, but Donald & Amy did not. Over the next four months, Johnny struggled to speak to (let alone see) the McSwan’s. As two shy and reclusive homebodies - who rarely went out, invited nobody in and mostly communicated by letter, sometimes by phone and once-in-a-blue-moon on the communal doorstep at 45 Claverton Street, all within earshot of a busybody landlady and two nosey tenants - even if he could lure them out (which he couldn’t), be invited in (which he wasn’t), or break-in (which he couldn’t) to murder them in their own home? Without a car, or any transport, how would he cart two dead bodies from a top-floor flat in Pimlico to his basement, three miles away in South Kensington? What was he to do, charter a bus? No, Johnny was well and truly stuck. And then it got worse. Unable to afford the extortionate train fare to Scotland, Johnny had to stop writing the letters. When Ronald Fontana moved-out, for safety’s sake, Johnny had to use his last penny to take-up the full lease on the basement. And being broke, like a hobo with nowhere to go, he was forced to bunk-down in the dark dingy basement, asleep on an old mattress, surrounded by two steel drums gathering dust. And then, it got even worse. On Monday 30th April 1945, with Hitler dead, the war over and conscription to-be abolished, as people cheered in the streets that their loved one’s would soon be coming home, as Mac had been missing for nine months and silent for three, the McSwan’s began to ask the question - where was our boy? And then, his whole plan collapsed. On Wednesday 6th June, Albert Marshall (estate agent at Taylor Lovegrove & Co, one floor above) gave Johnny one month’s notice to vacate the basement. With no money left, to time to waste and no other options, it was now or never. But how do you lure two shy recluses out of their home? (Interstitial*) On the evening of Monday 2nd July, (Haigh) “I took separately to the basement, the father Donald and the mother Amy, disposing of them in exactly the same way as the son”. As a frail elderly couple – one a petite lady with a tiny whisper, a timid stance and a little a flower in her lapel, and the other, an awkward battle-scarred veteran with a haunted face, a painful stoop and a perpetually trembling hand – were easy kills. Coshed, hog-tied and drowned in sulphuric acid, as the twin drums shook, boiled and the dirty fizzing stew stripped their hands, feet and faces to the bone, Johnny stirred the deathly brew, his trench-coat, leather gloves and makeshift gas-mask doing the job. And although we know they both died that day, it’s still uncertain whether they were dead, alive or dying, as side-by-side, he dissolved their bodies in acid, but being an uncaring sort of chap, it’s possible. Two days later, all that remained was a black acrid gloop. Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the steel drums from tipping too far over, and the hot gooey residue of the elderly recluses slid into the dark festering sewer, behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road - after nine long months of patiently waiting, praying and hoping – finally, Donald & Amy McSwan… were reunited with their boy. (Drain. End) As per his tenancy, on 6th July 1945, Johnny vacated the premises; he had the empty carboys collected and (should they ever be needed) the drums relocated to Allan Stephen’s yard at 2 Leopold Road. Eleven days later, rightly assuming the banks and lawyers to be a push-over, ‘Turner, MacFarlane, MacKintosh & Co’, a firm of Glasgow solicitors were asked to draw up a Power of Attorney for William Donald McSwan, Donald McSwan and Amy Beatrice McSwan assigning full control of their assets to John George Haigh. ID was produced, all three signatures matched and having checked the documents (Haigh) “the solicitor would (and did) confirm they were legal, because in his eyes, they were”. Selling-off the business, their homes and all stocks, savings, shares and war-bonds, although he didn’t steal every last penny that the McSwan family had ever earned - not for the want of trying - in total, from these three murders, Johnny’s pocket would be flush with enough cash to last a lifetime. With his bank balance brimming, his belly full of fine foods and his suits stylish once again, as a dapper sophisticated bachelor - who was finally living the life he deserved… and had earned - Johnny became a permanent resident in Room 404 of the exclusive Onslow Court Hotel, outside of which he parked his brand-new, rather nifty, Armstrong Siddeley saloon – and now, his dream was complete. Johnny Haigh was a wealthy middle-class man, living a lavish life in an affluent part of town. Yes, to get it, he had slaughtered three people, plundered their assets, dissolved their corpses and poured the sludge into the sewer, but as no-one had reported them missing? Where was the problem? In the end, it took very little effort to lure the McSwan’s into his lair. In fact, it was simple. Johnny had made many mistakes in his first three murders, the biggest being to assume that he knew his victims better than they knew themselves, and although the Haigh’s were similar to the McSwan’s in many ways, by watching them, Johnny knew that they all had one fatal flaw which he didn’t – love. As two doting parents who would do anything to protect their boy, having swallowed an entirely plausible story that their only son (a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual) was missing, after three months of silence, when Johnny showed them proof of life in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road, they only saw what they wanted to see; the handwriting was a match, the date was recent, the postmark was local and the loving words on the postcard reassured his worried parents that their boy was fine, well and would be home soon. By the summer 1945, having made enough money to last a lifetime, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers should have come to an end… but it didn’t. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part three of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the fourth part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are – Tracey Lawrence, Cindi Ortiz, Kim Cook, Stephanie Enns and Jennifer Venn – with a special thank-you to Kaz Every and Jason Abercrombie, the wonderful admins on the Murder Mile Discussion Group in FaceBook. As well, as always, to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. 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 SEVENTY-EIGHT:
On Saturday 9th September 1944, in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road (South Kensington), convicted fraudster John George Haigh would murder his first victim – a successful businessman, entrepreneur and his closest friend - William Donald “Mac” McSwan. And although his body would never be found, Johnny Haigh’s first murder would be far from perfect. This is the location of The Goat Tavern where John George Haigh met William Donald McSwan... before murdering him.
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 Goat Tavern at 3A Kensington High Road with a green dot, and the location of 79 Gloucester Road where the murder of William Donald McSwan took place where the yellow dot is. 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.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is The Goat Tavern at 3A Kensington High Street where John George Haigh met with his old pal William Donald McSwan for a meal, and on the right is the front of 79 Gloucester Road in South Kensington where (just a few hours later) he would murder "Mac" McSwan and later dispose of his body.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
L to R: a photo of William Donald "Mac" McSwan, 79 Gloucester Road (where the murder took place) today and the entrance to 79 Gloucester Road back in 1949. Note: the front entrance of the murder location has been blocked off, a restaurant now stands in its place - Comptoir LIbanais
L to R: a scale drawing of the basement of 79 Gloucester Road, the invoice for the acid and John George Haigh criminal record
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 TWO OF SULPHURIC.
As much as little Johnny Haigh loved machinery and chemistry, he loathed the zinc-plater in the prison workshop, as with a backlog of pans to plate, it was his pride at stake, but as a small stoic man who never let emotions sully his day, with little more than a frown and a huff, he set about fixing the fault. The usual culprit was the woefully-antiquated electromagnetic bell, a laughably basic battery easily a few decades beyond being obsolete, consisting of a zinc electrode in a copper-lined bath of sulphuric acid. Cracking open the ceramic case, Johnny cautiously waited for the caustic cloud of sulphur dioxide to settle for fear of being blistered, burned or blinded, but reaching in to swap-out the worn electrode, from the thick condensation on the ceramic case’s ceiling fell a single drop of acid. (tsssss sound) “Ah, good Lord”, Haigh exclaimed in the foulest words the God-fearing boy would ever utter, as the tiny toxic drip burned his skin, smoking and searing, as (feeding off his limb’s abundant liquid) the acid slowly ate away at his finger’s flesh. Swiftly dunking his scorched digit in cold water, as the intense pain ceased, Johnny thought “Thank heavens it was only a drop”. But what if it wasn’t? The mouse was already dead, being small and skinny, its lifeless body lay within a whisker of a field of juicy berries, but trapped inside the prison’s grey walls, it starved to death… and Johnny sympathised. Corpus Delicti was a ludicrous idea as although the law decreed that “without a body, there can be no crime”, it’s almost impossible to make a body completely disappear. But ‘almost’ means it ‘is’ possible. Holding the cold little mouse by its limp tail, Johnny carefully placed it in a glass jar (Haigh) “thank you my friend, thank you” he bid one of God’s creatures in a fond farewell, and as he dipped a ladle in the battery’s ceramic case and filled the jar to the brim with sulphuric acid, the dead mouse began to fizz, bubble, smoke and boil until the transparent fluid was nothing but a cloudy black broth. Johnny stirred it a bit but felt no resistance, so tipping the sizzling glass into the sink, amongst the dark fizzing stew were no hair, skin, bones or teeth. Within minutes, the little mouse had been reduced to an unrecognisable gloop and as its viscous remains slid down the drain and out into the sewer, it was gone forever, as if the mouse had never existed. (Interstitial*) But a mouse is just a mouse. On 17th September 1943, John George Haigh was released from Lincoln prison; a dreadful little place chock-full of perverts, ponces and pilferers, and although – shamefully – his last stretch inside was due to him pinching a fridge, yes his licence forbade any acts of criminality, but never again would he risk his freedom… well not for anything so petty. No, this time, Johnny had money and murder on his mind. By early 1944, having left the half-way house on St James Street (which was tormentingly close to Pall Mall, Buckingham Palace and The Ritz), Johnny worked hard, earned an honest wage and lived in the Crawley home of his old pal Allan Stephens. Times were tough; the economy was bleak, rationing was strict, law-abiding bods freely bought goods on the black-market and the Nazis were poised just eighty miles from the English coast – and yet, unwilling to make a mistake, Johnny had gone straight. Hardly cutting the figure of an entrepreneur, his aspirations had taken a backseat, as being a penniless nobody who dressed in threadbare suits, it was impossible to lure a moneyed mark to their death. He knew Allan, of course, but why should he murder Allan? Yes, he liked him, his wife and their young daughter Barbara who (let’s not beat about the bush) was besotted by Johnny, and yes Allan had some assets (a home, a workshop and a storeroom on Leopold Road), but his small income didn’t amount to much, so setting aside their friendship, yes he could kill Allan, but what would be the point? Shortly after the D-Day Landings, with the tide of war still uncertain, as Allan struggled to make-ends-meet, Johnny did the decent thing for his old pal and moved out. Clutching nothing but three cheap suits, a few pounds and a half-finished book of ration coupons, Johnny was all alone. And as a small, thin but charming little chap who didn’t curse, argue or fight, and had hurt no-one, little Johnny Haigh – the murder virgin – had to take a giant leap from being a petty swindler to a cold-blooded killer. But knowing no-one, his first victim would be an old friend, whose death would be far from perfect. So unnerving are the similarities that Johnny Haigh and “Mac” McSwan could have been brothers… Born two years and two weeks apart, William Donald McSwan was the only child of Donald & Amy, a clerk and a housewife; thirty-three years old, married a few months but faithful to their old age. Both raised as Protestants, Mac adopted his parent’s Presbyterian faith having devoted his life to the Lord and shunning all extravagances, so living a simple life, the McSwan’s were always neat, clean and frugal. And although they never socialised, as a tight knit but introverted family, they never wished to offend anyone, all Donald & Amy ever wanted was to serve God and to do the best for their son. As a bright but easily-distracted boy, Mac won a scholarship to Eton, a prestigious boarding school for academically gifted boys, where he excelled in science and religion. But just like Johnny, Mac cut quite a solitary figure and being sensitive, timid and shy, although his achievement pleased his proud parents, he missed his mum and longed for the days when he could come home. Johnny & Mac were similar in so many way - height, weight, size and age; they both had boyish looks, a sweet nature, a childlike innocence and were tied (by choice) to their parent’s reins; they disliked dancing, were afraid of the dark, rarely drank and were practically celibate; with a love of science, a passion for engineering, a desire to become an entrepreneur and a deep-seated frustration that they might never reach their true potential. And although the two men wouldn’t meet for a few decades; where-as Johnny would become the older, wiser and more-worldly brother, being almost mouse-like, although Mac had business sense, as the little brother Johnny never had, Mac remained in his shadow. It was almost as if - from the moment they were born - that fate was guiding them together; they were two sweet but sensitive boys with no siblings or close friends who would become like brothers; and yet, as one became rich, the other became poor; one would be infamous, the other would be invisible; one would stay alive as the other would die; and as one was buried, the other would never be found. Soon the killer would meet his first victim, but just like Johnny, Mac harboured a guilty secret. As a very practically-minded adult, Mac was physically and socially awkward; a skinny pigeon-chested mess of clumsy suits, insipid ties and tweed waistcoats, like a relic of the wrong era. Burdened by a long ill-fitting face, his features resembled a little boy with a costume-box playing at being a grown-up; with bushy “stuck-on” eyebrows, a “painted on” smile of just the top teeth, a little moustache like it was held in place by a bit of coat-hanger and a thick mop of brown hair, side-parted by his mum. Everything about him seemed mismatched; his dimpled chin resembled a feeble attempt to be rugged, his neat row of pocket-pens were sullied by the ruddy complexion of an exasperated man, his nervous jerky motions belied a softly-spoken voice which (in a busy room) would be little more than a whisper, and set in a haunted face were two sad little eyes, adept at hiding his lies, for fear of being found out. In 1932, aged 21, Mac sought his independence. Just like The Haigh’s, his folks dreamed that their boy would marry a good woman and maybe have babies. Thankfully, he lacked Johnny’s selfish callousness which cruelly saw him dump a young wife and child to further his own fortunes, but as a shy kindly man who love seemed to elude, marriage was not an option. So to give him his freedom, Mac moved into a shared house at 86 Tatchbrook Street in Pimlico, a few doors down from the family home. Only Mac would never marry… Two years later, after a short courtship, Mac got engaged to a lovely lady from Clacton called Dorothy Bailey; he liked her, she liked him, but neither loved the other, and although they remained good friends, the engagement lasted just a week. Mac wanted love, but it was a love which was forbidden. Frowned-on by his faith, outlawed by the courts and (possibly but not improbably) discretely disguised from his doting parents, for almost all of his adult life, Mac kept his sexuality a secret. London’s West End in the 1930’s was a place where – although illegal and punishable by prison – in and around Soho it hosted The Cave of the Golden Calf (London’s first gay pub), The Caravan (London’s first gay club) and waitresses at the Lyon’s Corner House Tearoom in Piccadilly Circus reserved a section for homosexuals, which was known as the Lily Pond. So being gay was no biggie. Out was out. Only for a sweetie as socially-awkward as Mac who dressed down, looked odd and often mumbled, meeting someone new was always hard, as being both incredibly shy and illegally gay, as a prosperous landlord, a successful businessman, an engineer and an employer, Mac had a lot more than most men to lose, so his freedom didn’t awaken his sexuality - if anything - it supressed it. So being shy, throughout his life, his best-friends would always be his mum, his dad and Johnny. William Donald McSwan was a true entrepreneur; bright but easily bored, private but productive, quiet but creative, who said very little but could turn his hand to any business and make it a success. In 1934, 25 year old Mac opened his first pinball machine parlour in Westminster under the name of Mac’s Automatics and – being small but profitable – it spawned several more in Shepherd’s Bush and Waltham Green, where in December 1935, he would hire a charming ex-con called Johnny Haigh; his trusted friend, his surrogate sibling, his kindred spirit, his confidante and (much later) his killer. In Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station, Johnny sat in the smoky sweaty box surrounded by Webb, Symes and Barrett, boasting with a cocky casualness about how easily he had killed his friend… (Haigh) “William Donald McSwan, or Mac to me, I met in the Goat Tavern public house on Kensington High Street, from there we went to 79 Gloucester Road, where in the basement (which I had rented) I hit him over the head with a cosh. He was dead within five minutes or so. I put him in a forty gallon tank and disposed of him with acid, as before, I tipped the sludge down a manhole”. …and although he had practiced (maybe not the luring, the trapping or the killing, but a small part of the disposal) on a dead mouse - contrary to Johnny’s gloating - his murder of Mac was far from perfect. In 1935, when Johnny met Mac, the two strikingly-similar men struck-up a close bond, and seeing his struggling pal in need of help, Mac became the one constant in Johnny’s turbulent life, as a friendly face and an honest employer, but as the purveyor of three pinball parlours, Mac was only small-fry. In 1944, by the time Johnny left had Lincoln prison - having learned two Latin words, made a mouse vanish and concocted a ludicrous plan to murder for money – Mac - his oldest pal, his longest employer and his surrogate sibling had blossomed from a frustrated youth into a successful entrepreneur. With Mac’s Automatics having boomed from three to thirty pinball parlours - even though, as a strict Presbyterian who didn’t live a lavish life, never flashed the cash, lived frugally in a small rented flat and didn’t look like he had two farthings to rub together, Johnny salivated at the wealthy businessman his old pal had become. As Mac (who rarely ever had more than a few pounds in his wallet) also owned a fleet of cars, a sweet-shop in Mitcham, his own company called McSwan Engineering (with a lucrative war-time contract), four homes (In Beckenham, Raynes Park and Wimbledon) which he owned and rented out, as well as seven bank accounts with savings and securities worth £1100. In today’s money, the assets of 33 year old William Donald McSwan would be worth almost a quarter of a million pounds. By contrast, in Johnny’s bank account, he had just twenty-six. But 1944 was a year of great uncertainty for Mac, as although he had always been a quiet, cautious and law-abiding man, who lived with the Lord in his heart, his life would take a very unusual turn. For whatever reason, during the last year of his life, just like Johnny in his moment of crisis, Mac had committed three petty crimes, including the theft of a box of lipsticks and a US Army torch. He served no prison time and received a small fine, but used four different addresses to evade his parole. That May, Mac moved into an all-male all-gay house at 22 Kempsford Gardens in Earl’s Court, and although it felt secure, it was far from safe, as the landlord was suspected of gross indecency and his co-tenant was convicted of pimping-out rent boys, one of whom was a fair-haired teenager who Mac (who had no siblings) claimed was his nephew. If caught, he could lose everything. One month later, as the D-Day Landings saw miles of petrified men massacred, keen for fresh cannon-fodder, the rules of conscription were changed. Although he had already registered as a Conscientious Objector, with his reserved occupation revoked (which was the real reason his pinball company made aircraft parts), Mac would be ordered to fight, but as a painfully shy pacifist who wouldn’t last a single second in war and whose own father was still haunted by the trauma, night-terrors and tremors having been conscripted in World War One, Mac had failed to attend his call-up and now he was a deserter. Fearing arrest, Mac was poised to flee… thankfully he had a good friend like Johnny. (Interstitial*) (Chelsea) William Donald McSwan was the perfect mark; an intensely-private recluse with everything to lose and nowhere to go, who only trusted his parents and his close pal, and whose assets were easy-pickings for a convicted fraudster and skilful forger who had mastered his victim’s handwriting. (Haigh) “I took his watch, his Identity card and any odds and ends before putting him in the tank”, and although, when shown the signature he had forged, Johnny flippantly quipped “Yes, I signed McSwan’s name. I remember I didn’t make a good job of the signature, instead of Donald, I wrote Ponald”. Spelling was never his strong suit, so as his first two convictions had occurred having hastily misspelled the victim’s name and the town of Guildford, he should have learned his lesson but he didn’t. And yet, as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders, the spelling wouldn’t be his biggest mistake. (End) Being like brothers, just as Mac had been Johnny’s rock during his years in and out of prison, now his closest pal could return the favour. As a recent convict, parolee and deserter, Mac was scared and feared arrest, but was soothed by an old hand in a new world, as he looked to Johnny as his older wiser brother. To lower his profile, Mac sold his pinball business and settled a few unresolved affairs. Eager to find a discrete but profitable venture to dip into while he lay incommunicado, every day Mac & Johnny met to discuss the things which fuelled their passion like gadgets, patents and inventions. In a few short months, Johnny had ingratiated himself into every detail of Mac’s life, so welcome was his presence felt, that – although shy recluses who rarely went out – Mac’s parents, Donald & Amy treated Johnny to take tea with them in their rented top-floor flat at 45 Claverton Street in Pimlico. He liked The McSwan’s, he liked them a lot; as a happily-married, deeply-religious and recently retired couple who chose worship over wealth and would do anything for their only child; they reminded him of his own parents; their clothes were neat, their home was sparse and they lived a frugal existence on a meagre pension of 22 shillings a week. To Johnny, they looked like they didn’t have two farthings to rub together, but to Donald & Amy, they had everything – their family and their faith. Sensing their fear for their son, as the authorities closed in, he reassured The McSwan’s that he would do his very best to protect their boy… but in truth, Johnny was planning his murder. (*Interstitial) On Friday 1st September 1944, to lend his crime the air of middle-class respectability, Johnny had Allan Stephen’s besotted daughter, Barbara - who worked cheap, fast and whose spelling was flawless - mock up a set of business cards and letterhead in the name of Union Group Engineering; a name easy to confuse with Allan’s own business, the Union Road Tool & Garage Company, also based in Crawley. On Tuesday 5th, at Taylor Lovegrove & Co, an estate agents at 79 Gloucester Road in South Kensington; Johnny leased a small, secluded but self-contained basement under their offices for what he described as “experimental work for a Government contract”. He paid by cheque (spending £7 of the £26 he had left, to ensure it didn’t bounce) and secured the tenancy, starting that day, using his own letterhead. On Thursday 7th, from East London chemical supplier Canning & Co, he ordered a gallon of hydrochloric acid and twenty gallons of sulphuric; two everyday chemicals for an engineering firm doing war-time work for the military. He paid £3 and 15 shillings by cheque, confirmed it on his own letterhead, but listed his address (not at 79 Gloucester Road) but as the War Emergency Liaison Centre at the nearby Onslow Court Hotel, and signed it - J Haigh, Technical Liaison Officer. It was delivered the next day. With his preparations precise, his patience exemplary and his grand plan vastly superior to anything ever conceived, although he was a murder virgin, Johnny knew that its execution would be perfection. On Saturday 9th at 6pm, Johnny invited his old pal and potential business partner for a meal at their regular pub, The Goat Tavern on Kensington High Street. Not one person (from the landlord to the locals) witnessed them, but why would they? They were just two mild-mannered men, in a busy pub, chatting about ventures, inventions, gadgets and Johnny’s new company. As a teetotal, Johnny nursed a small sherry, but eager to cheer-up his down-in-the-dumps chum, he treated Mac to a few wines, and as a slight man who rarely drank, it didn’t take much to get him tipsy. The expense of Mac’s murder had really eaten into Johnny’s savings, with just a pitiful £15 left, in one month, he would be bankrupt. But having wormed his way into his old pal’s life, heart and (soon) his pockets, his future looked rosy (which was lucky) as Johnny had spied himself a new sports car. At 8pm they left; the walk was short, their mood was good and the street was busy, but no-one spotted the two men as (side-by-side, smiling and slightly sozzled) Johnny led Mac via the more discrete back-door in Stanhope Mews, down the steps and into his secluded basement at 79 Gloucester Road. William Donald McSwan was never seen again, as his body would vanish completely… …but the death and disposal of Mac didn’t happen exactly how Johnny described it in his confession. Back in Chelsea Police Station, as little Johnny Haigh cockily crowed about his “six perfect murders” to his captive audience of Webb, Barrett and Symes, the three coppers stayed silent, as they listened and jotted-down his every boastful word, compiling a statement which they could check and correct later. (Haigh) “William Donald McSwan met me at The Goat Tavern, and from there we went to the basement, which I had rented. I hit him on the head with a cosh. He was dead within five minutes or so. I put him in a forty gallon tank of acid and disposed of the sludge down a manhole”. He made it sound so simple, so precise and so superior, but in truth, the murder virgin hadn’t a clue. The basement at 79 Gloucester Road was small but secure; three unfurnished rooms with thick brick walls, a concrete ceiling, a blocked-off stairs to the offices above, two locked doors and no windows. It was empty, except for a few pinball machine parts, a length of lead pipe, a rusty hand-axe, a manhole cover to the main drain, a Winchester of hydrochloric acid and two ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric. (Haigh) “I hit him on the head with a cosh”, and yet, with his description vague and shifting in different statements from a table leg, to a lead pipe, to an axe, as no cosh was ever found, it’s likely that being so focussed on the money, the most important thing Johnny forgot to bring was a murder weapon. (Haigh) “He was dead within five minutes or so”, for which we can only take his word, but five minutes is a long time, and although a blunt force – which can cause a smashed skull, a bleeding brain, swelling, spasms, paralysis and a slow and agonising death - makes Johnny sound callous, it also suggests that he was inept, either being too weak to whack hard, too feeble to finish him off, or maybe he missed? (Haigh) “Eventually I stood up and was appalled by the presence of a corpse on my hands”. So appalled was Johnny, that – whether alive, dead or dying - he stripped Mac of his personal possessions; a watch, a wallet, his ID, his ration-books and any “odd and ends” as he put it. (Haigh). “I left the question of dealing with the corpse till the following day and then went home”, where he slept soundly. (Haigh) “I awoke and contemplated the action I had taken. I wondered how it was possible for me to have done something from which I would normally shrink”. In fact, Johnny was so remorseful having committed his first murder, that he woke late, had brunch and sauntered into a car showroom. (Haigh) “I returned to the basement and realised I had to do something about the body. The question of disposal did not arise until after that evening. Then the method appeared obvious”. Which we know was a lie, as - using his own letterhead and chequebook - he had ordered the acid two days before. As perfect murders go, it wasn’t great; having had to improvise a murder weapon which had only semi-successfully dispatched his victim, he soon realised that he had forgotten something equally vital. (Haigh) “When I returned to the basement, I had to find a drum in which to place the body”, just like the glass jar in which he once dissolved a mouse, only bigger. “This was not difficult: I found one which had been used as a water butt in St Stephen’s churchyard”, stealing the forty gallon steel drum from a house of God. “To transport it back, I borrowed a handcart from a builder’s yard”, and all the while probably whistling nonchalantly and saying “oh, don’t mind me, I’m only going to dissolve a corpse”. Back in the basement “I put McSwan into the drum”, which was no mean-feat as (with no hint of either of his victims having been hacked-apart) for a small weedy man to fit a five foot eight inch body into a three foot steel drum, he must have rolled it onto its side, hog-tied the body and slid it in back-first leaving the feet and hands poking out the top, and (all the while) praying that weather-worn drum was rust-free, water-tight and had enough space for the body and at least twenty gallons of acid. (Haigh) “I then considered the problem of getting the acid out of the carboy”. Having blindly ordered enough acid to do the job, although the Winchester of hydrochloric arrived in a one-gallon glass bottle with handles which only weighed 6lbs, the two ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric had to be delivered by two burly men in a truck, as each full bottle weighed 165lbs, heavier than little Johnny Haigh. (Haigh) “This was something which hadn’t occurred to me. I had to do it by bucket”. Forgetting that, just four years before, a single drop had singed his finger, but still he slopped twenty gallons of highly corrosive acid by hand, with no gloves, no apron and no mask. And as it had before, as the fat reacted with the acids, the body began to fizz, bubble and smoke… …but a dead mouse has almost no fat, where-as (although skinny) Mac had fat in an abundance. So as his flesh was stripped, his fluids boiled and the acids superheated the violently shaking drum, a thick soupy cloud of noxious gas and human vapours enveloped the airless and windowless basement. (Haigh) “I hadn’t thought to prepare for the fumes. I was badly choked and had to go out for fresh air”. So coughing his lungs out and gasping for breath, Johnny dashed-out into the quiet of Stanhope Mews, luckily seen by no-one but followed by a caustic fog of sulphur and the deathly stench of boiling fat. And yet, as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders, if you ignore his awful spelling, the lack of a weapon, a steel drum, a set of gloves and a gas-mask, even this wasn’t be his biggest mistake. (Haigh) “Eventually the job was done and I left the basement, locking the door behind me”. Unlike the mouse which was destroyed in twenty minutes, it took two full days until Mac was gone. Having given the dark fizzing broth a stir with a stick, (Haigh) “Subsequently, I poured the sludge down a manhole”, conveniently situated in the basement, “if anything remained, it will now be in whichever sewer flows into the sea”. And as he tipped the thick black gloop - which was once his pal - into a dark festering hole, he flushed the last remnants of their friendship down the drain. (Haigh) “I experienced no remorse after the killing. None”. (End, Interstitial*) With the dirty deed done, Johnny Haigh, the one-time murderer (and budding serial-killer) had the carboys collected, the steel drum destroyed, the basement vacated and having arrogantly celebrated Mac’s murder by scrawling a small cross in his diary, he set about weaving an entirely believable story that the McSwan’s only son (who feared arrest and often talked of fleeing) was now in hiding. (Haigh) “I had known his mother and father for some time, I explained that he had gone off to avoid his “call up” and wrote a number of letters purporting to come from him, explaining the details of the disposition of the assets, which were to follow”. As a convicted fraudster and forger, this would prove no problem, as he had Mac’s ID, his signature, several forged letters, a fool-proof plan and – best of all – the complete and total trust of his victim’s parents. Between 1944 and 1949, John George Haigh befriended six wealthy persons, starting with William Donald McSwan, he assumed his identity, inherited his estate and drained his assets; all six victims would mysteriously vanish and almost no-one would notice. But Johnny had overlooked one small detail, which would prove to be his biggest mistake… …William Donald McSwan, the prosperous landlord, successful businessman, engineer and employer didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name. In fact, even with forged legal papers, whether dead or alive, Mac was worth nothing. (Interstitial* fizzing to fade out) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part two of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the third part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are – Jonny Rex, Stephanie Thomas, Clara Hughes, Victoria Neilsen and Helen Woodley – with a special thank you to my beautiful girlfriend Eva Green whose rather sexy plea clearly worked a treat, and (as always) a big thank you to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. It’s very much appreciated. 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.
Chelsea Police Station at 2 Lucan Place, SW3, where John George Haigh confessed to six murders
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 SEVENTY-SEVEN:
On Monday 28th February 1949, 39 year old John George Haigh; an amiable and smartly-dressed director of an engineering firm sat in interview room three of Chelsea Police Station, assisting the police with the disappearance of his friend Mrs Henrietta Durand-Deacon. And yet, in this interview, Johnny Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would brazenly confess to six perfect murders, knowing that without a body, the Police could do nothing.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of Chelsea Police Station on 2 Lucan Place marked with a red dot. To use the map, simply 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. Sadly, as photo of Emily & Patrick are copyrighted, I can't post them here.
Various photos of John George Haigh, including his mug-shot when arrested
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: SULPHURIC:1 JOHN GEORGE HAIGH (Serial Killer)
For the best part of an hour and a half, the two men sat opposite each other in a small dimly-lit room; they smoked, made small-talk, did the crossword and occasionally (as bouts of boredom took him) Johnny had a little snooze, as Albert kept him fed and watered with a steady supply of tea and toast. Earlier in the afternoon of Monday 28th February 1949, 39 year old John Haigh; a respected director of an engineering firm (who was Johnny to his pals and Sonny to his beloved parents) had once again volunteered his time to assist the Police following the disappearance of his good friend, co-tenant and prospective business partner, Mrs Henrietta Durand-Deacon, who he had reported missing. Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station was barely big enough for two men, let alone four, so being just eight foot square with no windows, a small table, four wooden chairs and only one door, as Chief Superintendent Thomas Barratt and Divisional Detective Inspector Shelley Symes had stepped away, Detective Inspector Albert Webb and Johnny Haigh passed the time, awaiting their return. Johnny was an unassuming little fellow; five foot eight and ten stone at a push with a weedy little body that a stiff breeze could easily blow over. Raised well; he was polite, calm and respectful. As a dapper middle-class gent’, he was fastidiously neat with shiny black shoes, a starched shirt and a smart brown suit, topped off with a red tie and socks as a bold flourish of colour. And although Johnny was just a few weeks from his fortieth birthday, he looked almost boyish; being blessed with a little round face, dimples in his cheeks, a neat side parting and a feeble little moustache, who spoke well and never swore, but always at a slightly feminine pitch, as if his voice had never broken. Yes, it’s fair to say that Johnny Haigh was a pleasant sort of chap, who was unassuming, unthreatening, amiable and easily forgettable… and although they couldn’t prove it, the Police suspected otherwise. Being locked in an airless box, a ticking clock, a numb bum and Webb saying nothing as years in the force had taught him the unsettling power of silence; at 7:15pm, Johnny piped-up (Haigh) “What are they doing now? Symes and Barrett I mean”. Webb bluntly uttered (Webb) “Well John, I don’t really know, but I should imagine they are working hard in order to get you hanged”. Unperturbed, Johnny asked “Hanged, what on earth for?”, falling into the trap which Webb had set (Webb) “Oh, you know very well that they only hang people for one reason in this country, don’t you John?”. And he did. Over the last five years, unassuming little Johnny Haigh had befriended six wealthy persons; the Swan family, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon; he had assumed their identities, inherited their estates, drained their assets and all six had mysteriously vanished, and almost no-one had noticed. And as a cocky impish grin spread across his boyish face and his eyes (like cold dark marbles) twinkled, Johnny smirked (Haigh) “You can’t prove I murdered anybody. You can’t prove a murder without a body”. As with a callous coolness, the little killer quipped “…you know those people that disappeared. They no longer exist. No trace of them will ever be found. If I told you the truth, you would not believe it”. And yet, right there, in Interview Room Three at Chelsea Police Station, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would brazenly confess to six perfect murders; the how, the where and the when, every single detail… but without a body, the Police could do nothing. (Whisper) Sulphuric. (Fizzes, tails off) John George Haigh was born on 27th April 1909, the only child of John & Emily Haigh, a mining engineer and a housewife; thirty seven years old, married for eleven and faithful right through their old age. Johnny’s entrance into the world was unremarkable. Born in the bedroom of a small terraced house at 22 King’s Road in Stamford (Lincolnshire), a respectable upper-working-class street for the skilled and educated in a prosperous mining community, although a little small, his birth was uneventful. As a baby, he was no bother at all; he slept well, ate well, played quietly, rarely cried and being blessed with no diseases, disabilities or deformities, his health was never an issue. In fact, as to be expected from a family with no history of drink or drugs, assaults or abuse, instability, insanity or incarceration, as a good boy who never had a tantrum, there were no significant events which troubled his early life. In 1910, the family moved to a larger home at 112 Ledger Lane in Outwood, north of Wakefield and for the rest of their lives, they suffered no period of unemployment, poverty, depression or separation. As a boy, John whole-heartedly adopted his parent’s beliefs by becoming a member of the protestant nonconformist sect, the Plymouth Brethren. A small puritanical group with a strict moral code, a dour formal dress and an unflinching politeness, who believed that The Bible was the word of God, so unless it is expressly stated, everything was forbidden; including Easter, Christmas and wearing crucifixes. So devout were the Plymouth Brethren, they shunned anything that distracts from the serving of God. Hence the Haigh household was always neat, clean but sparse, and with no radio, newspapers or books (except The Bible), they kept their minds pure, their hearts innocent and all sins at a distance. And to ensure this, hospitality was forbidden, friends were limited to those of their tiny congregation and John Snr built an eight foot wall around their back garden to shield them from any outside influences. It may seem severe, but Johnny embraced his faith which stayed with him for most of his life. To any outsiders, although the Haigh’s bristled with an unpleasant air of superiority – often being cold, aloof, distant and quite snooty - by living closer to The Bible, they never intended to offend anyone, all John & Emily ever wanted was to serve God and to do the best for their son. Aged seven, John went to Prep School. Being a little boy dressed in smart suits, shiny shoes and bow-ties, he was often bullied, but buoyed by his faith he brushed-off these insults without any emotion. Aged eleven, John won a prestigious scholarship to Wakefield Grammar; a Church of England school attached the Wakefield Cathedral, and although its teachings conflicted with their strict beliefs (having become an altar-boy, a chorister and an organist having learned the piano), his loving parents were so proud that they fully supported him throughout his education. And it served him well. During those awkward teenage years, Johnny remained an even-tempered boy, who didn’t shout, swear, smoke or drink, but had no issues with those who did. He didn’t fight, start fires, steal and had no sexual issues; in fact, although a late-bloomer, he later became celibate, fearing the rampant rise of sexual diseases and seeing women as more companions than conquests. He disliked loud noises, dark places and germs, and being an only child with very few friends, he had a puppy, who he adored. These principles laid down by his parents put him in good stead for the rest of his life. Although lonely, Johnny was a good talker and a keen listener. Although isolated, Johnny was a regular church-goer and an enthusiastic student at the school science club (who was fascinated by machinery and chemistry). But as a bright but easily bored boy, although he won prizes in Geography and Divinity, his grades were not great. So, for fear of upsetting his proud parents, and eager to please them, he forged his school master’s handwriting, creating glowing reports which fooled everyone. Upon graduation, Johnny failed to pass his school certificate. But John & Emily Haigh weren’t upset or disappointed; yes he had lied, but they had raised a good, decent and moral boy, of above average intelligence, who dressed well, spoke politely and dreamed of a career in engineering, and (no matter what path he chose in life) they knew that their little boy would always excel at his chosen profession. And yet, for the first twenty-seven years of his life, as decent human being, he had achieved a lot, but as one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers, John George Haigh had done nothing. (Interstitial *) * For interstitials, whisper “Sulphuric”, followed by fizzing. Twelve years and six deaths later, Johnny Haigh – the entrepreneur; who lived in a Kensington hotel, drove a red sports car, wore silk shorts under his sharp suits, and was a tad miffed at missing not only luncheon, but also tiffin, tea and now din-dins - sat in Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station; flanked by Barrett, Symes and Webb, three shabbily-dressed coppers whose hand-rolled tobacco, stale sweaty suits and cheap shop-bought aftershave was an insult to his more-refined sense of smell. And as Johnny candidly talked, the Police listened. (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. Following that, I removed her coat, jewellery and disposed of her. Oh, I should have said that in-between, I went round to a cafe for a cup of tea and scrambled egg”. Throughout, although he was polite, calm and controlled, his boyish face beamed with a cockiness, as being pleased-as-punch at his own superiority over the Police, he knew he could tell them everything, but - without a body - they could prove nothing. (Haigh) “Any more toast?” (Interstitial*). From his teens to his twenties, Johnny worked as a salesman at Shell Max, a sign company rep’ and as an insurance clerk where he learned the finer legal points of Hire Purchase agreements, but finding the long hours, hard graft and tiny wage unrewarding, his work record was described as “satisfactory”. And why wouldn’t it? As an easily-distracted dreamer with wide eyes and high hopes, his commute from his sparse, starchy and silent home to the bustling city of Leeds in the grip of the Roaring Twenties must have felt like the boy had entered a brave new world; a sensual orgy of dizzying delights, fizzing with fast cars, fine foods, gangster films, flapper girls and filthy Luca… everything he had been denied. But as a teetotal celibate, Johnny didn’t descend into debauchery, as his only vice was pride. Fuelled by middle-class aspirations; he dressed in smart suits (neat like his mother made but topped-off with a flash of red as a tiny act of rebellion), he bought a wireless radio (shocking, I know, but he didn’t besmirch his ears by listening to anything vulgar like jazz, only classical, which his father approved of), yes he secretly owned three cars - Ford 8, a Talbot Daracq and an Alpha Romeo – which he and his pals raced from Leeds to Scarborough; okay he dabbled a tad at the horse-track but only because he loved the thought of making oodles of cash without the hard graft; and yes, okay, although never charged, his dismissal from the sign company did coincide with the theft of a petty cash-box, which he apologised for and his father paid back all of the missing monies, so considering how his life had begun, surely these were nothing but little acts of indiscretion which were forgiven and forgotten? On 6th July 1934, a little later than most men, 27 year old Johnny Haigh married 23 year old Beatrice Hamer, a pretty blonde waitress he had met just a few months prior, who was smitten for his sweet-face and dazzled by his cheeky charm, but this wasn’t love… at least not for him. Johnny did feel love. After a quickie service at Bridlington Registry office; with no wedding bells, no bridesmaids, no cards, no confetti, no readings, no religion, one witness and no parents, Johnny & Beatrice Haigh moved into their own home in Leeds, but this wasn’t a marriage… at least not for him. Johnny didn’t do marriage. Although a pleasant companion, Beatrice was more of a convenience to free the boy from the austere shackles of his stifling parents, and although (as they always did) they forgave him, being burdened by responsibilities, his wife was now little more than an impediment to his dreams of prosperity. Scraping-by on a paltry £3 per week was no way for a budding entrepreneur to live. How on earth could Johnny be seen as a real go-getter when he never stayed in swanky hotels, rarely ate prime-rib steak, his suits were so last season, his blasted bank balance always bled-dry and he only owned three sports cars? No, this would not do, not by a long shot. On 28th June 1934, just one week before his wedding, having perfected the skill of forging a stranger’s handwriting and mastering the finer legal points of Hire Purchase agreements, in a simple scam where they resold rented cars on forged papers, Johnny and two cohorts defrauded the three insurance firms - Mercantile Union, Bowmaker Ltd and United Finance Company – out of £960, almost £60,000 today. In his eyes, it was a victimless crime. I mean, he wasn’t snatching old lady’s handbags, breaking into young mum’s homes or scaring the bejesus out of bank-tellers with dicky hearts. He didn’t use a gun, he used a pen, and let’s not forget, no-one was hurt and nobody died. So really? What harm was done? On 22nd November 1934 at Leeds Assizes, John George Haigh was found guilty of three counts of fraud with six similar counts taken into consideration and he was sentenced to fifteen months in prison. After six months, Beatrice gave birth to a baby girl who she named Pauline. But as a penniless single mother with a convict spouse who made no provisions for a wife and alleged child, so unable to cope, Pauline was put up for adoption. This wasn’t a family… at least not for him. Johnny didn’t do family. Life in prison was fine; the bedding was sub-par, the uniform was baggy and the food was far from filemignon, but Johnny made-do; by keeping his cell neat, his mind busy, his nose clean and devoting his time to prayer, education and silent reflection. And although an amiable little fellow whose charm made him an easily likable sort, Johnny wasn’t a low-life like the common criminals he had been banged-up with. No, his crimes had style, finesse and - just like him – they were superior in every way. His only remorse was for everything he had lost; his money, his suits, his cars and his reputation. On 8th December 1935, Johnny was released from prison. Having unburdened himself of a wife and child, he returned home to his loving parents; who would always support him through each test and trial, always forgave him for every sin and sentence, and always stood by him, even as – shamefully –their convict son was excommunicated from the Plymouth Brethren, and with his faith shattered, his heart stabbed and his pockets empty, John George Haigh had reached rock bottom. (Interstitial*) Throughout his full and rather frank confession in the stale smoky confines of Interview Room Three, as the self-confessed serial-killer spoke, Barrett, Symes & Webb listened intently. But never once did little Johnny Haigh stutter, flush or tremble, his voice never raised and his sweat never broke, as the only emotion he showed was a cocky little grin as he corrected the copper’s mistakes. Still it seemed odd, didn’t it? That a former member of the Plymouth Brethren would smoke Gauloises from something as ostentatious as an 18 carat gold cigarette box, that a fastidiously neat man would allow odd singe marks to sully the underside wrists of his tailored overcoat, and that such a slight and unassuming man could physically kill six people and leave no evidence with which to convict him. And yet, Haigh ploughed on: “Mrs Durand-Deacon no longer exists. She has disappeared completely and no trace of her can ever be found”, deliberately leaving a prolonged pause so Detective Inspector Webb could ask the obvious, (Webb) “Well, what has happened to her?”, his snort causing his little moustache to bristle, Haigh grinned (Haigh) “I destroyed her with acid. You will find the sludge, all that remains of her, at my storeroom in Leopold Road. Every trace has gone. And I did the same with the Henderson’s and the McSwan’s”. Which posed the Police with a real conundrum, if a body no longer exists, how can you prove a murder if the murdered are only missing? (Interstitial*). Post-prison, Johnny felt like a lost cause; he was too old to be living at home, to sinful to be welcomed back to the church, too solitary to be part of a criminal gang, and as a late-twenties unemployed ex-con dossing his elderly parent’s home in a small mining town in the North of England, now more than ever, he was further away from his dream. I mean, they didn’t even own a motorcar. In 1936, eager for a fresh start, Johnny moved to London. Dabbling in a few honest but ultimately unrewarding jobs including as clerk and chauffeur for a good-egg called William Donald McSwan Jnr, but hating the long hours, hard graft and tiny wage, once again, Johnny felt the lure of easy-money. On 24th November 1937, at Surrey Assizes, Haigh was convicted of seven counts of fraud having forged legal papers and falsely represented himself as a solicitor and stole £3200, almost £210,000 today, with a further twenty-two cases taken into consideration. His confidence was high, his scheme was clever and his crime was brazen, but his mistake wasn’t greed but speed, as on the letterhead he had misspelled the town of Guildford. Johnny was sentenced to four years in Wandsworth Prison Wealth was within a finger-tip’s touch, yes being banged-up was a minor set-back but, once again, his near perfect plan was scuppered by those unpredictable irritants - people – as whatever he stole, they would always want it back. But how could he make sure they would never notice the missing monies? Released on licence on the 13th August 1940, the 31 year old repeat-offender returned to London only to see a ravaged smoking city; its blackened crumbling buildings silhouetted by a red fiery sea as if he had entered the bowels of hell, as night-after-night his whole world was bombed by the Luftwaffe. Businesses were destroyed, homes were smashed, lives were decimated, and as a ragged and hungry Haigh slept in flea-infested doss-house, the strict conditions of his early release was like walking a legal tight-rope. Ex-con Johnny had to go straight, as one little slip and he was back in the slammer. Only, like Leeds as a boy, although London was truly a den of debauchery, still being a teetotal celibate with dreams of becoming an entrepreneur, even at wartime, it was a city of extremes; with blackouts, bomb-craters and Bentleys; furs, famine and finger-food, destitution, decadence and death. And with his half-way house at the back of The Ritz, that was like waving cheese under a snoozing mouse’s nose. As part of his parole, Johnny did his bit for the war-effort being conscripted as a fire-watcher, alerting the fire-brigade to any art-treasures at risk of destruction by The Blitz. Again, the hours were long, the work - as he protected masterpieces worth a mint - and all for a paltry wage, And like most citizens, his war-time experience was not without its horrors. In a regular letter to his parents, Johnny wrote: “On one occasion, while on fire-watching duty, I was talking to a Red Cross nurse at a warden’s post. The sirens shrieked, bombs dropped and the nurse and I moved off to our places of duty. Suddenly, in a moment of premonition, I knew that a bomb would fall close by, so I dodged into a doorway and awaited the inevitable crash. It came with a horrifying shriek, and as I staggered up, bruised and bewildered, a head rolled against my foot. The nurse who but a few moment before had been gay and full of life, high ideals and a sense of duty, had in one instant been swept into eternity”. But as shocking as it was, the reality was this… in war-time sometimes people just disappeared. Johnny did his damnedest to go straight and to make his parents proud-as-punch. On and off for four years, he worked as a clerk for his old pal William McSwan (whose kindness always saw him through) and did odd-jobs for a solid chap called Allan Stephens, a mechanical engineer and owner of the Union Road Tool and Garage Company in Crawley; working at his workshop, clearing out his store-room and living in his family home with his wife Evelyn and his daughter Barbara. Johnny had landed on his feet. Except putting-up, getting-by and making-do was never Johnny’s style… …so on 11th June 1941, he was sentenced to twenty-one months hard labour. But not for a cunningly superior scam having embezzled an impossible fortune, ripped from the mega-rich, having faultlessly defrauded the insured using a litany of faultless forgeries. No. Strapped for cash, Johnny had illegally flogged-off an old fridge, five bunk-beds and sixty yards of cloth. And in prison once again, most galling of all - because of these crimes - he had been branded… a “petty” criminal. On 17th September 1943, he was released on licence and went back to square one. Or so it seemed. (Haigh) “When I first 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”. By his release, Haigh had spent six of his thirty-four years in several prisons, including Wandsworth, Dartmoor, Chelmsford and Lincoln. (Haigh): “Lincoln. The worst prison I have ever known is Lincoln. I resented it most bitterly and made up my mind that after this there would be no more inside for me”. But unlike the petty pilferers and common-criminals who frittered the endless hours, days and weeks by pinching snout, blagging sweets and smuggling smokes in a stash of old socks, Johnny dreamed big. As his cell-mate in Chelmsford later stated “he said he’d aim at half a million quid before he’d quit, but everyone just took it as a joke”. Another bunk-buddy stated “he kept gabbing on about this ‘corpus delicti', so that’s what we nicknamed him”. ‘Corpus delicti’, an 18th century English law, also known as the ‘bloodless murder law’ states that “without a body, there can be no crime”. Oddly Johnny had stumbled across it in the prison library, but around these two little words, his masterplan was born. The problem was it’s almost impossible to make a body completely disappear. (Interstitial* - End) Prisoner Haigh was an unassuming little fellow; petite, polite and polished who devoted his time inside to being an altar-boy and organist in the chapel, he starched his shirts, he made his bed and – always with a please and a thank you - Johnny was charm personified. So being a bright but easily bored boy, who once excelled in the school science club, he was given a much-lauded job in the prison workshop. When he wasn’t spending long hours cutting fresh tin into prison cutlery, zinc-plating the handles onto kitchen pans and cleaning rusted iron with sulphuric acid, which stripped his soft skin to a red raw mess and stung his nose with noxious choking odours – that aside – the workshop was the perfect place to fill his endless hours as his restless hands and curious mind fixed, fiddled and tinkered. Here his entrepreneurial spirit truly flourished, and yet, never once did he make, mould or even invent a single thing to make his fortune. No, but it was here that he devised the final piece of his grand plan. By 1944, John George Haigh was back on the streets; a small thin ex-con with a weedy frame, a boyish face, a feminine voice, a charming smile and a truly ludicrous dream to become rich without actually working; only he had no money, no home, no skills and he knew almost no-one. For the first twenty-seven years of his life, unassuming little Johnny Haigh was little more than a lost boy eager to please his parents. Over the next eight years, he was nothing but a failed petty fraudster who (at every turn) had lost everything. He didn’t drink, smoke or swear, he wasn’t violent or sadistic. But between 1944 and 1949, he would befriend six wealthy persons; the Swan family, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon; and – with near perfect precision - he would assume their identities, inherit their estates, drain their assets and all six victims would mysteriously vanish, leaving no trace with which to convict him. John George Haigh would become one of Britain’s most infamous serial killers… …and it all began with a dead mouse. (Interstitial* fizzing to fade out) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile, that was part one of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the second part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are - Jayne Heath and Miss Marston (aka Sandra) – with (as always) a big thank you to everyone who has taken the time to like, share, comment and review this small independent podcast. It’s very much appreciated. 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.
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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.
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Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. The music featured in this episode includes:
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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", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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