Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-five of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Before we begin, please take a moment to listen to this important message.

(Copper’s voice) Evening ‘all. My name is Police Constable Arsenal Guinness of the Metropolitan plod. On behalf of Her Majesty the Queen (God bless you Ma’am) and her rather fit granddaughter-in-law, I am here to warn you about the counterfeit episodes of Murder Mile what is knocking about.

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Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is about Camille Gordon; a bubbly student with a beaming smile, a big heart and a bright future, who had no enemies, only friends, and yet someone wanted her dead. But why?

Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 45: Who killed Camille Gordon?

Today I’m standing on Archer Street, in Soho; one road south of Brewer Street where George Pickering stabbed Rosa O’Neill to death, five doors down from The White Horse where Larry Winters shot Paddy O’Keefe, and I’m right next door to the top-floor flat where Soho’s most infamous pimp strangled his most valuable sex-worker to death with her own stocking – only available on a Murder Mile Walk.

Bookended by the bland back-end of Shaftesbury Avenue’s Apollo Theatre to the left and the infamous Windmill Theatre to the right, Archer Street is a former Victorian slum. And being a thin one-way street, barely 200 feet long, with strangely vague and oddly anonymous four and five storey buildings on either side, even on the brightest of days, Archer Street is cast in shadow.

Feeling lifeless, joyless and soulless; although Archer Street is situated smack-bang in the middle of Soho’s sex district, in stark contrast, it’s drab, dark and deathly silent; looking like the kind of dirty hovel where trucks unload, waiters smoke, drunks widdle, crack-addicts puke and a certain bald tour-guide points to scenes of grisly death, all of which happen within a few feet of a primary school. Nice.

Today (gasp, shock) Archer Street is being gentrified. And as much as I may lambast those hairy-faced hipsters who dress like a Yeti moonlighting as an Elizabethan chimney sweep, who talk like Danny Dyer quoting Pruste whilst dying of the plague, who’ve uploaded every single second of their miserable little life (even though they have all the personality of an anus) and who’ve over-complicated a simple beverage to such an extent it makes you want to scream “I just want a f**king cup of coffee”, (frothing, then calm) there is one bright spot on this whole street, and that is Gelupo at 7 Archer Street.

A joyous and brightly coloured blue and white tiled Italian ice-cream shop, full of rich soft sumptuous scoops of mouth-wateringly inventive flavours such as tropical Eton Mess, blueberry cheesecake, chocolate earl grey and Pimms and lemonade. Oh yummy. (Sigh).

And yet, beyond the sweet smell of icy treats, 7 Archer Street hides a deadly secret; as it was here, on Monday 1st March 2004, outside of an infamous Soho clip-joint called The Blue Bunny Club, that an innocent woman called Camille Gordon was stabbed to death. (Interstitial)

Why anyone would hate Camille Gordon is a mystery?

Camille loved kids, she adored them, and with her life-long dream to become a nursery school teacher, it was obvious to anyone who met her that it was a job she was perfect for. Being described by those who knew her as “beautiful, inside and out”, Camille was warm, caring and loving; a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, who could illuminate a room with a smile and could make any stranger feel welcome.

And with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features, warm chestnut eyes and brown shoulder length hair, as a pretty girl with a heart of gold, Camille was the kind of person you couldn’t help but gravitate towards. So given her sweet, warm and generous nature, as a nursery school teacher, Camille would have been absolutely perfect. And yet, she ended up dead in the heart of Soho’s red-light district?

Born on the Caribbean island of Jamaica in 1981 and raised in a strong, loving and supportive family, although they struggled financially; Camille had a very normal upbringing. And even though her grades were good, by the turn of the millennium, feeling that the her homeland lacked the opportunities she needed to truly fulfil her dream, with her mother’s blessing, 21 year old Camille waved farewell to the sun-kissed tropics and headed to the bright prospects but miserable drizzle of England.

Described by a close friend as “a little bit naïve”, being a young girl in a strange land, although England was an exciting place, Camille was street-smart, and was not about to take any risks.

Staying with relatives, Camille lived for two years in the industrial city of Birmingham in the West Midlands; studying at Handsworth College by day, and working as a waitress by night, with additional hours as a nursery assistant at weekends. And although she was stuck in the classic student dilemma of either being too poor to eat, too busy to earn or too tired to learn, she remained totally focused on her goal. And so, by the summer of 2003, Camille graduated with a teaching certificate.

With her dream coming true; being eager to start her career, to pay off her student loan and to earn a modest wage (some of which she would send home to support her mother), Camille moved to the bustling city of London. But times were hard, money was tight and with nursery placements being few-and-far between, temp work being badly paid and waitressing only available at unsociable hours, seeking to supplement her meager income with a well-paying part-time job whilst she enrolled in further education, Camille struggled to make-ends-meet.

So, one night, in the bleak winter of 2003, being a pretty girl with a slim figure, a soft voice and a sweet face; dressed in six inch-heels, black stockings and a tight-fitting dress, Camille sashayed up Rupert Street into the dark heart of Soho’s red-light district. Surrounded by a sea of seedy sex-dens which bathed her silky skin in a gaudy neon haze, as Camille tottered along the puke-splattered urine-soaked street, dodging drunks and leering louts, she was enveloped by the pitch black gloom of Archer Street.

As against the dark sinister facade of number 7, in a doorway draped in a purple velvet curtain and under a flashing neon sign which simply read “girls”, Camille stood, as hostess at The Blue Bunny Club, luring horny young men near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger, as for just a fiver, she promised them a “good time with a pretty lady”. (Interstitial).

But this is not what you think.

This is not a story about a vulnerable young girl; who being broke, hungry and hard-up, sinks into drink, falls into drugs, is sold by a gang into the Soho sex-trade, and (in a vicious circle of abuse) is murdered simply for disobeying her pimp. Far from it.

This is a story about a bright girl with a big heart, a warm smile and a blossoming dream of becoming a nursery school teacher. And it still is. That was her goal and she was going for it. But she didn’t have a dark side, she wasn’t leading a double-life and she wasn’t starving, desperate or forced. Camille had no criminal record, she rarely drank, she didn’t do drugs and her only debt was a student loan.

And although, being a hostess in a notorious Soho clip-joint was outside of her comfort zone; as a part-time job, the hours were short, the pay was good and – with her role requiring no nudity or sex-acts, of any kind, by strict orders of the management - all she had to do was talk and smile. So as a smart, strong and ambitious young woman, the decision to become a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was one she had made independently… and yet, just a few months later, someone would want her dead.

But Camille wasn’t unique; with clip-joints and lap-dancing clubs being on the fringes of the sex-trade, both of which are licensed by the local council; with London being the most expensive city in Europe, given a choice between waitressing for a minimum wage, stacking shelves at night, or bar-work whilst being accosted by drunken louts, many hostesses and lap-dancers aren’t trafficked women, but are actually students, nurses and young mums; all busy girls with big dreams looking for quick (and entirely legal) cash, whilst being protected by strict laws, CCTV and a barrage of burly bouncers.

As one lap-dancer said to me, “I only work one night a month; but it pays well, everyone’s very nice and I feel safe, and what I do here (let’s be honest) it’s no different than what I do at hot yoga”.  

And in the same way that outside of almost every club, bar or restaurant in almost every city, the first person you’ll see is a hostess; a beautiful young woman who is instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, and who can make any stranger feel welcome. So being a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was merely a well-paying part-time job in a role that Camille was perfect for.

By Monday 1st March 2004, Camille had enrolled in further education; her rent was paid, her life was good, she was happy, well and thriving. But that night, a total stranger would be fueled by so much hatred for Camille that he would end her life forever… and yet, they had only just met. But why?

To understand the murder, you have to understand how clip-joints like The Blue Bunny Club operate. And to do that, you’ll need to come with me, on a little walk into Soho. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.

The date is Monday 1st March 2004. It’s 5pm. As you slip out of the rush-hour bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue, you slink onto Rupert Street; a short cobblestoned road strewn with swirling litter, its slight incline stretching up passed a dither of day-time drinkers, a huddle of homeless beggars and a prong of porn-perusing perverts clutching bafflingly indiscreet brown paper bags. But what draws your eye, is that in almost every doorway, on both sides of the street, stand long lines of very pretty girls; all slim, semi-clad and smouldering.

Being young, inexperienced and desperate, a smorgasbord of lovely ladies - who’d usually look right through you - beckon you nearer with sultry smiles and ‘come to bed’ eyes. And with every book-shop, brothel, strip-club, S&M store and porn-theatre screaming the word “sex”, as gaudy neon signs flash with unsubtle subliminal messages like ‘girls’, ‘nude’ and ‘triple X’, sex is why you are here. But as any farmer will tell you, just because you’re in a field of cows, it doesn’t mean you can buy a steak.

And as a nervous young lad; too shy to watch strippers, too timid to be lap-danced and too terrified to bust your cherry in a brothel; with your heart racing, your mouth dry and walking awkwardly as you struggle to stifle a burgeoning boner, not wanting to be noticed, you’re lured into the shadowy gloom of Archer Street and the dark façade of The Blue Bunny Club.

But there’s no need to be scared, it’s not menacing, it’s reassuring. As from the brightly lit doorway, bathed in a pink neon haze (that hints at hidden flesh) and amidst the heart quickening pulse of disco, a stunning young lady with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features and warm chestnut eyes lures you near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger. And being the type of girl who could make any stranger feel welcome, everything she says in her soft Jamaican lilt is what you want to hear.

As in a swirl of words like “girls”, “drinks” and “erotic show”, being stood next to a large sign which reads ‘£5 entrance fee’; with security cameras on the ceiling, bouncers on the door and the club’s terms and conditions fixed to the wall, thinking “wow, if she’s the lady they put on reception, imagine the bevvy of beauties that await me inside?”, you hand her your crinkled fiver, and as she slides back the purple velvet curtain leading down into the excitement of the basement, in a voice as warm and reassuring as a nursery school teacher, she says “have fun”, as you descend into The Blue Bunny Club.

With each step, your mind imagines the world within; a paradise for your swollen penis and a nirvana for your aching nads, as amidst a cavernous expanse of naked flesh, stunners sway on swings, pretty ladies slide on phallic poles and bosomy babes frolic together in a champagne fountain, as a sweaty heaving mass of young men, swarmed in a sea of jiggling boobs and butts, lie exhausted like dribbling wrecks, their bodies trashed by a life-changing orgy of carnality and debauchery.

And as you reach the bottom step, your heart racing, your mouth dry and your loins engorged, as you excitedly pull back the plush red curtain of your sexual utopia, the first thing that greets you is… disinfectant, the oddly un-erotic whiff of an anti-bacterial floor cleaner which stings your nostrils.

For a few seconds, as your eyes acclimatize to the dark, you wonder if you’ve stumbled into the broom-cupboard, but slowly, across the small gloomy room, you see a tiny wooden bar, an empty stage and several stained sofas, on which sit a handful of single and rather awkward looking men.

Realising your mistake, as your Adam’s apple bobs and your sphincter tightens, you quickly turn to leave, but behind you a beef-cake bouncer blocks your only exit, and as you nervously utter “it’s a bit quiet”, with an emotionless yet menacing look, the looming lump growls “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is) as the barrel-chested brute ushers you towards the bar.

Needing a stiff drink to steady your nerves, as you sidle up - your shoes struggling to rip free from the un-arousing grip of the sticky lino - you scan the poorly-lit wooden alcove for any tipple which takes your fancy, but with no draft taps, no spirit optics and no branded bottles, you quiz the rather bland-looking barmaid “do you have any beers?” Audibly huffing like she’s unsure how to inflate a balloon, as – for the fiftieth time that hour – her razor sharp talons point to the drinks menu, which has just  three options; soft drinks, low-beer and virgin cocktails, as she barks “we don’t serve alcohol”.

And it’s true, they don’t. Clip-joints don’t have liquor licenses, so legally they can’t sell booze, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. This was scrawled on the club’s Terms & Conditions, by the door, but as your swollen love-trumpet was too busy leading you downstairs, you didn’t bother to read it.

So, as you slump onto a tacky red sofa, mottled with a mishmash of dubious stains (which you deduce are most likely to be Vimto, blackcurrant cordial or Rola Cola), you daintily sup the egg-cup’s worth of watered-down fruit-juice, a steal at just £20. And as the several scared men stare expectantly at the empty stage, as the unused pole gleams brightly, you think “maybe I just missed a show” or perhaps “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is)? But the truth is, clip-joints don’t have an entertainment license, so legally they can’t put on a show, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. 

And as a mildly attractive yet blatantly disinterested lady sits beside you; her face caked in half an inch of make-up to mask her look of disdain, being semi-sexily dressed in black like she’s keen to cop-off with a funeral corpse and being draped in a feather boa (as nothing says sexy like an itchy scarf made of a dead bird’s plumage), as her vague pleasantries clumsily segue into you buying her a drink (which – as an employee – surely she gets for free), suddenly you realise “it’s a con”.

Nothing is going to happen between you and this lady. Nothing. Not a kiss, a hug or a how-do-you-do. This is a clip-joint, they don’t have a sex-establishment license, so even a legally acceptable sex-act like a striptease or a lap-dance cannot take place, if it did, they’d be breaking the law.

Furious that you’ve been duped into blowing £25 to sit alone for several minutes in an empty club swigging fruit cordial, you get up to leave… but beyond the suspiciously mottled red velvet curtain should be a set of dark-lit steps ascending to the club’s only exit, except it’s blocked by two tree-trunk sized apes in tuxedos, one of whose gigantic hairy fists hands you a bill.

“What? I already paid”, you mutter “a fiver on the door and twenty quid for the drink?” And as your brain scrambles to fathom how you could possibly have accrued such an extortionate bill in such a short period of time, thinking this could be a prank, their unflinching faces say otherwise.

Here, everything costs; from the privilege of talking to the hostess and the honour of buying her a drink, to the pleasure of missing a show, and with the bar having a “two drink minimum” spend and a £300 service charge on top, all of which were clearly in their Terms & Conditions and none of which you bothered to read, so – for now - you’re not going nowhere, until they get their money.
And as two oversized brutes loom over you; their colossal callused hands perched upon your trembling shoulders as their hot-breath snorts down you perspiring neck, as you fumble for your wallet, you consider calling the Police? But on what charge? They haven’t broken the law, and - besides – it’s not like you’ve been mugged, face it, you are the mug.

Many men feel so ashamed that they pay in full, some are so terrified that they hand over their wallets, some plead poverty only to be frog-marched to the nearest cash-machine, and yet, some men become so enraged that by lashing out this allows the bouncers to use physical force. And feeling humiliated, cheated and robbed, most men chalk this up as a lesson learned and make the wise decision to never go back… but one man? He wanted revenge.

On Monday 1st March 2004, at 6:20pm, a customer approached; he was mid-twenties, 5 foot 8 inches tall and dark-skinned, wearing blue jeans, white trainers, a black hat with a white stripe and dark hooded jacket emblazoned with the motif of the Cleveland Indians Major Baseball League. Greeted by Camille and having paid his fiver, he was led downstairs into The Blue Bunny Club.

Ten minutes later, being handed a bill for £370, a heated argument ensued, and having being fleeced to the tune of £90, the man was forcibly ejected by the bouncers; spewing curses as he stormed-off down Archer Street. For those at The Blue Bunny Club, this was just an ordinary day. But having been made to feel stupid, forty minutes later… the furious man returned.

Camille was standing in the doorway; smiling, chatting and earning a few more pounds to fund her dream of becoming a nursery school teacher, a job which she would have been perfect for, as being a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, she could make any stranger feel welcome. Except this stranger didn’t feel welcome, he felt angry and humiliated.

But with the club’s owners elsewhere and the bouncers otherwise engaged, even though Camille was only a part-time hostess who he had briefly met barely moments before, seething with rage and being furious (not at her but) what she represented, he stabbed her once, in the heart. And after a long struggle, as she fought to stay alive, at 8:25pm, 23 year old Camille Gordon was pronounced dead.

And even though the Police have his DNA, his fingerprints, his description and clear CCTV footage of the attack and his escape as he fled into Piccadilly Circus tube station and onto a southbound Bakerloo line train, even with a £20000 reward in place, her murderer remains at large.

Camille Gordon was a beautiful young girl, with a sweet smile, a kind heart and big dreams; who had no enemies, only friends; who wasn’t hated, only loved, and yet – owing to a legal loop-hole on the fringes by Soho’s sex-trade, to which (for many decades) the council had turned a blind-eye – an innocent young woman was brutally stabbed to death by an angry man, simply because he didn’t bother to read the small print. So who killed Camille Gordon? That we may never know.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Already Gone and Going Postal. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are so desperate to see extra videos of my big fat head that they’ve signed-up for more. So either they use it to frighten their kids, to measure melons or they’re werewolves and my balloon shaped bonce reminds them of the moon? This week’s weirdos are Sisse Skovbakke, Lisa Lebo, Vicki Joseph, Ann Stangroom, Darren James, Katrina Van Der Vliet and Jennifer Yee. Thank you guys, there are more moon-faced vids coming your way.

Also a big thank you to Marie, Tracey, Sean, Lorna and Sheryl, who booked into my Murder Mile Walk recently and thank you to Marie for the bakewell tarts… which mysteriously vanished, hence my big fat head. And… etc. But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all.

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using authentic sources and first-hand accounts (where possible) as there is no file at the archive, given that this is a recent and on-going police investigation.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
• Faster Does It by Kevin MacLeod
  
• Under the Stair by Josh Woodward
• Inner Mental Cage by Controlled Insanity
• Western Shores by Philip Weigl
• Serenity by Parvuz Decree
• Something Bonus by Kai Engel

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• School Kids - https://freesound.org/people/makosan/sounds/34716/
  
• Dogs Barking - https://freesound.org/people/ivolipa/sounds/337101/
• Keyboard Typing - https://freesound.org/people/avakas/sounds/144120/
• Police Siren - https://freesound.org/people/conleec/sounds/159745/
  

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-four of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

As a word of warning, this episode contains shocking acts of physical, mental and emotional cruelty inflicted by a husband on a wife, and although these upsetting events will be depicted in a dramatized way, every detail of this incident is true, and - for far too many people - this kind of life and death is a daily occurrence. So if you have been subjected to, or have inflicted abuse against a loved one, don’t forget that help is only a phone call away. Thank you for listening and stay safe.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End.

Today’s episode is about Susan Moir; an East End pauper who escaped poverty to become a mother to two boys and the wife of a prosperous baker, and yet, her new life was a fate worse than death. 

Murder Mile is researched using the original court documents. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 44: Susan Moir: The Brutal Life of the Baker’s Wife.

Today I’m standing on Catherine Street, WC2; two streets east of baby-killer James Richardson Mills, two streets south of Dora Freedman (the West End prostitute supposedly slaughtered by the infamous maniac known as Soho Jack) and one street north of Waterloo Bridge where Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov was assassinated by the KGB, using an umbrella – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Wedged between the historic bustle of Covent Garden and the infamous theatre district of Drury Lane, being barely 800 feet long, Catherine Street is a short slightly sloped side-street which begins at the Theatre Royal, ends at The Strand and (with smog permitting) has stunning views of the Thames.

Laid out in the 1630’s, Catherine Street (originally called Brydges Street) and its surrounding area was – and still is – a vibrant hub, as being crammed-full of theatres, pubs and posh eateries, it’s here where the play’s patrons swig back a pre-show pint, quaff coffee whilst quoting comedy, guzzle down a swift gin at the show’s interval, or copiously weep over an entirely fictional character’s tragic plight, which (in an easily digestible two-hour instalment) is recreated, on a fake stage, off a script, by badly-paid actors, whilst the wobbly-lipped patron wolfs down a plate full of waffle.

Ironically, today it’s a place of happiness, laughter and joy, where loved one’s bond, where fear is a façade, and any tears are only temporary. And yet, there’s one truly heart-wrenching tragedy which played-out right underneath our feet, and it has remained untold, until today.

If you’re wondering why this section isn’t filled with my usual mix of wit, jibes and sharp barbs, that’s because – as this is a deeply tragic story about the horrors of domestic abuse - there’s nothing funny to say. And although this murder occurred almost 170 years ago, it’s a story which is just as relevant today. As it was here, at 25 Brydges Street, from Friday 22nd, Saturday 23rd, Sunday 24th to Monday 25th March 1850, that a baker’s wife called Susan Moir… was literally beaten to death. (INTERSTITIAL)

The most important moment in Susan Moir’s life was her death; as being a lower working-class woman of no historical importance living in an East London slum in the mid-1800’s, almost nothing is known about her sad and tragic life, except what happened in her final days.

Her birth name was Susan Hare. She was born sometime (although we can’t be certain) during the bleak winter months of 1811, somewhere amidst the ragged filth and festering squalor of Stepney (in East London), as one of either six, seven or eight siblings, half of which died before they could walk.

Like many off-spring raised to an East London pauper, Susan’s early life was tough, harsh and cruel.

Living a hand-to-mouth existence; some days she ate, some days she didn’t. With diseases like cholera and dysentery running rampant, medicine was only for the wealthy. With malnutritian having ravaged her immune system, even a common cold could be deadly. And a sickly child, who played amongst the rats in the faeces-splattered streets with no shoes on her feet, who drank water which lay stagnant near an open cess-pit, and – every day – breathed in the thick soupy air of the choking industrial smog which hung across the city like a looming cloud of death; with a third of all children dying before their fifth birthday, if she didn’t starve, freeze or succumb to disease, the longest that Susan could hope to live for was into her mid-to-late thirties. So her chance of survival was literally just that – chance.

And yet, for Susan, life was even worse; not just because she was poor, not just because she was lower working-class, and not just because she was sick, but because she was a woman.

Like most young girls; except for two hours a week at Sunday school, she was denied a basic education; except for unskilled peace-work, she was denied any training or trade; and with no vote, very few rights and almost no say in her own future, the best that Susan could hope for, was to escape the poverty of her own ragged family, by being married-off into another.

And so, it should have been the happiest day of her life, when in the spring of 1837, with her first baby boy on the way, 26 year old Susan Hare married a 31 year old a Scottish tradesman, with a steady income, an honest job, his own home and a prosperous bakers shop at 25 Brydges Street? He must have seemed like the answer to all of her prayers, as (with everyone needing bread) she’d never be cold, poor or hungry ever again. But her husband’s name was Alexander Moir, and when stated in his marriage vows that they’d be together “till death us do part”, he meant exactly that. (INTERSTITIAL).

By 1850, Brydges Street was on its last legs; some of the buildings had rotted away, others had been ransacked by robbers and rats, and what remained was just decades away from being demolished. And as a thick choking smoke drifted east from Bielefeld's papier-mâché works and every bankside furnace and toxic textile factory belched out great plumes of noxious fumes, being just six years before Soho’s deadly cholera outbreak and eight years before The Great Stink which (having no sewer system) saw the city main source of fresh drinking water - the River Thames - turned into a festering pile of floating turds, London was not only dangerous, it was deadly. But for Susan, it was home.

At 25 Brydges Street stood Moir’s Bakery; a rickety old two-storey building made of warped timber and crumbling stone. With the roof having caved in years earlier, only the front part of the upper floor was habitable enough to rent out to lodgers, so with the basement taken up by the bake-house ovens, and half of the ground-floor converted to a shop; the Moir family lived in the small back parlour, which comprised of a kitchen (where their children slept) and a simple bed for Alexander and Susan.

To the outside world, it looked like perfect family business, with Alexander baking, Susan selling and their sons Alexander Junior (age 13) and Jack (age 7) delivering. And as hordes of hungry punters peered in through the shop’s large sash window, to see shelves lined with golden loaves, baskets of soft buns and trays of biscuits, crumpets and hot cakes, as one of the few pleasant smells on the whole street, Moir’s Bakery must have seemed like a dream? But upon entering the bakery, that delightful image would be shattered by the sight of Susan, the sound of screaming and the smell of fear.

According to her autopsy, Susan Moir was 39 years old; she was five foot five inches tall; thin, pale and frail; with wiry brown hair, ruddy cheeks and callused hands. She walked with a stoop, but she wasn’t sick. She looked haggard, but she wasn’t old. She was always exhausted, but she never slept.

And with her sunken and bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles, her uneven cheeks swollen with an unsightly mix of yellow, brown and purple bruises, two broken fingers, several missing teeth, her whole body covered in welts, and her jaw hung open and low so her ghostly white face looked as if it was perpetually stuck in the midst of a scream, even though – by those who knew her – she was a deeply devoted mother who would do anything to protect her boys; she was always scared, tired and broken, and – to combat this, it is said – she would drink.

And so, what follows are the last days of Susan Moir.

Friday 22nd March 1850 was bleak, wet and cold, as a bitter wind whipped down Brydges Street and washed an inch-thick torrent of rain towards the Thames. Times were hard, money was tight and sales were short, so with good bread going to waste, once again, Alexander tutted.

Having worked sixteen hours-a-day for seven days a week since Christmas, it probably never occurred to him that drink wasn’t the reason his wife swayed unsteadily on her feet, that a swollen jaw was why her speech was slurred, or that being bruised was why she moved so slow, but with business being bad, and as she ran the shop, he knew that she was to blame.

Alexander Moir was as 44 year old Scottish baker; a blunt brutish bully-boy who was short and squat like a bulldog, with an unkempt beard, unblinking eyes, a humourless grin, and – after a stint in the navy – he had arms like tree-trunks, fists like lump-hammers and a temper as short as his fuse. So why she loved him? Or whether she ever did? That we shall never know.

By all accounts it was a regular night; as – at a little after 11pm - Susan kissed goodnight to her two boys who shared a mattress made of horse-hair and straw, which was nestled beside the kitchen fire, and as she stood on the cold stone step by the sink, she washed-up the last of the bakery’s spoons, dockers and earthenware crocks, which were baked black with burned-on crumbs and crusts.

With the candles out, the shutters down and the door’s iron bolt slid tight, the shop was shut for the night, but before his bed (which – for most bakers – was just four hours a night, at best) Alexander trudged down into the dark basement. In the bake-house was 14 year old baker’s apprentice John Johnston; and with this being his first week, being eager to please his master, as well as being a little bit scared, John set about making the dough and promised to wake his employer at 3am sharp.

But that night, no-one would sleep.

It began just shy of midnight, as raised voices echoed through the thick oak beams of the bake-house ceiling; the man’s gruff bellow was furious, the woman’s timid squeak was terrified, as with repeated thumps and thuds, as furniture crashed, crockery smashed and a petrified woman was repeatedly dragged from wall-to-door-to-floor screaming "you'll kill me, you'll kill me", it was then that the man growled "I'll murder you before I am done with you". But fearing for his job, and his life, 14 year old John Johnston did nothing, as the violent beating of Susan Moir continued late into the night.

Susan hated her life, so she drank; because she drank, so her husband would beat her; and because he would beat her, so she drank. And yet, for Susan, there was no escape. As a devout Catholic, the Church had denied her any chance of a divorce. As a wife, legally she had no right to separate. As a victim, her only refuge was the dreaded workhouse. As a daughter, she was the responsibility of her spouse to feed, clothe and chastise. And as a woman, having promised before God to “love, honour and obey” her husband, being trapped in a violent marriage, Susan was stuck “till death us do part”.

By the crack of dawn, the only sound heard was the roar of the bake-house ovens, as - in a gruff silence - Alexander bundled the freshly baked bread into a wicker basket, and as John readied himself to make the morning’s deliveries, he noticed that his master’s fists were cut, scuffed and caked with blood.

Having climbed the stone stairs, the first time John saw Susan that morning was in the shop, as - in his own words - he would state in court “she looked a dreadful sight”. Being barely able to hold herself upright, a sixteen hour day ahead of her, as she unsteadily stumbled, Susan tried to prop herself up against the wooden counter, but every time she did, she would wince in pain, as her fingers, hands and forearms were black and swollen, having tried to protect her face from the onslaught of his fists.

But her face was unrecognisable; and being a mismatched puffy mess of lumps, bumps, scrapes and cuts, John could hardly to work-out where her nose stopped and her cheeks began, as with her right eye being too swollen to open, through her tears, Susan saw very little, and said even less.

By 3pm, being barely half-way through her working day, Susan’s cousin popped into the shop; and although the sight of black-eyes and the sound of screaming was a common occurrence in the bakery, for Mary Ann Bryant, this turbulent relationship had truly taken a turn for the worst.

Whether Susan staggered, stumbled and slurred her words owing to an excess of booze or a volley of beatings is unknown, as - having knocked her so insensible that she’d forgotten one-too-many bread orders that day - with Alexander being furious, as customers fled from the bakery, he pummelled the puffy swollen flesh of Susan’s ruptured face with his hard bloodied fists, and with the timid woman being too shattered to simply raise her blackened hands to shield herself, as roughly a dozen blows rained down, each fist struck her squarely in the face and back, again and again and again.  

Having demanded that his lazy feckless wife quit her dilly-dallying and refill the window display with fresh stock, Susan tried to arrange a line of two-penny loaves, but as her world spun wildly and everything went black, she lost consciousness and collapsed; there was a hard thud as she landed face first on the hard wooden floor, ripping a one inch gash across her forehead as a trickle of blood wept from her swollen right eye. Shocked by the ferocity of his violence, Mary-Ann cried “get her up, she needs help”, to which Alexander – his sole focus being to bake a fresh batch of York biscuits – snorted “Let the drunken bitch wait there till she comes to herself".

And with Mary-Ann being too slight to lift the cataleptic woman up, there Susan stayed, slumped under the buns in the shop’s window, as customers came and went, crusty loaves in hand, chattering and gorping, as a battered and barely conscious woman lay in a crumpled heap.

A short while later, Susan slowly regained consciousness, and through bloodied and malformed lips which mumbled barely intelligible words as drool spooled down her chin, she begged Mary-Ann to ask her husband to let her lie down, to rest and to recover from her injuries, but Alexander said no.

Eager to aide her semi-comatose cousin - who struggled on, in the shop, for many hours more, serving breads to bemused customers - Mary-Ann set about covering some of Susan’s chores; like washing their clothes, cleaning the parlour and cooking the family’s dinner, as she tended to Susan’s cuts and swellings, but it would all be for nothing.

At a little after 8pm, on Saturday 23rd March, as their two boys sat silently at the kitchen table, their heads staring at their laps for fear of incurring their father’s fists, Alexander slapped Susan hard, having found a half-empty bottle of gin hidden in a nook. By now, being so used to his abuse and with her face being a bulging mess of tough puffy welts, she barely felt his hand impact, as her salty sobs mixed with blood making it seem like she wept pink tears, and yet still she screamed, as - to Susan – the misery and the pain of her daily beatings were as commonplace as breathing.

Moments later, Mary-Ann served dinner; and having said Grace, the family sat down to mutton chops, potatoes, carrots, peas and gravy. The aggrieved Alexander should have been moderately happy (given the day’s many disturbances) that his dinner was on the table, on time, and that Mary-Ann was actually a good cook, but still he sat there fuming about the failures of his drunken wife.

And as Alexander scooped an overloaded fork of food into his bearded gaping mouth, he spat a volley of peas as he shouted "This is more like gravy, not the watery soup you make", but as Susan was too tired to retort (which he took as insolence), he hurled half of a hard-baked loaf at her head, as its rough edges ripped open an old wound.

Through sheer agony, with every inch of her exhausted body being bloodied, beaten and bruised, as Susan tried to stand-up, her trembling legs barely held-up by two blackened arms, Alexander slammed her back into her seat, forcing her freshly bruised backside down onto the hard wooden chair, as – with a mashed mouthful of potato – he spat "If you don't finish your meat, I will send for a rolling-pin, and will force it down your throat”.

And like a dark shadow of death which loomed over the tiny trembling woman, there he stood; staring, seething and snarling, as her numb fingers struggled to raise the shaking fork to her swollen lips, but seeing her inability to eat, not owing to her injuries but due to her drunkenness and selfish petulance, as Susan’s broken fingers dropped the fork, Alexander exploded with rage.

The assault was sustained, vicious and swift as a flurry of heavy fists and booted feet flew into Susan’s legs, back and face. And as the man who had once sworn an oath, in Church and to God that he would always “love, honour and protect her”, as his wife cowered on the hard wooden floor, curled-up like a ruptured ball, as she screamed for him to stop, he savagely beat her until her body went limp.

But Susan didn’t die, not then, not yet. As even though her pummelled face was said to be “the colour of sheep’s liver”, her swollen lids had rendered her right eye blind, and her brown wiry hair was matted thick with congealed blood, she struggled on for the sake of her boys. And all the while, as Mary-Ann washed her cousin’s cuts with cool water, Alexander sat by the fire, his feet-up, smoking a pipe.

One hour later, as Susan unsteadily slumped against the sink, desperate to complete her nightly chores for fear of upsetting her husband further, as her aching fingers scrubbed the baked-on crusts of the earthenware pots, and as an irregular gush of blood thrummed and thumped through her aching brain, suddenly everything went black and – again - she collapsed.

The heavy thud should have alerted Alexander that his wife was in trouble. Her stillness should have rang an alarm bell that all was not well. But it didn’t. As seeing his lazy useless wife, lying down like an unruly mutt, her stupid head slumped against the cold kitchen step like the silly cow was spitefully defying him by taking a little nap, he bellowed “Get up you drunken bitch”, and when she didn’t, wearing hard leather boots, he repeatedly kicked her legs, her body and her head.

Susan didn’t fight back, she didn’t scream, and she didn’t even move, as being either so bruised, unconscious or beyond caring, she just lay there. And with Alexander, once again, refusing to pick her up, Susan lay slumped in an insensible mess on the cold kitchen floor, for the next two hours,

By Sunday 24th March, with Alexander having denied her the right to rest in her own bed, as her persistent bleeding would have soiled his sheets, Susan was moved to the horsehair and straw mattress that her children slept in, nestled on the floor, next to the kitchen fire, like a dog; and there she lay, silent, still and barely breathing except in low rasps gasps.

At 8pm. Mary-Ann returned, when she asked Alexander how Susan was, he huffed that she “was in a very bad state” and that he was “astonished that ‘it’ had lasted as long as it had done”. And when asked if he had sent for a doctor, he said “no, there was no need”, but Mary-Ann insisted.

Dr Joshua Watkins of nearby Chandos Street was called for and arrived at 25 Brydges Street just after 11am on the morning of Monday 25th March 1850, by which time, 39 year old Susan Moir was dead.

On Monday 6th May 1850, at The Old Bailey, Alexander Moir pleaded not guilty to his wife’s murder. Having heard the testimony, examined the scene and viewed the body, a jury of 15 men assembled to debate the case at the Two Spies public house on Brydges Street.

The evidence was overwhelming; every inch of Susan’s skin was covered in a patchwork of lumps, cuts, bruises and breaks; some were old, some were new, but all told a tale of terrified woman fearing for her life. And having removed six ounces of coagulated blood from her brain, the surgeon confirmed that Susan been beaten to death as she lay either unconscious or dying.

In his summing-up, Mr Justice Cresswell stated that if the jury felt it was Alexander’s intention to beat his wife to death, then he must be charged with murder. But that if by beating his wife, his intention was only to cause her pain, and that as a result she died, then he must be charged with manslaughter.

After a very short deliberation, for the brutal death and the physical, mental and emotional abuse he had inflicted on Susan, over two decades, the jury found Alexander Moir guilty… of manslaughter.

Alexander Moir was sentenced to life, but he served just twelve years. And although, as an East End pauper, Susan had escaped poverty, disease and malnutritian by becoming the wife of a prosperous West End baker, being beaten black-and-blue every day of her married life, the one horror she could never escape was her violent husband. Susan Moir was buried in a pauper’s grave, somewhere in East London, but her exact whereabouts are unknown.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Wine & Crime and Affirmative Murder. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who (following my previous advert) desperately wanted to have super perky sky-pointing tits and lethally-long dongs which dragged on the floor, and those lucky people are Taya Brendle, Ladislav Eichler, Amanda-Jayne Lamb, Debbie Halliwell, Robert Lee-Floyd Williams, Jason Aberchrombie and Ashley Shannon, although they will be easy to spot. Also a big thank you to Tom who came on my Murder Mile Walk and very kindly became a cash Patreon. And a special thank-you to Stacey Conover who as a mega-patreon not only gets gravity defying boobs for life and a man-trumpet so long it’s a trip-hazard, but also she will receive a very exclusive Murder Mile mug – only one of two currently in existence. Ooh! But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all.

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original court documents from The Old Bailey and other sources.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
  
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
  
• Piano Blue by Cult With No Name
• EXiiLFE by Ars Sonos
  
• Sopor by Kai Engel
• Mercy by Kai Engel
• Piano Piece 3 by Cult With No Name

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Street Organ - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/203424/
  
• Chimney - https://freesound.org/people/markb/sounds/86977/
• Market Traders - https://freesound.org/people/deleted_user_1116756/sounds/74460/
• Columbia Flower Market - https://freesound.org/people/AlKerr/sounds/214673/
• Horse & Carriage - https://freesound.org/people/dobroide/sounds/111211/
• Horse & Carriage 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Sirderf/sounds/333679/
  

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Marion Lees-Smith; a single mother struggling alone to cope with the daily demands of Derek - her deaf and brain-damaged son. And as frustrated and exasperated as Marion would often be, her death would come about, not by exhaustion, but by the hand of her own son.

Murder Mile is researched using the original police investigation files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 43: Marion Lees-Smith: The Rich Mum, The Deaf Son and the Paltry Sum.

Today I’m standing on George Street, W1. And like most places on Murder Mile, it may sound familiar, because we’ve already been here before; as we’re just one road south of first failed assassination of former Iraqi Prime Minister (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif), one road north of the badly bungled abortion of Helen Mary Pickwoad, one square west of The Blackout Ripper’s first victim (Evelyn Hamilton), and three blocks south of the terrorist tube bombing at Edgware Road – coming soon to Murder Mile.

In front is Bryanston Court at 137 George Street; a seven-storey mansion-house covering half a square block; with brown brick walls, black wrought iron railings, art deco lamps and with four huge Doric columns in chalk stone on either side of a black wooden door, it looks very much like an old bank.

Like much of Marylebone, George Street is rather grand, as being named after the most infamous of Britain’s mentally-unwell monarchs - as it’s here that that (the unfairly dubbed) mad King George III ranted, raved and recuperated from the debilitating blood disorder of porphyria - although this sleepy side-street is chock full of five-star hotels, mansion houses, embassies, galleries and lines of posh cars (like a very literal willy measuring contest), oddly - for a major metropolitan city - there’s no people.

It’s lifeless, joyless and colourless; bland, dull and beige, like a potato waffle coated with caviar, like a Tory MP in a tux, or like that very white kind of 1980’s poodle poop… only sprinkled with lots of pearls.

It’s a place so false, no-one has their original name, nose, voice or spouse; and with so many nips and tucks, anybody you do see is totally unable to sit, smile, stand, talk, walk or jiggle their norks, as they look like they’re staring straight into a force 10 gale. And with many of the flats owned by bankers as a tax dodge; the only life on George Street, are those uptight twats in tweed suits who drive their Bentley’s at half the speed of a bunged-up slug’s bowel movement, and those mummified corpses in mink coats, who stink of moth balls and gin, and walk a £5000 fluffy rat on a very posh piece of string,

And although, in Bryanston Court, the three-bedroomed apartment of Wallace Simpson (the American wife of abdicated King Edward VIII) recently sold for £5.35 million, it was also here, on the night of Wednesday 30th December 1942, in flat 112, that a devoted and well-off mother called Marion Lees-Smith was murdered by her son, over a paltry sum of just £2. (INTERSTITIAL)
Life was idyllic for Marion Lees-Smith. Raised as a well-mannered, educated and a devoutly religious lady from a wealthy and upstanding family, although a native of Chicago, having married Norman (an executive for the Canadian Pacific Railway), together Marion and her husband would travel the world.

By 1920, being berthed in the bustling city of Shanghai (China); as a major international trade port and one of the east’s most important financial centres, Shanghai was in its golden age; and being bathed by bright coloured lights, stunned by the hectic buzz of the city, and knocked-out by the sweet sizzling smell of steamed crab, beggar’s chicken and shredded duck dumplings, Marion was in her element.

She lived in a stunning three-storey house on the prosperous Nanking Road; was served by a butler, a housemaid and a chef; wore tailored dresses, fine jewels and handmade shoes; and as a 40 year old globetrotter from a wealthy family, with no commitments or responsibilities just a very active social life, as money was no object, Marion could literally buy anything… except happiness.
As a hard-working but always exhausted executive, Norman was rarely home, and on the odd occasion he was, the faint cracks in their fractured relationship would show. Often they’d argue, always they’d fight, and so - with fate being so fickle – this was possibly the worst time to have a baby, but on 21st August 1922, Marion gave birth to a boy, and she named him Derek.

Derek was (and would always be) their only child; and as a happy, normal and healthy baby, raised to two loving parents in a wealthy family, although he was an accident, Derek was adored. And with his doting mother smothering her beloved son with endless toys, good food, soft sheets and a nursemaid at his beck-and-call, even as a baby, Derek had a better life than most.

But then, even in a truly idyllic setting, sometimes accidents do happen.

It was a momentary lapse in concentration, as Amah (the family’s diligent nursemaid) was distracted for little more than a few seconds. With Derek being a restless two-year old; being unable to sit still, desperate to stand and struggling to peep out of his pram, as Amah looked away, the adventurous tot crawled over the pram’s canvas side, and with no sense of distance or danger, he slipped, and fell.

The thud was heavy. The cobbles were hard. His head bled. And although motionless, as a pained wail burst from his bloodied lips which cut the chaotic Shanghai streets to silence and reassured Amah that the boy was still breathing, Derek was rushed to hospital, having landed on his head. “He was lucky”, the doctors said, as with no broken bones, only a superficial cut and a few bruises, being given a pill for the pain and a plaster, Marion took her son home and thought nothing more of it.

But Derek had been damaged.

It started with stutter; a simple tripping of the tongue over some troublesome words. Then he became unnaturally clingy, oddly silent and always cried, as if he was in pain. And as he retreated into his own little world, with his hearing slowly fading, by the age of 12, Derek was totally deaf.

With Amah sacked, Marion became Derek’s full-time carer, and with his deafness being manageable, having invested in a hearing aid and lip-reading lessons, Marion was coping. But somewhere, deep inside of Derek’s head, something else had broken. (INTERSTITIAL)

Having relocated to London, limited their social life and put their globetrotting days firmly behind them, having made their life stable for their disabled son, Derek’s demands had placed a great strain on his parent’s relationship, and although they stayed in touch, Marion and Norman had split.

Part-funded by her family, Marion moved with her son into flat 112 on the sixth floor of Bryanston Court; a modern, well-furnished, two-bedroomed apartment. And as a little family stuck together in a tiny West End flat, with no-one for company but each other, although Marion and Derek were mother and son, to those who knew them, they seemed like an odd mix.

With her globetrotting days long gone, 61 year old Marion was a pale, thin and hollow version of her former self, and although she was fastidiously neat and elegantly dressed, lacking any smile or sparkle, it seemed as if, every day, a little piece of her soul had drained away. And as a single woman, struggling alone, with a boy whose injuries she blamed on herself, Marion was the epitome of exasperation.

Where-as Derek, always seemed awkward in his own skin, like a 20 year old man trapped in a 70 year old’s body. As with a messy mop of jet black hair perched above his elongated face, a dark crumpled suit which clung to his thin weedy frame, a set of horn-rimmed glasses with lenses like coke-bottle bottoms, so thick, they magnified his tiny eyes to the size of saucers, and – as his little legs walked with oversized strides – being forced to cart-about a clunking great hearing aid with its bulky battery in a carry-case, although he was deaf, delicate and socially-awkward, he was eager for freedom.

Not a lot, just some… but with Marion always fussing, huffing and tutting, as a woman wracked with the guilt over her broken boy, believing she was being a good mum, she had encased him in a cocoon.

A cocoon that Derek would never escape, even after he had stabbed his mother to death.

In 1942, three weeks before Christmas, Marion was at her wits-end. Not from the strict rationing with the country’s food stocks in short supply, the lack of clean water as water pipes burst (limiting each flat to just two buckets a day), or the barrage of Nazi bombers which – night-after-night – rained down death from the skies, but by loving him so much, she had nothing left to give.

Every night, they’d fight; and although their little spats were never hurtful, spiteful or physical, the thin walls of their tiny flat echoed with the sharp sounds of screaming and sobbing as an exasperated mother and her frustrated son clashed.

When Derek was a little boy, although they’d argue, Marion would always win; as being a strong willed woman and – more importantly - his mother, with just a finger, a look or even a tut, she could easily override the unruly demands of a such small boy, with a slow brain and a stutter, but now, he was a man. And although he resembled a 70 year old man trapped in a 20 year old’s body with a 8 year old’s brain, with Marion being a just little lady; as he grew taller in height, heavier in weight and greater in strength, the more she became older, weaker and more exhausted.

Hence the cocoon, but she wasn’t being cruel.

Like every loving mother, Marion only wanted the very best for her little boy, and so – with a modest allowance, a good education, love, trust and a hand to hold - she gave him freedom; she wanted him to grow, to bloom and - ultimately - to be free. But as a deaf, delicate and socially awkward boy, in a big city, who was a danger to himself, with his best interests at heart, there had to be limits.

Determined that his disability should never hold him back, Derek was educated at some of Britain’s best private schools, but being described by his tutors as distant, erratic, distracted and intellectually deficient, for the third time in the last six months, Derek had dropped out of education.

With an interest in animals, Marion arranged for work experience at a farm in the fresh air (and safety) of Saffron Waldon, but – being unable to keep hold of a single thought - Derek had grown bored before the first egg hit the straw. And so it went on. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t learn.

Being eager to do his bit for the war-effort, having sucked-up her fears (and a few tears) Marion helped her boy to enlist in the Army, but being rejected on medical grounds, with a warm hug, she reassured him he could help defeat Hitler by doing the Army’s admin, and so, he learned to type. In October 1942, Derek enrolled in a Pitman course on nearby Southampton Row, but by Christmas, he had quit.

Marion was exasperated, exhausted and alone. She had tried everything and everything had failed. Even his modest weekly allowance of 12 shillings, which - although not much - was enough to give him some independence. But where-as once, as a boy, he’d spend the lot of sweets, now, as a man, he’d blow the lot on booze, making him deaf, delicate, socially-awkward and also drunk.
To Marion - as a devout teetotaller - that was a step too far, and fearing she had lost control, she did the only thing she could do; she stopped his allowance, and – for the last time - the cocoon was shut.

And that’s how it all began? Not as a bitter battle over an inheritance. Not as a long-standing feud over love. And not owing to a slow descent into drugs and drink. And even though (it is said) that Derek had been brain-damaged; he didn’t suffer with headaches, visions and never heard voices; he was never violent, cruel or committed a crime. He was just… quiet.

It all began as a simple spat over a few pennies, between a loving mother and her slightly unruly son, as she tried to protect him from harm, as he tested the boundaries of his new-found freedom. It was an argument, which every parent, has with their child, every day. And resulted in a very normal murder.

Three days before Christmas, like a marvel to the art of multi-tasking, Marion managed to find the time to establish the St George’s Club at 62 Great Cumberland Place; a small social club for members of the armed forces, which - as a proud and patriotic woman – she did as her bit for the war-effort. And although it kept her busy, it also provided her son with a good job, a regular income and allowed her to keep him busy and close. It seemed like the perfect solution to a small problem… but it wasn’t.

Wednesday 30th December 1942 was Marion’s last day alive. And yet, like most parents, her morning had begun like any other, as being late for work, she impatiently banged on the bathroom door.

It started as a simple squabble over the usual; her son having hogged the hot water, made a mess and failed to flush, that’s all. But somewhere in their war or words, Marion hit a nerve – as having merely mentioned that the club’s nightly takings were a little light – their sparks erupted into a scuffle, and in a truly rare moment of anger (which shocked them both) Derek struck his mother and stormed out.

She wasn’t injured, cut or bruised, if anything, she was just disappointed. An hour later, he apologised.

If she’d been hit by any other employee, they’d have been sacked. If they’d been as disorganised at their duties, they’d never have been hired. But having kept her boy on the pay-roll for ulterior motives, after one week, Marion’s patience was tested, and as she chatted to the club’s barman about this possible financial error, her face said it all, her trust had been lost. Derek saw this, and stormed out.

Between 9pm and 11pm, at the New Inn public house at nearby Marble Arch, Derek sat alone, fuming, as he necked back four pints of mild ale, which was odd, as he hadn’t been paid.

At a few minutes after 11pm, with the club closed for the night, Marion returned home. With the blackout blinds drawn and every light off, the flat was inky black, and although (just hours earlier, it was here that Marion and Derek had fought) its silence was eerie, as there was no sign of her son.

As was her usual routine, Marion readied herself for bed; on the sofa she dumped her gloves, purse and shopping bags; as it was cold, she slipped on a bathrobe, a nightie, a woollen vest, a set of booties and scarf; to distract her mind, she sat at the kitchen table, her spectacles on, doing the crossword; and then, with slumber looming, she popped the kettle on the hob, and beside it, a hot-water bottle.

At 11:20pm, Derek returned. And although their tiny flat was filled with a tense trepidation; no words were said, no tuts were uttered and no looks were exchanged, so seeing that his mother was already dressed and ready for bed, Derek went straight to his bedroom and popped on his pyjamas.

On his bed lay her brown attaché case; in it were the club’s cash boxes, which she’d bring home every night. But it wasn’t what it was, what it contained, or where it had been placed which made Derek smile, but what it meant. As still being trusted to count the club’s takings, this wasn’t just her money, it was a symbol of trust, a reconciliation, and one last chance.

With his pad and a pencil, Derek set about counting the cash. It didn’t take him long, not just because he was eager to please his mum - whose pale drained face beamed with pride from the doorway - but with the club being new, the takings were only small, and amounted to the paltry sum of just £2. And yet, as she slowly sidled up, to thank her son, she smelled the stale stench of booze on his breath.

And that’s all it took; an accusatory sniff, an exasperated sigh and a withering look; the disappointed eye-roll of a frustrated mother whose trust had been lost, but it was enough to make Derek snap. 

With a vice-like grip, the loose pale skin of her wrinkled neck folded over his forefingers as both of his hands squeezed her throat tightly; his thumbs embedded into her windpipe, so deep, they cut-off her air and her screams, as standing over her, with wide staring eyes, her baby boy loomed large. And as her swollen tongue protruded from her pulsating purple face, with her blue lips agog, like her last ever words were trapped in the midst of a silent scream, as her whole world slowly went black…

…Derek let go.

Marion gasped for air, gulping down great mouthfuls of oxygen, as her pallid complexion returned.
In court, Derek described this as “a moment of temporary insanity”, he just “wanted to frighten” his mother, and frightened she was, but as he stormed out of the bedroom, he knew he’d done wrong.
Having taken the wailing kettle off the hob, as a small boy dressed in striped pyjamas, Derek stood in the kitchen; his breathing staggered, his eyes flooded with tears, as being both terrified and ashamed of the truly awful act which he’d done to his mum with his own two hands, hearing her sobs echo from the bedroom, to steady his nerves, Derek decided to fix himself a lime juice and ginger ale.

And as he opened the cutlery drawer, his quivering hand hovering near to the bottle-opener, behind him, in the bedroom, he heard the distant crinkle of notes and the faint clink of coins being counted, as his mother checked the cash-box for theft. And in that instant, Derek went from shame to rage.

With her back to the bedroom door, she didn’t hear her son return. With her head facing the bed, she couldn’t see him rush up behind her. And being so focussed on counting the club’s nightly takings, Marion did see that in the hand of her baby-boy had he held a four-inch black-handled kitchen knife.

The first thing she felt was a hard thump like she’d been punched in the back, the force having shoved her forward into the bed, and feeling a warm trickle as blood ran down her spine, as she turned, and saw her own knife (last used to slice spuds) sunk deep in her back, right up to the handle, as her left lung slowly pooled with blood, Derek retracted the blade, and stabbed his mother again.

The second stab wound sliced one inch deep into purple skin of her bruised neck, severing her larynx, and with the pleural cavity of her left lung now collapsed, being unable to breathe as she chocked on her own blood, Marion slipped into shock, frozen in fear, as slowly she began to bleed to death.

And having turned to look into the eyes of her killer, the last sight Marion saw was her own son; as with his hand held high, gripping a bloodied knife, with every ounce of hate, spite and hurt, he stabbed her once, in the face, slicing open her lower lip and chin, right down to the jawbone. And moments later, 61 year old Marion Lees-Smith - mother of Derek - was dead. (END)

At 9:15am, the next morning, Marion’s body was found by their housekeeper. The crime scene wasn’t difficult for Detective Inspector Clare to deduce; as with one dead body, an empty cash box, a locked door, her son missing, his fingerprints on the knife and his blood splattered pyjamas soaking in the sink, having being seen by the night-porter walking out of Bryanston Court barely minutes after her screams had died, with Derek as the Police’s only suspect, his description was issued to all stations.

With £2 in his pocket, Derek finally got the freedom he had dreamed of… but with those few stolen notes adding up to little more than £90 today, by 6:30pm, being broke, sober and totally distraught, he handed himself in, stating in a mumbled stutter “The only thing I can say at my trial is I am guilty”. Except, he didn’t.

On 16th March 1943 in a two-day trial at The Old Bailey; a tearful Derek pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. And with neither the defence nor the prosecution protesting the findings, with two doctors having confirmed he had a psychopathic personality disorder, an erratic heartrate and abnormal brain-waves consistent with an undiagnosed brain injury, when he fell from a pram aged two, the jury retired for just 1 hours and 40 minutes before they returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty… but insane.

In a statement (spoken by his solicitor) Derek said “I am very sorry I did this awful thing… I have done the greatest of harm by disposing of my best friend in life”.

Derek was sentenced to be detained at His Majesty’s Pleasure which he served at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison. And although the protective cocoon of loving mother was created to shield her deaf, delicate and socially-awkward son from danger, for the sake a paltry sum, this one night of freedom left Marion dead and Derek trapped inside a very different kind of prison… forever.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Outlines and Unseen Podcast. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Mark Williams and Alison Lee. As a big thank you, I’m donating to both of you, one of my livers, split in two. And it’s up to you what you do with it; either you can sell it, give it to a donor, grill it, fry it, sauté it, or – given that’s it’s only 10% blood but at least 90% neat Jack Daniels – I’d drink it. Go on, treat yourself.

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archive.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
  

• Waiting by Peter Rudenko
  
• Piano Song 2 by Cult With No Name
• NEvrAGN featuring Mutate-loopool by Ars Sonor
• Ennui by Lee Rosevere
• FTmiSTK featuring The Implicit Order by Ars Sonor
• Sopor by Kai Engel

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Shanghai Nanjing Road - https://freesound.org/people/Unice.ys/sounds/100647/
  
• Lu Xun Weirdness - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/192242/
• Air Raid Siren - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/179606/
• Shanghai - https://freesound.org/people/taurindb/sounds/136051/
• Horse & Carriage - https://freesound.org/people/dobroide/sounds/111211/
• Horse & Carriage 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Sirderf/sounds/333679/
• Car Horns - https://freesound.org/people/allthingssound/sounds/424918/
• Car Horns 2 - https://freesound.org/people/toiletrolltube/sounds/175847/
• Studdebaker Start  -https://freesound.org/people/lonemonk/sounds/201988/

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode forty-two of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. And now, a short message from our sponsor.

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(Speedy): Murder Mile cannot be held liable for any lack of sex with Tom Hardy, willy growth or anal fun, everything you just heard was a lie, nothing was a fact, none of what I just said can be proved especially in a court of law, and if it did work, the host of this show wouldn’t be fat, bald and pathetic. (off) Thank you for your support and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about David West; two David Wests in fact; a father and a son, with Dave Snr being a self-made millionaire and Dave Jnr being the future heir to his empire, and yet, it wasn’t greed which ruined their lives, but a strange (and very familiar) kind of love.

Murder Mile contains satire, upsetting details which may make the uneasy go “urgh” and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 42: The Death of David West by David West.

Today I’m standing in Ormond Yard, just off Piccadilly Circus, SW1; one road west of St Alban’s Street where Greta Hayward narrowly escaped being the next victim of The Blackout Ripper, one tube stop south of the murder or suicide site of film star and boxer champion Freddie Mills – coming soon to Murder Mile – and (oddly) we’re back in the same street and the same building where the bungling assassins of Russian dissident Alexander Litvinenko left traces of highly radioactive Polonium 210.

Situated at the rear of Jermyn Street, a haughty little back-street famed for its pointlessly pretentious art galleries, dusty musty bookshops, expensively bog-standard bistros, and a slew of bespoke tailors who’ll fawn over you if you’re famous, suck up to you if you’re a soap star, with a need to have their lips surgically removed from your anus if you’ve ever been on telly, and yet – with locked doors, alarmed windows and their noses perpetually set to ‘snooty’ – the second you walk in, they’re more likely to call the cops if (like me) you’re a nothing but an unknown cretin.

Whereas Ormond Yard is just a yard, an off-street, a dead-end; and being barely 250 feet long by 15 feet wide, with an odd mix of non-descript buildings, it looks more like the service entrance to a chain-store than a posh place to plonk your bot. But that’s the point, as although these multi-million pound pads are full of actors, writers and designers, all hiding in vague anonymity, it was here, in the middle of Ormond Yard, on the evening of Friday 12th December 2014, that a gregarious, loud and garishly dressed self-made millionaire called David West was brutally stabbed to death, by his own son. (INT)

Born on 14th March 1944, in the struggling market town of Romford (in Essex), David John West (known as “Dave”) was raised in poverty, as after five years of war-time rationing and with eight years of starvation and malnutritian still to come; back when tap water lacked purity, savings were a rarity and fresh fruit was a scarcity, Dave lived in a drab grey world, devoid of colour, health and wealth.

Stuck in a hand-to-mouth existence; weak with hunger, shamed by his threadbare clothes and limited by a basic education, although he came from nothing, Dave was determined never to be poor, ever again.

In 1962, as an ambitious but unskilled 18 year old, Dave enlisted in the British Merchant Navy, where he sailed the seas to far-flung regions of the East and West Indies, and although his stint was brief, it peeled open his eyes to a new world of opportunities, lit a raging fire under his feet, and fuelled his desire for travel, money and food, but first… there was fruit.

Returning to his roots, for several years, Dave ran two market stalls in Brentford and Romford, and as a larger-than-life character; whose loud shirts were as gaudy as his fruit, who dripped in the tacky gold chains and sovereign rings of a poor man who wore all of his wealth - but had the ever-expending waistline of a rich man who ate well, drank heartily and never let anything go to waste - working every hour, of every day, Dave was a natural born entrepreneur, who was determined to be a success.

In 1969, aged 25, being recently married to his pregnant wife (Kathy), Dave opened a small café in the Belgian village of Zeebrugge, serving chip butties and greasy fry-ups to throngs of British day-trippers who flocked to the newly built ferry port with empty-bags and bulging wallets, eager to stock-up on cheap booze and duty-free fags. And although it started small, it was here that an empire was born.

Being a business which began in a caravan, by the mid 1980’s, having relocated to a vast warehouse in the larger ferry port of Calais on the French coast, Dave had opened Europe’s largest British owned cash-and-carry called Eastenders, which sold budget booze in bulk, cheap fags by the bag, £1 bottles of wine, and quickly made Dave a multi-millionaire who was hailed as “King of the Booze Cruise”.

Life was good; Dave was rich beyond his wildest dreams, with a vast business empire, a £2.5 million house, a Rolls Royce, and a wardrobe full of bright pink suits, crocodile-skin shoes and chunky solid gold chains. He was married, happy and healthy with three lovely children. His first born was a boy, who he named David, after himself, and although he was eager that his son would enter onto greatness having inherited his empire… even though Dave Junior was deeply devoted to his dad, his notoriety would be as his father’s killer. (INTERSTITIAL).

Born on 21st August 1970, David West Jnr known as “Little Dave” was the spitting image of his father; squat, sweaty and spud-headed, but a good lad with a big heart. And unlike most millionaire son’s, he wasn’t spoilt, rude or nasty, and never took anything for granted, as with a lot resting on such a tiny set of shoulders, just like his father, Little Dave would learn every nuance of the family business from the ground up, with lots of heavy lifting, long hours and very little pay.

As a deliberately difficult and deeply divisive figure, Big Dave was described in a myriad of different ways; to some he was a maverick, a rebel and a trouble-maker, and to others he was brash, flashy and crass, and although some men might take those words as an insult, to Big Dave (who - as a part of his keenly crafted image of a “Essex barrow-boy turned business tycoon” - courted controversy) this was a compliment. And always, at his side, thought thick and thin, stood his beloved son.

In 1999, Kathy and Dave’s thirty-year marriage ended in divorce, when the fifty-five year old pink-suited, gold-chained and mullet-haired lothario started an affair with blonde French waitress, thirty-one years his junior and a full four years younger than his own daughter. And although the family were devastated by the break-up, by his side - no matter what - was his son.

Big Dave didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him; he was his own man, a self-made millionaire with no-one to answer to but himself, and as he worked hard and played hard, the richer he got and the less he cared. His lived by this motto “my money, my rules”… and if you didn’t like that, tough shit.

In 2001, two years shy of his sixtieth birthday, Big Dave ditched his 23 year old French girlfriend and shacked-up with a 21 year old Polish dancer called Jo. And although he could easily assuage her expensive tastes by lavishing this new “love of his life” with money, jewels and minks; as a sixty-one year old fat, sweaty and unattractive grandfather; with a Del Boy demeanor and a laughably gaudy dress-sense, who puffed, wheezed and cavorted on the dance floor with a dolly-bird one third his age, before too long, Big Dave was snubbed by most of Mayfair’s exclusive private member’s clubs.

The rejection was a bitter blow… but Big Dave was not a quitter, he was fighter. As a starving war-time child, who was shamed by his ragged clothes and his limited education, he’d fought back to become a businessman. As a British barrow-boy who barely spoke one word of French, he’d created a cash-and-carry empire in Calais. And now, being shunned by the London elite, Big Dave was going to stick it to the establishment, and with his ethos of “my money, my rules”, Calais’ very own “King of the Booze Cruise” became “King of the West End”. And as his business expanded, Little Dave became his partner.

In May 2005, the father-and-son team opened their first nightclub called HeyJo, in the basement of 91 Jermyn Street with a back entrance at 6-7 Ormond Yard. It was tacky, gaudy and vulgar, a true assault on the senses, an affront to decency and an insult to good taste; with mirrored walls, pink frilly booths, red velvet sofas, urinals shaped like lips, gold-plated taps modelled after his own erect penis, and sexy waitresses dressed as naughty nurses, all serving his own brand of house wine, smuttily titled with labels like ‘The Dog’s Bollocks’ and ‘Ménage et Trois’, HeyJo was just the way Big Dave wanted it.

And although the Jo had long-since gone, the new “love of his life” was his club. And as a stiff middle finger to the stuffy stuck-up Mayfair club-scene, it quickly became a success, and was swiftly followed by several more venues, including a lap dancing club called Puss In Boots, a strip bar called Mandy’s, a nightclub called Pigale, and an equally gaudy restaurant, above Hey Jo’s, called Abracadabra.

By 2007, heavily aided by his loyal and devoted son, David West Snr had amassed a vast cash-and-carry empire, several West End nightclubs, a personal fortune of £100 million, and being listed in the Sunday Times Rich List as one of Britain’s wealthiest men, Big Dave was on top of the world…

…with nowhere to go, but down.

In contrast; when Big Dave lived in his luxurious £2.5 million house at 8 Ormond Yard, right next door to HeyJo, when he wasn’t working (which was rare) his son crashed in a modest two-roomed flat above the nightclub, which he rented off his dad; when Dave Snr was worth £100 million, Dave Jnr was paid a paltry wage of £500 per week; and as his father neared retirement age, although his son had dedicated the bulk of his life to their business, Dave Snr saw his thirty-five year old partner, as nothing more than a little boy.

Although it is said that he truly loved his son, as a father, Dave Snr was not a big softie full of cuddles, kisses or kind words, or even encouragement, advice or support, but was a firm believer in tough love, and with Junior having never received a “thank you”, a “well done”, or heard “I’m proud of you”, being eager to prove his worth, Little Dave knew that their next venture would be his biggest test yet.

Just above HeyJo, on the ground floor of 91 Jermyn Street, with a back entrance at 6-7 Ormond Yard, stood Abracadabra. But this would be more than just a fancy West End restaurant sat amongst several stuffy eateries, this would be another fuck-you by David West to high-society and the establishment.

Everything about Abracadabra was deliberately wrong, ludicrous and deeply offensive, and just like HeyJo, this 150 seat restaurant was a monument to bad taste, which revelled in stirring-up a shit-storm and making those uptight hoity-toity talk, as (in Dave’s eyes) there’s no such thing as bad press.

Described by one reviewer as like eating “an overpriced McDonald’s in a brothel”, Abracadabra served everything from the finest Russian caviar, Maine oysters and Brazilian lobsters, to cheap slop like pizza, pasta and burgers; swigged down with all kinds of posh plonk from a £29000 bottle of Cristal to a £20 bottle of Blue Nun, which diners digested amongst a décor so gaudy, it was impossible not to puke.

Everything was either harlequin themed, mismatched or out-of-place; with an eye-watering mosaic of reds, blues, yellows and greens on every wall, door and floor; with burly doormen dressed as court jesters, chairs spray-painted gold like lavish thrones, table lamps like sexy legs in stockings, a giant Santa Claus carved from chocolate, and every square inch crammed full of images of naked ladies (like there had been an explosion in a teenage boy’s bedroom), as well as love booths, prick taps, lips pissers and tables which flipped-over to reveal kinky S&M bondage gear, just the way Big Dave wanted it.

And although unconventional, Abracadabra was a roaring success, and having sweated, wept and bled over the restaurant, Little Dave felt he had done his dad proud… but if his dad was, he didn’t show it.

As a man who always got his own way; age, Ill-health and an excess of alcohol had made Big Dave both bitter and belligerent, and where-as (after thirty years of working together) Junior still believed they were a father and son team, but in truth, he was treated less like the heir to the empire and more like the hired-help, who was there to be used, abused, insulted, humiliated and (ultimately) sacked.

Big Dave was a drunken bully with a short fuse, a quick temper and a viscous tongue, which could reduce even the toughest of men to tears, and although he was never physically violent, for every hour, of every day, for (what would become) four and a half decades, he belittled his son, branded him a failure, poured scorn on every success, and – most hurtful of all for Little Dave, coming as it did from the man who he loved, his hero, his flesh and blood – his own dad deemed him a disappointment.

And after too many years of slogging his guts out, earning a pittance and ending a long day by carrying the bloated twenty-five stone comatose bulk of his paralytic papa to bed, as he was too pissed to climb the stairs; soon enough, the pressure, the pain and the hurt got too much, and Little Dave walked out.

One year shy of his seventieth birthday, although he was too proud to admit it, Big Dave was a mess. He was alone, frail and broke; and after half a century of heavy boozing, reckless spending and with the world being five years into an economic recession; Mandy’s was struggling, Puss in Boots had shut, Pigale was sold, his entire cash-and-carry empire had collapsed, and like giant garish leeches, both HeyJo and Abracadabra had brought him to the brink of bankruptcy.

And as much as he hated his dad, for the way that he had been treated and for what he had done, his son still loved him, and needing to save his frail and feeble father, one year later, Little Dave returned…

…but nothing had changed.

Having grown angry with age and bitter with booze, as his devoted son struggled to balance the books, being too stubborn to relinquish any power, Big Dave drank away what little profits they had, and – almost as if he was too terrified of being usurped by his own son – everything they had created, he ran into the ground. And what began as a family business, soon ended with no business and no family.

The last bitter battle of the two David Wests occurred on the afternoon of Friday 12th December 2014.

Ormond Yard was deathly quiet, which was odd, as being the second-to-last Friday before Christmas, their garish harlequin-themed restaurant should have been abuzz with pissheads at office parties, but the street was ominously empty. And with no lights, no tree and no tinsel, just a depressed doorman dressed as a jester who stood guard outside of the bright pink façade of Abracadabra, although such a striking image was designed to be shocking, bold and silly – as if a six-year-old girl had defaced an old pub with a tin of pink paint in tribute to My Little Pony – now it just looked sad.

Inside was no different, as nine years on; with its paint peeling, its décor drab and much of its sparkle gone, although a slew of tacky Christmas tunes played, in this garish eatery there was no festive cheer, seasonal joy or high jinks, in fact the only spirits were those consumed in abundance by both David’s.

It began over a set of missing keys. Only they weren’t missing, they’d just been misplaced. And by 4pm, as Big Dave drunkenly scolded his son for something which wasn’t even his fault, a furious row erupted, which ended with the son flinging the keys at his father’s face, and then, he stormed out.

For a whole hour they sat apart; alone, drunk and fuming, with Big Dave in Abracadabra and Little Dave in his flat, just one floor above, with neither willing to see eye-to-eye, to back-down or apologise.

One hour later, desperate to make-peace with his dad, Little Dave returned to the restaurant. But the old man hadn’t softened, and having necked-back the best part of a bottle of vodka; as the fat bloated man, in a garish pink suit, sat on a gold spray-painted throne, and spat hurtful curses - like “failure”, “leech” and “useless” - in his boy’s tearful face, with never a “thank you”, those forty-five years of hard-work came to a crushing end, as David West Junior, heir to the empire, was sacked by his dad.

The last recorded words ever said between the two David West’s was this; in a rare outburst Little Dave shouted “go f**k yourself” as he hurled a glass of vodka, which smashed a mirrored wall behind his father’s head, and as he marched out he shouted “I hope you drink yourself to death”.
Being heartbroken, hate-filled and hurt by his hero, as he slugged back several whiskies, Junior began to pack his bags, as - for the very last time - he would leave his flat, his future and his father forever.

Just shy of 6pm, Big Dave had drunk himself into a senseless stupor, and as the bitter alcoholic rambled and seethed, being surrounded by a handful of paying patrons, thinking it best that he sleep it off, his assistant (aided by a doorman jester) carried the former “King of the Booze Cruise” home.

From a window, one floor above Abracadabra, Little Dave spied a pathetic sight, as the fat stumbling legs of his frail and feeble father buckled under his sweating and wheezing bulk, as - even with two aides - the intoxicated selfish mess (who was once a self-made millionaire) struggled to stagger even a few feet. And seeing his chance, Little Dave decided to have-it-out with his dad once-and-for-all.

Strangely, although Abracadabra (at 6-7 Ormond Yard) was a garish pink eyesore, the epitome of its owner’s exuberance, just to the left, at number 8, although this was where Big Dave lived, the house was uncharacteristically bland; all brown-brick, bare wood and a flat-front. And as Little Dave pushed open the stylish dark-green front door, on the bright white carpet, at the foot of the stairs, in a crumpled mess of pink and gold, it looked as if a clumsy drag-queen had dumped a bag of trash, but they hadn’t, that was his dad.

And as he stood there, looking down at his once great hero, lying slumped, drunk and comatose in a creased and sweating heap on the floor, although this frail old man was totally defenceless, inside his son stirred a bubbling rage as forty-five years of hate, abuse and humiliation spewed to the surface, as a history of hurtful words like ‘failure’, ‘leech’ and ‘useless’ bounded about his booze-addled brain.

Big Dave gasped, his blood-shot eyes popping wide, as a ten inch kitchen knife was plunged deep and hard into the billowing rolls of flab in his thick fat neck, slicing open his caustic throat which (too many times had) scorned his son, and as Little Dave retracted the blade, it severed his jugular vein.

And then, Big Dave gasped again, as still being angry, his spurned son stabbed the full length of the stainless steel blade deep into his father’s flabby chest, and (like a shocking piece of garish art in one of his truly tacky nightclubs) he left the handle sticking-out, embedded where once he had a heart.

With his last breath, David West Senior crawled into Ormond Yard, and as a pink suited man, with a ghostly white face, lying in a sticky puddle of red, before too long, he was dead. (END)

Conflicted by a cocktail of revenge, remorse and regret, Little Dave called the Police and confessed to his crime, stating "I would like to admit to a murder. I've just killed my father". And although, as the tearful man was arrested, being clearly wracked with a mix of guilt and glee, he couldn’t help but admit "I'm glad he's dead, but the thing is, I should have kicked the fuck out of him before I killed him".

On the 1st September 2015, nine months later, the trial was held at The Old Bailey. And although, blood was found on his clothes, his fingerprints were on the knife, and 45 year old David West Junior had confessed to the Police, in writing, that he had killed his father, he pleaded not guilty to murder.

With the first jury unable to reach a decision, a second trial was held, and the West family keen to put a permanent end to their pain, on Monday 9th November 2015, the prosecution accepted a plea of being guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of loss of control and diminished responsibility. And in a relationship between father-and-son, which was described as “toxic”, the recorder Nicholas Hilliard QC stated “it’s clear you suffered verbal abuse and aggression from your father for many years”. David West Junior was sentenced to thirteen and a half years in prison. He will be out in 2028, if not sooner.

And of the £100 million fortune? By the time of his death, David West Snr had just £131,000 left in his bank, and – although he’d began as an Essex barrow-boy who became one of Britain’s wealthiest men – having blown-the lot; his empire, his estate and his son’s inheritance was worth… nothing.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, we’ve got some Extra Mile goodness after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are In Sight and Strictly Homicide. (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you this week to my new Patreon supporter; only one this week, but it’s about quality, not quantity right? And all Patreon supporters are quality (he says, in a non-arse-licky way). This week’s Patreon is Hayley Clarke. Thank you Hayley. I hope that this week is full of joy, wealth, health and happiness for you, and that – miraculously – your name and probably a question you have on your mind appears in Extra Mile. I don’t know how, maybe I’m psychic?

 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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using news articles (listed below) as the original police investigation files have not been declassified.

• https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-34118564
  
• https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2008/apr/06/foodanddrink.shopping
  
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/dec/15/david-west-nightclub-son-accused-murder
  
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/nov/09/david-west-jailed-for-killing-bullying-tycoon-father
  
• https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/11837703/Son-of-booze-cruise-magnate-David-West-murdered-him-after-being-kicked-out-of-family-business-court-hears.html
  
• https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-34764029
  
• https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/son-jailed-for-stabbing-to-death-his-nightclub-owner-father-david-west-a3110241.html
  
• http://www.murdermap.co.uk/pages/cases/case.asp?CID=902256548&VID=1120&Case=Father-and-Son:-David-West
  
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/sep/02/london-tycoon-david-west-controlled-son-accused-of-murdering-him
  

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)

• Play the Hook and Leave by Steve Coombs
  
• Start It Again by Cult With No Name
• Western Shores by Phillip Weigl
• Between by Mayden
• I Thought of Pills by Lee Rosevere
• The Fall by Peter Rudenko
  
• Now You Are Here by Sergey Cheremisinov
• No More Suffering by Parvez Decree
  

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Windy Day - https://freesound.org/people/soundmary/sounds/196667/
  
• Rolling Can - https://freesound.org/people/cower/sounds/185369/

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

(Quick) Hello. This is episode 41 of Murder Mile. So, basically, three guys called Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt robbed a jewellers on Charlotte Street, beat-up its owner, did a runner, some bloke got shot and because no-one knew which robber had killed him, as a deterrent to any criminals, all three men were found guilty of murder, one was imprisoned, two were executed (even though only one of them had fired the fatal shot), and this case sparked a big old hoo-hah which eventually lead to the abolition of the death penalty in Britain. Okay, that’s it, well, thanks for listening. Bye-bye. (white noise)

What? Why are you still there? Oh, you want to know more? Oh, well, that’s strange, you see, normally – when this story is told - people only focus on those three little details; how young the robbers were, how their double-hanging failed to deter any future gangsters and how the execution of at least one innocent man sparked a debate which put an end to capital punishment, in our country, forever, so I really don’t know what else I can tell you… except the truth… and all of the pieces, that every article, ever written, about the case of Geraghty, Jenkins & Rolt has failed to tell you about this whole bloody case, and I warn you now, it’s a lot. So strap in.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio… (voiceover) “no-no-no, fast-forward this shit, we’ve no time for waffle, yup, yup, yup, guided walk, blah-blah-blah, yup there may be bangs, there might be rude bits, yaddy-yaddy-yah, okay here we go”

RECORD AS NORMAL: …guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about The Charlotte Street Robbery; a bungled theft, an escape, a death and a double execution, and how one vital detail in the case is always overlooked. Murder Mile contains shocks, surprises and moments of satire, as well as loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. (Fast forward off)

Episode 41: The Forgotten Truth about the Charlotte Street Robbery.

Today I’m standing on the corner of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street in Fitzrovia, W1; four streets north of the Corner House café where Jacques Tratsart slaughtered his family, five streets west of Margaret Lowe’s home, where she became the third victim of The Blackout Ripper and two roads…

“You know what? Bollocks to this bit too. (Fast-forward) It’s basically just me, a Brummy, pretending to be posh (which I’m not), telling you how dull Fitrovia is (and it is), in a snarky sarcastic way and at a coma inducing speed. In essence, Fitzrovia is drab, grey and boring-as-hell; Charlotte Street has a nice bit and a crap bit, we’re in the crap bit, and even though the murder location at numbers 73-75 has been bulldozed into dust… twice, I’d still normally waste precious time waffling on about how the new building looks like its architect had a seizure whilst shoving stickle-bricks up his arse and how it’s now home to a sexual health clinic, which is a piss-poor excuse for me to insert several euphemisms for botts, foofs, plums and todgers), but not today. Right! That’s the bollocks over with, here’s the story…” (Fast-forward off)

As it was here, on Friday 29th April 1947, at Jay’s the Jewellers on the corner of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street, that a bungled robbery would bring the British legal system to its knees (Interstitial)

To get to grips with details of the Charlotte Street Robbery, of the many names you’ll hear in this case, the most important are these four; Geraghty, Jenkins, Rolt and Walsh:

Christopher James Geraghty; aged 20; tall, neat, surly; 5 foot 10, medium build, dark swept-back hair, prone to outbursts of anger and violence; criminal record includes a caution aged 11 for the theft of a torch, 3 years in borstal aged 16 for intent to rob with an offensive weapon, two escape attempts whilst locked-up, and 1 ½ years in borstal aged 18 for violence and robbery.

Charles Henry Jenkins; aged 22; short, scrawny, scruffy, 5 foot 8, slim build, brown ruffled hair, an odd grimace on his face, and an extensive criminal record from the age of 11, including shoplifting, trespassing, and breaking and entering, served 12 months in borstal for theft, 2 years for assault on a policeman and 15 months hard labour for shop-breaking and theft of a motor vehicle.

Terence John Fraser Rolt; aged 17; small, slim and baby-faced, curly brown hair, a short criminal history including being bound over for two years for shop-breaking and stealing cigarettes, and 18 months in borstal for loitering with intent to commit robbery and the theft of several pencils

And William Henry Walsh; aged 37, stocky, squat, talks like a proper Cockney gangster but lives in Plumstead (south east London), married with two children, a heavy-smoker, a teetotaller and a keen billiard player, with prior convictions for receiving stolen goods.

Four criminals; Geraghty, Jenkins, Rolt and Walsh; with Walsh as the fence, Rolt as the impressionable easily-led youth, and Geraghty & Jenkins being two petty hoodlums eager for some quick cash having been released from borstal barely one week prior. A few days later, three of the men would be charged with murder. So how did such a simple robbery go so badly wrong?

Well, you see, Jay’s the Jewellers at 73/75 Charlotte Street wasn’t their intended target; where things went awry was two days prior, at a very different jewellers 2 ½ miles west in Bayswater.

It was the afternoon of Wednesday 25th April 1947; the sky was thick, murky and grey, as dark formless clouds loomed large over Bayswater, and with Queensway being a semi-affluent street stretching from Hyde Park to Paddington with four storey townhouses, cafes and shops on both sides, as dull drops of good old British drizzle sprinkled the sparse throng of shoppers, parked across the street, three masked men were sat in a stolen Morris 10.

Their target was A B Davis Ltd, a small independent jewellers at 91 Queensway, tucked to the side of Bayswater tube station; they knew when to hit, what to grab and how to escape. And with the shop having been cased by a stocky Cockney two days before, this robbery was planned to perfection.

By 3:25pm, with the schools letting-out, the streets would be empty. Being staffed by just two men in their mid-to-late fifties, the jewellers had next-to-no security. Having stolen their getaway car less than one hour prior, even the owner didn’t know that his Morris 10 was missing. And being dressed in masks, gloves and dark vague clothes, the robbers would leave nothing behind to identify them.

The shop was tiny; 21 feet wide by 14 feet deep, with two long glass counters left and right, chock full of watches and rings; to the left was a watch-maker’s bench, at which sat 52 year old Herbert Colpus who chatted to Albert Barron, an engineer who was fixing the phone, to the right was the safe, and serving two customers - William & Betty Thompson (who were buying an emerald ring) – was 58 year old Stanley Coleman. And although the shop was busier than usual, as robberies go, this was only a three-man-job; with one to cover the staff, one to clear to cabinets and one to clean-out the safe.

Bursting through the double-doors, three armed men with their mouths masked by handkerchiefs and gripping black automatic pistols instantly turned the tranquil peace of this tiny jewellers into a chaotic noisy cacophony of shouting, shoving and confusion. ADD NOISES: “get over there”, “get down”, “you, against the wall”, “you, here”, “open it”, “open the safe”, “faster”, “hands up”, “don’t move”, “face the wall”, “stay where you are”, “you, shut it”, “don’t look at me”, “get the cash”.

Being terrified, William & Betty Thompson faced the wall, eyes-shut, heads-down. Albert Barron kept his hands held high, hoping to dear God he’d make it out alive, as with a rage-filled robber losing his rag, Herbert Colpus was violently shoved hard into a cabinet, smashing the glass - ADD NOISE “no, don’t shoot him” – as obeying the armed robber’s every word, Stanley Coleman opened the safe. With their bags filled, someone shouted “come on, come on, let’s go”, and just like that… they were gone.

And that was it; they were in and out in less than three minutes, no shots were fired, nobody died, no-one was seriously hurt and none of the robbers were identified. An hour later, a Morris 10 saloon, registration plate DDE750 was found abandoned on Bishop’s Bridge Road, by the Paddington arm of the Regent’s Canal. Its owner (Mr Harold Jackson Sandercock of Moscow Road, W2) was unaware that it had been stolen. And its three masked occupants simply vanished, having hopped on a number 36 bus and headed south to Victoria, with their fellow commuters being none-the wiser.

It was the perfect robbery… and although it wasn’t a big score; having nabbed twenty-six rings, four bracelets, one brooch and seventeen watches which totalled just over £4500, for three desperate men (barely out of borstal) and a stocky Cockney with a gambling problem, split four-ways, it was enough.

Except it wasn’t split four-ways, it was split two-ways, with Walsh taking half. The robbers had been robbed, by one of their own, and with three criminals being victims to a crime, who were they going to call, the Police? So being broke, hungry and furious, having been swindled out of their fair share of the loot; Geraghty and Jenkins set about robbing another jewellers, with Rolt, only this time, instead of remaining anonymous, this robbery would escalate their names into infamy. (INTERSTITIAL).

The plan was hatched in The Billet public house in Bermondsey (South London) on the morning of Friday 27th April 1947, just hours before the robbery itself, and although a bit rushed, the set-up was the same as before; Jenkins covers the staff, Rolt clears the cabinets and Geraghty cleans-out the safe.

With handkerchiefs as masks, a stolen get-away car and all three packing a revolver which Rolt had stashed in a bombed-out house on Fair Street, having swiped two 32’s, a 38 and a 45 from Frank Dyke & Co, a gunsmiths at 10 Union Street the Sunday before; the deal was done, the loot would be evenly split three-ways, and the boys went check out the target, which Jenkins said “was an easy job”.

At 12pm, all three men departed Shadwell tube station and took a westbound District line train, then a northbound Northern line train and arrived at Goodge Street tube station just shy of 1pm. As before, being eager to dump the getaway car and escape amongst the mass of commuters on the London underground, they’d already purchased three return tickets to Shadwell for six pence-a-piece.

Next-up, they needed a getaway car; and having found a suitable black Vauxhall 11 saloon, registration plate KPK 525, left outside of 56 Whitfield Street, just one road away, Rolt had no problem stealing it as in an less-security-conscious era before the roll-out of unique car ignition keys, Rolt knew that almost all Vauxhall 11’s were started by a single key marked as MRM11, which he had in his pocket.

And having briefly cased the joint, eyed up the loot in the window (worth about five grand) and swiped a brown-paper bag from a local grocers to stash their sparkly goodies, seeing that the shop was a little bit full of lunchtime punters, and feeling a tad peckish; Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt popped into a greasy-spoon café on Tottenham Street, to wait a while with a cuppa tea and a bacon sarnie.

The plan was simple; as before, they’d get in and out in less than three minutes, with no shots fired, no-one injured, nobody dead and none of the robbers identified.

Their target was Jay’s the Jewellers at 73/75 Charlotte Street, a diamond merchant and pawnbrokers on the junction of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street, just a two minute walk from Goodge Street tube; and although they’d never set foot inside the store before, had no knowledge of the layout, the safe, the staff or the security, by rehashing the Bayswater plan, they guessed it would be okay.

By 2:30pm, with the schools still an hour away from letting out, the streets were packed with parents. Being staffed by six people - some old and decrepit, some young and fit - the jewellers had more-than-adequate security. And being dressed in a bizarre array of brightly coloured masks, caps and coats, although we’ll never truly know who-was-who in this whole debacle, the robbers were easy to identify.

In short, Rolt was dressed in dark clothes; bafflingly Geraghty decided to commit an armed robbery wearing a bright blue overcoat with fetching red checks, a cheeky blue cap and a delightfully white silk handkerchief over his mouth; and although Jenkins’ cap and mask was as equally florid – more importantly – he wore a fawn coloured raincoat. So, as Rolt parked the getaway car on the corner, when Geraghty & Jenkins separately burst in, via its two entrances… instantly, everything went to pot.

The shop was a chaotic mess; as being spread over two floors, split into two separate rooms, both of which were subdivided into several separate sections; with its staff spread far and wide; with every cabinet locked, every door barred, every window alarmed and confusion being a big part of the store’s security as having been robbed on a regular basis, this time, the jewellers were prepared.

In the first room, the pledges department, nothing was on display; no gold, no silver, no bronze; just its 70 year old shop-manager – Mr Bertram Keates – sat inside a steel cage, behind by a wall of bars, and oblivious to the masked man stood in the doorway, as he was half-blind and almost totally deaf.

Next door, the sales department was no better; as although its gleaming cabinets were crammed full of watches, rings and sparkly things, here stood the bulk of the staff; youthful sales assistant Ronald Grout, two mid-twenties salesmen Alfred Ambrose and William Hazell and its owner Alfred Stock. And as both Jenkins and Geraghty stopped, gasped and recoiled, the plan went out the window.

Geraghty, with a gun in each hand, pointed his rusty .32 calibre Bulldog revolver at the startled staff, and – to get their attention – he fired a warning shot with his obsolete and antiquated Eley Maxim .45 calibre pistol, blasting a thumb-sized hole in the roof, as he dived over the glass counter, totally failing to spot that 17 year old Ronald Grout, had slipped out, and dashed into a nearby café to call the Police.

And once again, for the second time in two days, a West London jewellery store descended into chaos; ADD SOUNDS “hands up”, “don’t move”, “get down”, “don’t make a sound”, “shut it”, “open it now”, “stay down”, but amongst the sea of swirling confusion, it was the staff who had the upper-hand.

Having shoved the barrel of gun into Mr Keates’ wrinkled and rather bemused face, having screamed “open the cage” at the top of his lungs, with a dull buzz, Mr Keates let Jenkins in; and although he was rather old, mostly deaf and practically blind, Mr Keates fought back, and pummelled the masked man with his fists and feet, as in the ensuing scuffle, somewhere in the shop, Jenkins lost his gun.

An ear-splitting siren wailed as the staff hit the alarm. In panic, Geraghty fired a shot, narrowly missing the salesmen and blasting out a glass panel between the both rooms, and (seizing the chance) with the cabinet keys in hand, Ambrose and Hazell dashed out, into the safety of the New Scala restaurant.

The robbery was a total shambles; as with an unarmed Jenkins being duffed-up by an deaf pensioner, the cabinets locked, the keys missing, the staff scarpered, thick crowds having formed on Charlotte Street, all eager to get an eyeful of the criminal commotion, as having refused to open the safe, Geraghty angrily beat 64 year old Alfred Stock about the head with the thick metal butt of his gun.

And although, once again; the robbers were angry, bruised and empty-handed, hearing sirens, from the doorway, Rolt shouted to his comrades “come on, let’s go”, as the three masked men fled into their getaway car to make their daring escape. Or they would have done… had the car started.

Being notoriously unreliable, even with the right key, as Rolt struggled to turn over the ignition of the Vauxhall 11; with horns hooting, fists shaking and distant Police sirens growing ever louder, the street began to swell with the throng of angry people. And after several seconds of sweating, thumping and colourful curse-words, by the time that the stuttering engine finally fired-up, not only had a ten-tonne truck blocked the fleeing bandit’s escape, but as they tried to reverse, a second truck pulled up behind. Being trapped, they had no choice… but to run.

As Jenkins and Rolt bolted east down Tottenham Street, Rolt was roughly grappled to the ground by two passers-by, as behind him, having left Geraghty to fend for himself, an angry mob circled the heavily armed robber, wielding whatever came to hand, whether bricks, brooms or bottles. And as the shop’s bloodied owner - Albert Stock – staggered into the street screaming “Help! Police!”, his finger pointing to Geraghty; being swarmed by revving trucks, hooting buses and looming locals, as he tried to flee, roaring up Charlotte Street, a bright red motorbike blocked his path.

As Rolt kicked himself free by booting the heads of his grappling pursuers, although the sharp shock startled him, Rolt fled and didn’t look back, as behind him… he heard a loud bang.

One street over, on Torrington Place, Jenkins and Rolt darted into Brook House; stashed Jenkin’s black gloves, brightly coloured cap and easily recognisable fawn coloured raincoat behind a partition in a second floor storeroom, and hopped on a bus to the Strand, where Rolt flung his gun into The Thames, and both men disappeared into the crowded darkness of the London underground. And although he was pursued on foot, even Geraghty managed to escape, as the angry mob had dispersed, just seconds after he had shot a motorcyclist in the face. (END THEME)

The robbers had vanished; nobody saw their faces, nobody heard their names and nobody had left a fingerprint, so the Police investigation ground to a halt.

Then, eight days later, on 3rd May 1947, Mr Reginald Hyan, caretaker of Brook House in Torrington Place, found an easily recognisable fawn coloured raincoat speckled with blood, inside the pocket of which, the owner had left the tailor’s ticket, which led to known offender called Charles Henry Jenkins, and his known associates, Geraghty and Rolt,  

On 28th July 1947, after a six day trial at the Old Bailey, even though (throughout the robbery) each of the accused was heavily disguised, were never identified by witnesses, were unwilling to admit the truth, and as it was impossible to prove who had fired the fatal shot – even though Geraghty had confessed to the murder - 22 year old Charles Henry Jenkins, 20 year old Christopher James Geraghty and 17 year old Terence John Peter Rolt were all found guilty of assault, armed robbery and murder.

Classified as a minor, 17 year old Rolt was detained in prison at His Majesty’s Pleasure, but being just a few years older, on Friday 19th September 1947, as a deterrent to would-be criminals, both Geraghty and Jenkins were executed at Pentonville Prison. An innocent man had been hung, and by 1965, after many miscarriages of justice, the Death Penalty in the United Kingdom was abolished. (END)

(White noise) What? That’s it. Three angry guys robbed a jeweller’s in revenge for having been stiffed by a buddy, and in the course of a bungled robbery, someone got shot, and because the legal system couldn’t prove who had killed him, even though Geraghty was clearly the murderer, a crime which he had confessed to, Jenkins – as an unarmed and innocent man - was executed.

But then, as I said earlier, when this story is told, normally people only focus on those three little details; how young the robbers were, how their punishment failed as a deterrent and how the execution of an innocent man sparked a debate which lead to the abolition of the death penalty. And yet, no matter what way this story is told, Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt always come across as the victims.

But then, who was the real victim in this story? But of the many unnamed victims in this story, there’s one who always gets overlooked. If you blinked, you would have missed him, but if you’ll let me (rewind) I’d like to tell you his story.

On the morning of Friday 27th April 1947 - as three feckless halfwits called Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt readied themselves to steal from a store because they were too lazy, greedy and thick to hold down an honest job – 34 year old Alec de Antiquis; a former corporal in the Home Guard, a loyal husband to his wife Gladys and doting father to their six children, toiled away in his motorcycle repair shop.

The blitz had destroyed everything; his home, his work, his life, but being eager to put a roof over his family’s heads and food on the table, with limited funds and his own two hands, Alec rebuilt their cramped little home, and in a small structure, made of corrugated iron, to the side of the house, he built a workshop. And after two years of sweat, tears and stress, finally his hard-work was paying-off.

Described by locals and loved-ones alike as a man of excellent character; who was decent, honest and polite, with short dark hair, chestnut brown eyes and an eternally cheerful face, although Alec was barely five foot four, into that little body was packed a barrel-load of bravery. As in that month alone, he’d stopped a startled horse from running over a young boy, and had ran into a burning building to rescue a child, all of which he considered part of his duty as a good citizen.

That morning, having left their home at 186 High Street in Colliers Wood (South London), as a husband and wife team, Alec and Gladys would often ride from showroom to scrapyard across the city, building the business and making sales, with him on his motorcycle and her in the side-car, both dressed in matching leather helmets, but with their youngest son being sick with the flu, Gladys stayed at home.

At 2:32pm, being parked one block south of Jay’s the Jewellers on the junction of Charlotte Street and Scala Street, Alec was sat atop of his flame-red 1930 Indian Scout motorcycle, dressed in black leather boots, jacket and helmet, he had just two more sales to go, and then he would go home.

In the distance, he heard what sounded like a car backfire and thought nothing of it, but out of a two-storey brown-bricked building, one street north, a young boy dashed, his eyes wide with terror.

And then a second bang, from the same direction, swiftly followed by two suited men who sped by Alec shouting “call the Police, we’re being robbed”, as they dashed into the New Scala restaurant.
Slowly, as the traffic thickened, alarms wailed and an armed angry mob loomed large on the north-west corner of Charlotte Street, as three masked men dived into a waiting Vauxhall 11 with its engine stalled and spluttering, behind them staggered the shop’s owner, his face all bruised, his white shirt all bloodied, and his hand-built livelihood ruined by a gang of selfish thieves.

Being blocked by trucks and desperate to flee, with two decent citizens having wrestled one robber to the ground and the taller masked man now ready to run, Alec fired up his motorcycle, roared the bike up Charlotte Street and right outside of Jay’s, cut off the robber’s only space to escape.

Being stood face-to-face and barely four feet apart, although neither man had met before, Geraghty could have easily backed-up, climbed over or pushed by Alec, but he didn’t. As Alec was unarmed, his empty hands spread-wide to block the robber’s escape, and gripped in Geraghty’s hands was a .32 calibre Bulldog and a Eley Maxim .45 calibre pistol, with his plans having gone to pot and still being furious at his mate who’d stiffed him on the Bayswater job, seeing red, Geraghty shot Alec in the head.

Like a coward, Geraghty fled, having left his victim for dead.

Although unconscious and bleeding profusely from a 5 ½ inch oval and jagged bullet wound above his left eyebrow, Sergeant William Meldom attempted to administer first-aid at the scene, until at 2:47pm, when Alec was admitted to the Middlesex Hospital.

Being barely alive, with his blink reflexes absent, his breathing limited to deep raspy gasps and a bloody froth oozing freely from his purple lips, as the .45 calibre bullet had eviscerated his left corpus striatum (a key part of the brain critical for movement), being in a coma, as his brain bled uncontrollably, 34 year old married father-of-six Alec d’Antiquis died of his injuries just ten minutes later.

So angry was the outrage at these callous cowards who had left a decent family bereft of a father, a husband and its sole breadwinner, with Alec’s life insurance policy being a poultry £50, the Carnegie Hero’s Fund and the Daily Mail newspaper raised almost £6000 (roughly £225000 today) to purchase them a more suitable bungalow, Parliament awarded his widow an annual payment of £100 a year with £18 a year for each of his children, for his bravery, Alec was posthumously awarded the Captain Ralph Binney memorial medal, and for the full six days of the trial, at The Old Bailey, dressed in black, sat Gladys, silent and stoic, barely yards from the man who’d murdered her husband.

The real victims of the Charlotte Street robbery were Alec D’Antiquis, his wife and their children; and this was their story. (OUT)
 
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget, Extra Mile is after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is They Walk Amongst Us (PLAY PROMO)

A huge thank you this week to my new Patreon supporters, who were all very excited by the new Patreon goodies, which now include, badges, stickers, mugs, early access to Murder Mile episodes and a personal monthly video message from me. And so, to Michelle Wezenberg, Paige Spencer, Kim Harrison, Nicola Wells, Maria SlizI, Irena Zablotska, Stephanie Saloka, Jas Pearce, Donna Marie and Susan Atkins, I give you all a big e-hug. Come on, everyone get close. Ah yeah that’s nice. Hey! Who squeezed my bum? That’s not a Patreon goodie… yet.

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files at the National Archives.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)

• Traffic by Kai Engel
• Low Horizon by Kai Engel
• Delirium by Kai Engel
• Cold War Echo by Kai Engel
• Delirium by Kai Engel
• Yes People by Cult With No Name

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Cold Car - https://freesound.org/people/Robinhood76/sounds/171769/
• Squeaky Car Door - https://freesound.org/people/coltures/sounds/262325/
• Old Police Siren - https://freesound.org/people/CGEffex/sounds/121902/
• Old Car - https://freesound.org/people/produktes/sounds/321606/
• Old Car Starting in Winter - https://freesound.org/people/unfa/sounds/180031/
• Old motorbike - https://freesound.org/people/roman_cgr/sounds/415037/
  

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #40 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below.

Thank you for downloading episode forty of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. 

As a treat, this week, I thought I’d bring you something a little bit different. A true-story which doesn’t contain a murder, a manslaughter, a motive, a culprit, a killer or a crime. And although a dead body was found, strangely there was no autopsy, trial or investigation. On the surface, this may seem like the simple story of an unnamed man, who died lost, unloved and forgotten, and yet, his life and death lead to one of the most remarkable stories ever told. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Glyndwr Michael; a nobody, a nothing, a homeless man who became a hero, and although he saved my life, your life and all of our lives, 80 years on, his name his hardly known.

Murder Mile contains shocks, surprises and moments of satire, as well as loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 40: The Fascinating Life, Death and After-Life of Glyndwr Michael – The Corpse Hero

Today I’m standing… erm… somewhere; straight ahead is the rear of King’s Cross station, behind is the canal, to the left is the tunnel where the body of Sebastiano Magnanini was tied to a shopping trolley and dumped, where nearby two kids found the bits of Paula Fields, and ahead are three key locations in the life of The Camden Ripper - coming soon to Murder Mile - but exactly where I am is uncertain.

The appropriately named Goods Way was once one of London’s industrial hubs, as being perfectly positioned at the back of King’s Cross station and flanked by a wealth of warehouses, wharfs, grain-stores and even an ice-cellar; with its smoky sky crammed full of tall steel cranes, all carting tonnes of goods, to and from trains, onto long lines of rumbling trucks and chugging canal-boats, although Goods Way was once a big part of Britain’s economic lifeblood, today its industry has gone.

Where-as once Goods Way and Granary Square were dark dens of iniquity, where (having quaffed a pie and a pint) a workman would plunge his pathetic pecker into a prozzie’s clunge for ten bob bits and a yank on her tits; but having been recently ripped-up and poncified, now it’s so much nicer.

With its posh stone steps, outdoor artwork and wee-inducing water-features, the Granary Square of today is riddled with office arseholes, lazy lunchtime loafers and desk-bound dickheads in deckchairs, all sunning it up in the choking smog, as they scoff painfully pretentious sarnies packed full of (what is basically just) offal, seeds, weeds and old cheese, as it’s here that – without any hint of irony - the workplace wankers congregate to whore out their mouths to foodie fashion.

And where-as once, that kind of conduct was considered criminal, today the whole square swarms with open-mouthed idiots; all sucking on an artisan’s sausage, chowing-down on a clotted cream-pie, or squirting their gentleman’s relish across an over-stuffed kebab, whilst all the big knobs and fannies watch the Wimbledon tennis (on a stupidly sized screen) and fight the urge to “come on Tim”.

And although it’s a ridiculous place, it was here, on Tuesday 26th January 1943, somewhere, at the back of King’s Cross station, in an unknown derelict warehouse, that a hungry, broke and homeless man called Glyndwr Michael changed the world… forever (INTERSTITIAL).

The hero known as Glyndwr Michael started his remarkable life in truly inauspicious circumstances, as unlike those who legend says “are born with greatness thrust upon them”, being neither healthy, wealthy or educated, bold, brash or brave, from his first to his last breath, he didn’t stand a chance.

Born on 4th January 1909, in the dilapidated ground-floor flat of 136 Commercial Street; a two-storey brown-brick terraced house in the tiny mining town of Aberbargoed in the borough of Caerphilly (South Wales). As an illegitimate, illiterate and disabled child, born to an unmarried mother and a chronically ill alcoholic father, the odds were stacked against Glyndwr ever achieving greatness.

The early 1900’s should have been a time of great prosperity for the family, as with Aberbargoed being an industrial boom town and home to the ever-expanding Bargoed Colliery - a pit so prolific that by 1909 it became the largest coal mine in the Rhymney Valley and extracted a world record-breaking 4020 tonnes of coal in a single ten hour shift – the town was flooded with jobs, money and prospects, but as poverty and illness plagued the family, Glyndwr’s misfortune began before he was even born.

As a recent divorcee with two young daughters to feed, his illiterate and impoverished mother (Sarah Ann Chadwick) was forced to marry the first available unmarried man, simply to survive, and moved in with a 35 year old colliery haulier called Thomas John Michael. As a Welsh Baptist, a life-long coal-miner and a devoted father, Sarah had done okay, and although he would provide a modest income to his soon-to-be family of five and a small roof over their heads (in his tiny cramped one-roomed house at the rear of Dinas railway station), life would only get worse, as Thomas was not a well man.

Being riddled with syphilis; a sexual infection whose symptoms often begin with red rashes, seeping sores and festering legions on the mouth, genitals or anus, and end by spawning into the debilitating, disfiguring and deadly infection of the spine and brain called neurosyphilis, having gone untreated for more than a decade, Thomas passed this on, not only to Sarah, but also to their unborn son.

From birth, it was obvious that Glyndwr was different; as being crippled by a lack of coordination, confusion and concentration; with a severe weakness in his muscles, sight and movement; being constantly struck down by headaches, tremors and seizures, and debilitated by frequent bouts of depression, psychosis and early onset dementia; although he wasn’t classified as an invalid, for the rest of his life, he would suffer from the deformities in his bones, his eyes and his brain.

And so began the early life of Britain’s most unlikely hero – Glyndwr Michael.

Aged ten, as the eldest boy of five siblings, Glyndwr was forced to become a breadwinner, as his ailing father struggled to feed their ever-expanding family, but being disabled, barely literate and unfit to follow in him into the pit, Glyndwr took on any odd job which paid a penny, but it was never enough.

And as the starving family carted their few possessions from flea-infested flat to dingy derelict hovel - from prosperous towns like Aberbargoed and Taff’s Wells, to those on the fringes of economic failure like Rockwood Pit and Williamstown – being starved, ragged and unable to pay the rent, as the work dried-up, Thomas started to soak-up his sadness (and the little money they had) with alcohol.

By 1924, with their father, 51 year old Thomas being too sick to work, after three decades of his tired body being battered by alcoholism, syphilis and pneumoconiosis; a coal-miners disease which caused his lungs to rot, blood to be coughed-up and the left of his chest to collapse; being hungry and homeless, the seven members of the family were forced to squeeze into a single room at a charity hostel in Pontypridd for the county’s most desperate and destitute.

And as Thomas’ depression slowly spiralled to darker depths, just shy of Christmas 1924, fifteen year old Glyndwr watched as his thin, sickly and suicidal dad stabbed himself in the throat with a carving knife. And although he was barely a boy himself, with a broken body and a very fragile brain, Glyndwr had to commit his own father to the Glamorgan County Lunatic Asylum in Bridgend, where – having contracted both influenza and bronchial pneumonia - on 31st March 1925, Thomas John Michael died.

Having witnessed his father’s physical decline, mental collapse, suicide and death, all within the boy’s most formative years, as an impoverished boy, the only evidence that Glyndwr Michael even existed is his shaky signature scrawled in the burial register at Trealaw cemetery, as his father was interred in a pauper’s grave. But for Britain’s unsung hero, whose actions (are estimated to have) saved millions of lives, his own life was about to get even worse.

With his parents having never married, not only was Glyndwr cursed with by the stigma of illegitimacy and crippled by disability, but with his mother unable to receive any benefits befitting a widow, and the hostel they lived in going bankrupt as the country was gripped in an economic depression, with no savings or property, only debts, Glyndwr and his mother were forced to survive on charity.

And that’s how it remained for the next fifteen years; as being too poor to eat, too hungry to earn and too sick to work; trapped in a damp, dark and cramped backroom in a leaky cold coal-miner’s house at 135 Trealaw Road in the mining town of Tonypandy, lived a widowed mother and her disabled son.

But then, on 15th January 1940, aged 58, having suffered a heart attack, Glyndwr’s mother died; she was his rock, his world, his everything. He had nothing. He was a 31 year old mentally disabled man, with no parents to love him, no money to support him, no food to feed him and no home to protect him, and with all four of his siblings having married or moved-out, shortly after the burial of his beloved mother in a pauper’s grave in Trealaw cemetery, Glyndwr disappeared.

Between 16th January 1940 and 26th January 1943, for three whole years, Glyndwr simply vanished; no-one knows where he went, what he did, who he saw, or how he survived. I’d love to say that a Good Samaritan found him, saved him, trained him, and that’s how a disabled Welsh vagrant became a vital component in the allies winning World War Two, but it didn’t happen.

Ironically, barely months before his mother’s death, Glyndwr attempted to enlist in the British Army; to fight for King and country; to earn a decent living, to be fed a regular meal and to sleep in a warm and cosy bed, but (with a catalogue of disabilities) he was rejected on medical grounds.

For whatever reason, by the bitter winter of 1942, Glyndwr was living in London; dossing in doorways, begging for change and rummaging through bins, and as one of thousands of anonymous homeless drifters who struggled to stay alive in this badly-burned bombed-out city, by January 1943, Glyndwr Michael had finally reached rock-bottom and was lost, unloved and forgotten. And then, came the day that he would change world history forever. (INTERSTITIAL)

The evening of Tuesday 26th January 1943 was exceptionally cold, as a biting wind blew a thick blanket of icy snow across the city, which instantly hardened in the intense freezing frost. Being bitterly cold, wet, hungry and homeless, as the temperature dropped as low as minus ten, Glyndwr stumbled into an abandoned warehouse, at the back of King’s Cross station

After three years of isolation, malnutrition and infection, with his physical and mental health rapidly declining, and being crippled by a life-long hereditary infection which riddled his weak and weary body with tremors, seizures, migraines, depression, arthritis, blindness, psychosis, paranoia and dementia; being cold, hungry and confused, off the dusty floor, Glyndwr ate a few scraps of stale bread.

But this wasn’t a kindly gift left by a generous benefactor, or a piece of misplaced sandwich dropped by an already full night-watchman, but a trap for rats. And as Glyndwr sat, shivering in the shadows, swallowing the stale lumps of bread, he didn’t notice that the gooey residue slathered on top, wasn’t butter, jam or even dripping, but a paste laced with highly toxic white phosphorous.

Having mistakenly ingested mouthfuls of rat poison, as the deadly phosphide paste mixed with the hydrochloric acid in his gut and turned into clouds of highly toxic phosphine, the chemistry of his own body had begun to kill him. And as he lay on the cold and dirty floor of an unknown disused warehouse somewhere in King’s Cross; being wracked with cramp, fever and convulsions, as hot steamy vomit and smoking faeces spewed from his orifices as his bowel started to boil, with no-one knowing he was even there, not only was Glyndwr Michael lost, unloved and forgotten… but now he was dying.

After two days of writhing in excruciating agony, with his central nervous system poisoned, as slowly it began to shut-down his liver, his kidneys, his lungs and his heart, having been found, Glyndwr was rushed to the South Wing of St Pancras Hospital, just one street away, but having drifted into a coma, on Thursday 28th January 1943, 33 year old Glyndwr Michael was pronounced dead.

And with his heart silent, his brain empty and his blood cold, as rigor mortis set in and every ounce of life left his slowly decomposing body, his career as a war hero had only just begun.

In the bowels of St Pancras Hospital, hidden in the corner of its cold stone mortuary, Glyndwr Michael was one of several corpses brought in that day, in varying states of injury and decay, and although he was an unremarkable man, to the coroner Sir Bentley Purchase, he was perfect.

Unlike the other deaths, Sir Bentley didn’t give the dead tramp an autopsy. Unlike the other deaths, Sir Bentley didn’t inform the dead tramp’s family of his demise. And unlike the other deaths, (although entirely illegal) Sir Bentley falsified the death certificate, lied to the registrar, denied the dead tramp a burial, concealed the body and for the second time in the life of Glyndwr Michael… he vanished.

That evening, Sir Bentley Purchase made contact with two British intelligence officers; Ewen Montagu of the Royal Navy and Charles Cholmondeley of MI5 and excitedly said “I’ve found our man”.

And although Glyndwr Michael was mentally disabled, physically unfit, had no military training (having failed to enlist in the army on medical grounds) and even though he was already dead, he was about to embark on a secret mission, into enemy territory, in a truly audacious and daring scheme which would turn the tide of Second World War… and its code-name was Operation Mincemeat.

Operation Mincemeat began life on 29th September 1939, as a directive from the Director of British Naval Intelligence, Rear Admiral John Godfrey, to engineer a series of cunning ploys to deceive the Nazi’s and lure their ships either directly into allied minefields, or away from key strategic actions.

Of the thirty ideas concocted, number 28 (against which the author had written “a suggestion, not a very nice one”) was to give the Nazis access to deliberately misleading information, having concealed it on a dead body, dressed as a British officer and dumped in enemy waters. This rather grisly idea, it is believed, was written by Rear Admiral Godfrey’s personal assistant; a Lieutenant Commander who would later be more famously known for his spy novels, and his name was Ian Fleming.

By 1943, after the failure of Dunkirk, which saw the mass-evacuation of allied troops from the French coast and opened the door to a Nazi invasion of Britain, the Allies needed to re-enter Europe and regain the upper-hand. But with the bulk of Europe’s coastline being heavily defended by the Germans, the only logical point of invasion for the allies was Sicily, but everyone knew that, even Sir Winston Churchill remarked that "anyone but a bloody fool would know it was Sicily".

Nazi intelligence needed to be deceived and German troops rerouted, so Britain had to convince Hitler that an allied invasion was imminent, but not via Sicily, but 500 miles away in Greece and Sardinia. A deception was planned, Operation Mincemeat was born, and an unloved, lost and long-forgotten dead tramp from Welsh mining town of Aberbargoed would be the hero that our country needed.

Glyndwr Michael was perfect; he had no physical injuries, no medical scars and no obvious cause of death, as with the phosphine gas having dispersed, the strychnine in his hair being hardly traceable and with his lungs full of fluid (owing to pneumonia), given a cursory autopsy, the Nazis would assume he had drowned. So back in the St Pancras Mortuary, with his body kept at a steady four degrees Celsius, the life of Glyndwr Michael was erased, as he became Major William Martin.

In order to fool the Nazis, not only did Major William Martin need to have a name, a face and a body, but he also needed a life, and – for this daring deception to work – it needed to be one as real as any other persons, so Ewan Montagu and Charles Cholmondeley set about giving a dead man life.

Born in Cardiff in 1907, 35 year old Acting Major William Martin, known to his friends as “Bill”, was a recently promoted Captain in the Royal Marines, a rank senior enough to handle sensitive papers; he was five foot nine tall, with short dark hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and a slender physique more befitting a man used to desk-work than a war-zone. And being assigned to Combined Operations HQ, any queries about this fictional officer’s death would be instantly be passed to Naval Intelligence.

To legitimise his rank, Major William Martin was issued with a Royal Marines battledress, cut by Gieves & Hawkes (the military tailors at nearby Savile Row); complete with the appropriate badges, flashes, insignia, braces, gaiters, size 12 boots, a trench-coat and a beret; each piece of which was personally worn, every day, by Charles Cholmondeley to ensure that its wear and tear looked real.

With the devil being in the detail, Major Martin was decorated with what MI5 described as “pocket litter”; several pieces of small and seemingly unimportant fragments of everyday detritus which every person forgets they carry, but which completes the detail of a person’s ordinary life; such as a book of stamps, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, a set of keys, a silver cross, a St Christopher, a pencil, a receipt from Gieves & Hawkes for a new shirt, ticket stubs from a West End show, a bill for four nights' at the Naval & Military Club, a letter from his imaginary father, a note from his solicitor, a letter from Lloyds Bank demanding payment of his overdraft of £79 19s 2d; and even though Glyndwr was single, inside his wallet was a photograph and two love letters from his fictitious fiancée called 'Pam', and a receipt for £53 10s 6d, from S J Phillips of Bond Street, for a diamond engagement ring.

And finally, the most important piece – the letter.

To aid its authenticity, Lieutenant General Sir Archibald Nye personally composed a letter to General Sir Harold Alexander (commander of the Anglo-American 18th Army Group in Algeria & Tunisia). And although this two–page letter looked like a routine piece of correspondence between two high-ranking officers; hidden away, in a single paragraph, amongst a mess of everyday military waffle, were two very matter-of-fact sentences, which stated that with the Germans “strengthening their defences in Greece and Crete” that “…the 5th Allied Division should be reinforced by one brigade for the assault on the beach south of Cape Araxos and similarly for the 56th division at Kalamata”.

And that was it; barely thirty words, scrawled in a letter and hidden inside a briefcase, which would be chained to the arm of a dead (and entirely fictional) Naval officer, who had supposedly died in an air-crash and whose body would be found by the enemy floating in the sea, off the coast of Spain.

And given that diplomatic protocol denotes that any intercepted official correspondence must be returned unopened to its country of origin, to confirm if the document had fallen into enemy hands, inside they had placed a single eyelash. If it was missing? They knew that the Nazis had read the letter.

The plan was audacious, risky and ludicrous, but being so unbelievable was part of its brilliance.

Having been shaved, dressed and decorated with “pocket litter”, the body of Glyndwr Michael, under the alias of Major William Martin was packed into a vague metal container, loaded with nine and a half kilos of dry-ice, and filled with carbon dioxide to refrigerate and preserve the body.

On the 18th April 1943, having been loaded by Charles Cholmondeley & Ewan Montagu into the back of a non-descript black 1937 Fordson van with a V8 engine, through the night the metal canister was driven, at speed, by racing champion St John Horsfall, from King’s Cross to Greenock on the west coast of Scotland, where it was loaded on-board of an S-Class British submarine called HMS Seraph.

11 days later, at 4:15am, on Friday 30th April 1943, just off the port of Huelva on the south-west of Spain, as the dawn light glistened across a serenely calm sea, HMS Seraph surfaced. With the coast clear, the captain - Lieutenant Norman Jewell – and only his most senior of officers, placed the body of “Major William Martin” gently into the warm waters; a life-vest on, a black attaché case chained to his wrist and as the submarine’s propellers slowly pushed his dead body towards the shore, Lt Jewell read a passage from the 39th Psalm – (“hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear unto my cry; hold not thy peace at my ears: for I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner, as all my fathers were”) - as Glyndwr Michael floated into infamy.

At a little after 9:30am, four hours later, just off the beach of La Mata Negra, a local fisherman called Antonio Rey Maria spotted the body, dragged it ashore and notified the Spanish authorities, all under the watchful eye of Adolf Klaus; an unimaginative and easily duped German spy, living in Huelva.

And yet, Operation Mincemeat still had one massive hurdle to overcome; as having discovered a body, it was standard practice for the authorities to perform an autopsy to determine its cause of death, and any deviation from this would raise suspicions, but to any trained doctor, it would obvious that this body hadn’t been dead for three days, but three months, so the autopsy had to be rushed.

Luckily, having stored the corpse in a makeshift mortuary in Nuestra Señora cemetery for more than 24 hours; as two Spanish doctors examined it, finding no injuries, no scars and its lungs full of water, as the festering body rapidly decomposed in the blistering heat of the midday sun, the autopsy was cut-short, and the death certificate was signed off as "asphyxiation through immersion in the sea".

In keeping with Spanish tradition, although there were no mourners, the very next day, Major William Martin was buried in Nuestra Señora cemetery with full military honours, and upon his headstone was an inscription which read: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”; a line from the Roman poet Horace, which translates as "it is sweet and proper to die for one’s country".

On the 5th May, the briefcase was passed to the Spanish naval headquarters in Cadiz, the letter was dried, photographed, resealed, soaked in salt water, re-inserted into the envelope and the information was passed to the Germans. On 11th May, the briefcase and all of its contents, seemingly untouched, was returned to British authorities, minus a single eyelash. On 14th May, codebreakers at Bletchley Park intercepted a German message warning of an imminent invasion via Greece and Sardinia. Brigadier Leslie Hollis – the secretary to the Chiefs of Staff Committee – sent a secret communique to Winston Churchill, it simply read “Mincemeat swallowed rod, line and sinker."

On the 9th July, with Hitler having redeployed 1000’s of troops from the Russian Eastern Front in Kursk to Greece, Corsica and Sardinia, having launched one of the largest amphibious assaults of the war, 400,000 American and British troops invaded the woefully undefended island of Sicily; it fell 8 days later, and opened the door to mainland Europe. Two years later, the war was over.

Glyndwr Michael was a nobody, a nothing, a mentally and physically disabled man, who died unloved, lost and forgotten, in a derelict warehouse somewhere in King’s Cross. He was a homeless man who became a hero, and although he saved my life, your life and all of our lives, almost 80 years on, with no statues in his image, no streets in his honour and no portraits in his likeness, his name his hardly known… and yet, without Glyndwr Michael, our lives would have been very different.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Witching Hour and Murder in My Family (PLAY PROMO)

A big shout-out this week goes out to my new Patreons, who are Clare Bernardin, Daryna Tarasenko, Leslie Quinones, Sue Harrison and Nicole Graves, who all made my little chubby cheeks go all flushed with their supreme generosity, so to you guys, here’s a kiss. Don’t worry, I don’t have the lurgy.

Also a quick “hi” to Doug and Karen who booked onto my Murder Mile Walk for their 20th anniversary, because what’s more romantic than that, and Lynn and her family who came all the way from Vancouver to delve into some grisly Soho murders. Hello to you all.

And, if you love true-crime blogs, there’s a new fabulous one written by Andy who’s a massive true-crime fan, it’s called No Remorse, check it out by clicking the link in the show-notes. 
https://noremorse.blog/

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using various sources as many in the National Archives are still classified, but the most important source was Operation Mincemeat: The True Spy Story that Changed the Course of World War II by Ben MacIntyre.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)

• Realness by Kai Engel
• Closing by Peter Rudenko
• Oecumene Sleeps by Kai Engel
• As Below by Cult With No Name
• Let Us Remain Friends by Cult With No Name
• Mercy by Kai Engel
• Not Stranger by Cult With No Name
• Visum by Kai Engel
  

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

Thank you for downloading episode thirty-nine of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Before we begin, here’s a brief charity appeal on behalf of Murder Mile. 

(Sad music) This is Michael. He’s a 42 year old podcaster; he’s fat, bald and is very very single. Chained to a laptop 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, Michael is forced to make exquisite true-crime podcasts, for no money, no food and very few five star reviews. But with a small donation of just $3 a month, you can keep this fat bald loser alive, help him cover his exorbitant costs of producing award-nominated podcasts, allow him a little bit of a social life and provide him with some of life’s essentials, like beer, curry, Bakewell tarts and many many photos of Eva Green. Mmm. Subscribe to Patreon today and don’t let a podcaster needlessly die… unless their death is grisly, funny and you can make a podcast series out of it… obviously. Thank you for your support and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about George Thomas Pickering; a hard-working husband and doting father-of three, who was the epitome of a Jekyll & Hyde character and whose mania led him to brutally slay a Soho sex-worker called Rosa O’Neill. And yet, why he killed her remains the real mystery.

Murder Mile contains upsetting details which may cause the easily startled to spew, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 39: George Thomas Pickering – The Silent Killer.

Today I’m standing on Brewer Street in Soho, W1; one road north of the White Horse pub where Larry Winters gunned down Paddy O’Keefe, one road west of the bombing of the Admiral Duncan and two roads north of the unsolved killing of Police informer Black Rita – coming soon to Murder Mile.

Originally called Welles Street, although this single-lane side-street (stretching from Regent Street to Wardour Street) is barely 1200 feet long, as home to the now-defunct and demolished Aryes and Davis breweries, in the late 1900’s, Welles Street was renamed Brewer Street. But for at least the last century, being crammed full of seedy sex-shops and sweaty strip joints, all occupied by spunky-handed willy-fiddlers in dirty flashing mack’s, surely it’s time to rename this mucky Soho backstreet with a more appropriate moniker, like Pervert’s Parade, Wanker’s Way, Spooge Street or Jizzy Junction?

Initially called Doc’ Johnson’s Hollywood Love Shop & Cinema, today 12 Brewer Street is called Soho’s Original Book Shop. And as a deeply dull three storey brown brick building, instantly your eyes are drawn to its dark green wooden façade on the ground-floor and its garish neon signs which flash forth with words like “sex-shop” and “triple X”. Featuring a wealth of arty erotica for the more discerning pervert, downstairs is a veritable pornucopia of mucky mags, dirty DVDs, pep pills for your percy ponker, va-va-voom juice for your vajayjay and chocolate mousse for your rusty bullet-hole, as well as all manner of strange shit like spikes, crazy crap with clamps, and - if you’ve got £150 to spare - even a life-sized and very realistic rubber bum-hole… apparently.

And yet, as much as this building is synonymous with sex, it’s also the home of death. As it was here, on Monday 7th October 1963, in the first floor flat of 12 Brewer Street, that Rosa O’Neill was savagely slaughtered by a silent killer. (INTERSTITIAL)

On Tuesday 19th November 1963, in the cold sterile surgery of Brixton Prison, dressed in over-sized prison fatigues and a pair of slip-on shoes, sat 26 year old George Thomas Pickering. With short curly brown hair, a cheeky grin and arched eyebrows which gave his impish little face an eternally surprised expression, being barely five foot six inches tall, George didn’t look like a major criminal, and yet, as a Category A prisoner, amongst all these thieves, rapists and thugs, he was considered one of the worst.

“George?”, Dr F H Brisby, the medical officer asked, but as the prisoner’s bloodshot eyes glared down at his guilt-ridden hands, he ignored him. Not owing to ignorance or the arrogance of a hardened con who refused to spill the beans to a screw, but because George was trapped in world of silence, as being both deaf and mute, George heard no words and could say nothing to reply.

“George?” Dr Brisby asked, as he softly tapped the tearful prisoner’s shoulder, stirring this broken man from those bloody visions forever burned into his retina. “George? That day. Did you know what you were doing?” he asked, but George didn’t reply. Not as a false ruse to secure an insanity plea; a ploy which his lawyer had toyed with, and the prison warden had taken seriously, having confiscated his belt, his tie, his shoe-laces and placed him (for the last six weeks) on suicide watch, but the delay was solely so his interpreter could translate the words that he could neither hear nor speak. But being polite and prompt, Dr Brisby got the reply he expected, as George simply nodded “yes”.

“George, did you know it was wrong?” Dr Brisby asked, as being eight days away from his murder trial at The Old Bailey, the doctor’s question would be the difference between life and a death sentence, and again George simply nodded “yes”. And yet, in a Police investigation which was short, swift and thrift, although George’s guilt was guaranteed, one question remained unanswered. “George?”, Dr Brisby asked “…if you knew all that, then why did you murder Rosa O’Neill?”

In the ungodly hours of 21st February 1937, a high-pitched scream wailed down the maternity ward at Stanmore Hospital; an ear-splitting sound so sharp and shrill, the patients felt as if knitting needles were being stabbed into their brains, but this was not a cry of death but of birth. And with his vocal chords set to loud and two fully functional ears which heard his beloved mother slowly soothe her baby boy to sleep, into the world came George Thomas Pickering, and he was perfect in every way.

Hailing from the seaside town of Scarborough (in Yorkshire), Margaret & Reginald Pickering were two doting parents to their beloved son George; and with no history of disability, criminality or mental illness in the family, these were good people; solid, proud and stoic, who battled through the tough times and together they triumphed, but for the Pickering family, a major test was yet to come.

After days of stiffness, dizziness, insomnia and vomiting, four year old George was rushed to hospital, gripped in a fit of fever, as (once again) his high-pitched shrill echoed the walls, but not in a cry of birth but of intense pain, as bacterial meningitis strangled his spinal cord and (like a halo of death) slowly crushed his brain. And although, his young life was saved by antibiotics, by the time he’d left hospital, the damage had been done, and being left deaf, mute and crippled by chronic headaches, the last sound that George ever uttered or heard were his own tears, as his world descended into silence.

Eager to ensure their son wasn’t hindered by his disabilities and that he’d retain his confidence, pride and independence, Margaret & Reginald enrolled George at the Royal Deaf & Dumb School in Margate (on England’s south coast), where he learned to sign, made new friends, never got into fights, and as a better than average student, he left school, aged 16, with a lust for life and a passion for wood work.

And as a solid young man who did his parents proud, George lived a very normal, happy and productive life. Having graduated, George trained as a carpenter for Kodak in north-west London, earning £12 a week and accruing a satisfactory work record. But as a recently married man and a father to twin daughters and (soon) a son, eager to be nearer his family, George uprooted and found new employment at Humphreys (a furniture makers) in nearby 161 Kingston Road in New Malden.

Life was good. He had an honest job, three healthy children, an active social life with his old school friends from Margate, and lived in a delightful little terraced house on a pleasant tree-lined street at 15 Oxford Avenue in Merton Park (South London), with his wife Beryl (who was also deaf and mute).

And although he’d cheated death and coped with disability, the meningitis had done its damage and being crippled by headaches, the older he got, the worse they became, and as his painkillers proved pointless, it was quickly replaced by alcohol to quell the pain. But like all drugs, drink had its downside.

On 20th February 1957, on the eve of his twentieth birthday, having partied heartily with his pals, George was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, causing wilful damage and inflicting grievous bodily harm in an unprovoked attack. He was bound-over by the courts for two years.

On 15th August 1961, in another unprovoked attack, George smashed up his furniture, at work, with an axe and was committed to Shenley psychiatric hospital, where even though he was tearful, tense and complained of being wracked with deep bouts of depression, suicidal thoughts and unnaturally violent urges, he was discharged after just 24 hours, and the incident was blamed on drink.

Four weeks later, on 12th September 1961, whilst heavily intoxicated, George was arrested for inflicting grievous bodily harm in an unprovoked attack on a West End prostitute. He was sentenced to two months in prison, but – owing to good behaviour – he served only one.

Later that year, whilst carving-up the Christmas turkey, George had to be physically restrained by his family as – in an unprovoked fit of depression and rage - he tried to slit open his wrists.

Prior to his murder trial, George said to Dr F H Brisby of Brixton Prison that he felt like Jekyll & Hyde; part man and part monster; with one side of him as a good father and a loyal husband who was decent, passive and polite, and the other side was a violent, drunken, homicidal maniac.

Desperate to quell his uncontrollably violent urges, George quit drinking and (for almost a year) life returned to normal. But without a steady hit of booze to dull the incessant throbbing in his head, his insomnia increased, his depression darkened and suicide seemed a better prospect than living.

Two years later, being at his wit’s end, George Thomas Pickering made the unfortunate decision to take his own life… but strangely, it wasn’t he who would ultimately end up dead. (INTERSTITIAL)

The following is based on the original police investigation files, autopsy report, witness statements and George’s own hazy and confused recollection of the events that day, so some details are patchy.

By the morning of Monday 7th October 1963, George hadn’t slept for three whole days, and although his kids cried, with wide cracked eyes which glared vacantly at the ceiling, the only sound he heard was dull thud as blood erratically pumped from his fluctuating heart to his throbbing head.

Feeling like his body was a deadweight; with his head like lead, his feet like they were stuck in peat and his limp arms like they were anchored to the bed, George lay prostrate, an empty hollow man devoid of hope. But as a good dad, with bills to pay and mouths to feed, like a pre-programmed automaton with one basic function – to earn, as George crawled out of bed and his lifeless legs thudded to the floor, he didn’t feel like he normally did, he felt… strange.

It started like any ordinary day, only slower and less certain, as all he could think of was his own death.

Off the hard wooden floor, George dragged on last night’s clothes - a blue corduroy jacket, a dark blue shirt, a brown jersey, light brown trousers and black boots – all splattered in yesterday’s stains, which (he surmised) no-one would spy when the corduroy which covered his corpse was bathed in his blood. 

For the last time, he hugged his kids; their voices he had never heard before and their sweet faces he would never see again. And as his soundless lips softly kissed Beryl’s cheek, as he signed his wife a sweet “goodbye”, he left his home for the very last time, never to return.

At 7:30am, George walked out of 15 Oxford Avenue and trudged south to Kingston Road; the sky was dull, grey and full of foreboding as dark ominous clouds loomed large. And as the interminable British drizzle soaked him to the bone, on any other day he’d have turned right and headed off to work at Humphrey’s, but (in a rash decision which would ruin his life forever) he turned left.

At 7:45am, as he stood alone on the packed platform of Raynes Park station - isolated and trapped in a solitary silent world – feeling the violent rumble under his feet as the train thundered near, as he stared at the bare track, he pictured 200 tonnes of roaring steel wheels slicing over his soft neck, severing his head and leaving behind a lifeless bloody stump… but his feet wouldn’t budge.

By 8:10am, as his train sidled into Waterloo station, George lumbered aimlessly towards The Strand, on the south-side of the West End, but with his full focus being on what way was best to meet his death, as the hard heavy thump of his boots sent a dull throbbing pain into his brain, with his every movement making him even more nauseous, although he’d been teetotal for weeks, his only thought was the pain-free lure of liquor.

And then, for the next three hours, George disappeared; no-one knows where he went, or what he did, not even he, but with every pub and off-licence closed till lunch, at 11am, by the time he had stumbled into Soho, George was drunk. And being part man and part monster; as the meek, mild and timid man within him slunk into shadows, the other side of his Jekyll & Hyde took over.

With an unquenchable thirst, at a little after 11:30am, having staggered passed The White Horse pub and stumbled into Edward Roche & Co, an off-licence at 33 Shaftesbury Avenue, as its young assistant eyed with suspicion this strangely silent man, having handed over 17 shillings, the only sound that George heard was the heavy gulping as he necked great glugs of 66 per cent proof vodka. 

Being deaf, dumb and (now) blind drunk; stuck in a deep dull depression which booze couldn’t shift and eager to give his spirits a lift, George stumbled into the garish neon haze of the nearby Cameo Moulin Cinema, to watch ‘Women by Night’; a tawdry sexploitation film full of tits, tush and tassels.

But as his glazed-over eyes gazed at the soundless screen, ogling bums and boobs, amongst a salty sea of sad bastards, whose hands all bobbed about their pants like they’d all lost their last pound; George hated what he saw, where he was, and who he had become. And as his suicidal thoughts stewed, so too were his unnatural urges and strange stirrings within; as bubbling to the surface came a hatred, a rage and an uncontrollable desire for violence.

Desperate to die, at a little after 1pm, George staggered into Cutlers Tool Makers at 52 Brewer Street, pointed to a shiny stainless-steel blade, and having handed over 10 shillings, he stumbled out, into the bustle of Brewer Street, brandishing a six inch filleting knife, one step nearer to slitting his wrists.

What happened next is debatable, as with no slashes to his arms, cuts to his neck or puncture wounds on his body, whether he sobered-up, cooled off or got cold feet, George suddenly decided to forgo his suicide and – instead – headed east to 12 Brewer Street (where Soho’s Original Book Shop now sits) and where George would fulfil a very different and uncontrollable urge. The time was 1:15pm.

On the ground floor, to the left of the store, was a black wooden door. Instinctively, although he would never hear it, George rung the bell, and waited in the doorway, as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

Opened by the housekeeper (Sophie Georgina Willis), although he was obviously arseholed, without a sound, just a smile, she ushered him up to the first-floor, with a wave which said ‘you know the way’.

Having visited her several times prior, George had always liked Rosa. And even though he never knew her name, age, history, or (because he was deaf) he never heard that this well-rounded woman in her early forties, with an obvious Irish surname like O’Neill, had a Polish accent; none of those details mattered, as being one of the few Soho sex-workers who didn’t mock, pity or shun him, he liked Rosa. And with no heirs, no graces and no pretense - to many young men - she was just a nice lady.

As George drunkenly stumbled up the white wooden staircase, bouncing off the floral wallpaper and almost tripping-up over the soft green carpeting underfoot, at the top of the stairs stood Rosa O’Neill. Being five foot four at a push, fourteen stone at her lightest, and with a motherly yet matronly face, dressed in a pink quilted dressing gown and slippers, although George was drunk (as he always was), she smiled and welcomed him in, like a loving aunt who’s first words would be “you fancy a cuppa?”

But being part man and part monster; with the meek, mild and timid man having shifted into the shadows, and the other side of his Jekyll & Hyde now making strange stirrings within; as from his heart to his head his blood heavily thumped, inside pumped a dark and hollow rage.

George would later state “I don’t know what happened, I just went berserk”.

With his eyes wild and his knuckles white, from inside of his blue corduroy jacket, George pulled the filleting knife. With his left hand having roughly grabbed the scruff of her bathrobe to steady his terrified target, having raised the blade high, he plunged the full length of the six inch steel deep into the left of Rosa’s chest, and – using all of his force, anger, hatred and rage – he repeatedly stabbed the sliver of stainless steel into her torso, slashing at her flailing arms and slicing her splayed fingers, as the bloodied blade sunk four inches deep, into her right lung, her liver and gut.

Desperate to fight off her frenzied attacker, as Rosa shoved her short assassin, over the soft green carpeting underneath, George stumbled, and as his sticky red hands left thick bloody smears over the white wood, Rosa slammed the door shut, and George fled.

As her housekeeper rang the alarm, feeling queasy, Rosa lay face-up on her bed, a damp flannel on her forehead to cool her sweaty brow, as wrapped in a duvet, she was suddenly gripped with the icy cold chill as slowly her body drained of blood. And although they had called for a doctor, by the time he’d had arrived, just seven minutes later, Rosa O’Neill was dead.

The next morning, although the previous day was a booze-soaked blur, seeing his clothes crumpled on the floor, his dirty corduroy caked in crusted blood, as he slowly sobered-up, George realised he’d done something truly awful. And being wracked with guilt, having unsuccessfully tried to kill himself by swallowing 300 aspirins, George handed himself in a Wimbledon Police Station.

The Police investigation was swift. Having fully confessed to the crime, with a wealth of evidence and having been identified by the three witnesses, in a trial which barely lasted a day, on 27th November 1963, at The Old Bailey, George Thomas Pickering was found guilty of manslaughter by reason of diminished responsibility owing to insanity or illness, and was sentenced to life in prison.

Four years later, eager to quell his thundering headaches which had haunted his every waking moment since the spinal meningitis had robbed him of all speech and sound, on Tuesday 8th May 1967, in the D Wing rec’ room of Wormwood Scrubs prison, having no access to alcohol to halt the incessant hammering in his head, George drank a homemade cocktail made from orange juice and copier fluid.

And as the mix of acetone and methylated spirits inflamed his stomach, drowned his lungs, and as he drifted into a coma, having already been rendered deaf and mute by illness, (in a sad twist of irony) the booze which blocked the throbbing in his brain, had robbed him of another sense and rendered him blind. And after a slow and agonising death, which lasted almost a week, on Sunday 14th May 1967, George Thomas Pickering died of alcohol poisoning, and (once again) his whole world was silent.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is Redhanded (PLAY PROMO)

And if you’ve ever in London, why not book a ticket onto my five-star rated Murder Mile Walks; it’s a guided walk of Soho’s most infamous murder, and you get to see my big fat bald head, and you get to say “oh, is that what he looks like? Ah, that’s a shame”. And on Saturday 8th September 2018 at The Salisbury pub, at 90 St Martin’s Lane in London, Murder Mile will be attending the True-Crime Meet-Up, along with many of your favourite British true-crime podcaters. Join us!

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.

Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched various sources such as Larry's prison diary and various news articles as the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, are not accessible until 2063.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)

• Relent by Kevin MacLeod (charity appeal)
• No News by Cult With No Name
• Transparent by Peter Rudenko
• Closing by Peter Rudenko
• Now You Are Here by Sergey Cheremisinov
• How Long Shall I Live by Cult With No Name
• Imminence by Kai Engel
• Harbour by Kai Engel

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Passing Trains - https://freesound.org/people/Tewkesound/sounds/140043/
• Baby Crying - https://freesound.org/people/the_yura/sounds/211527/
• Ambience - https://freesound.org/people/A.Deathy/sounds/256444/
• Tinnitus - https://freesound.org/people/Kinoton/sounds/419748/
• Submerged - https://freesound.org/people/HerbertBoland/sounds/147663/
• Ringing in Ears - https://freesound.org/people/hykenfreak/sounds/218050/

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #38 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below.

Thank you for downloading episode thirty-eight of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

If you enjoy listening Murder Mile and want to support the show, please do leave a review on iTunes or even on the podcast app you’re using right now, as it brings the show to a wider audience, ensures its future and recently your five star reviews rocketed Murder Mile into iTunes top 50 podcasts, so your support is truly appreciated. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Martine Vik Magnussen; a bright, loving and vivacious student, who travelled from Norway to study in London, but was murdered at the hands of a friend, and although her brutal death has been solved, more than ten years on, her killer has never been brought to justice.

Murder Mile contains unsettling details which may make the timid tremble, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 38: Justice for Martine Vik Magnussen.

Today I’m standing outside of Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street; one road west of Gosfield Street, where the West End’s most infamous strangler murdered his third victim, one street south of Regent’s Park where the Provisional IRA exploded two bombs killing 11 people and injuring 50, and a few streets south of Hampstead Road and Gloucester Crescent where two more possible victims of The Blackout Ripper were murdered - coming soon to Murder Mile.

Situated just north of Oxford Circus; where-as Soho is the home of every hobo, homo, hipster, ponce, pervert and deeply desperate extrovert; being its bastard little brother, Fitzrovia is little more than a half-way house for those moody, vague, ashen faced arseholes who aren’t as rich, hip and famous as they think, hence they live on a street where every building looks like an accountants.

Being a place where no-one bothers to stop, situated in the west end of Fitzrovia, Great Portland Street is a pretentiously hideous concrete jungle, unaware of how truly shit it really is. As outside of its endless uptight eateries sits a slew of grumpy gits and frumpy sows, all dressed in fur coats, fedoras and painfully tight facelifts, who sip blinis on its kerb-side tables (like they’re sunning it up on the French Riviera) when actually, every time they chug back an oyster, they choke on a caustic mouthful of dust, truck fumes and the whiff of poodle plop. Yup, Great Portland Street truly is an awful place.

Now renamed The Armitage, Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street is a semi-exclusive set of serviced apartments; and with a stark black and glass fronted façade on the ground floor (which makes it look like a funeral directors), a storage vault in the basement (which, again, is ironic, given its history), and with a five-storey red brick mansion block above, built in a faux Parisian style, here you can rent out a flat once owned by a minor celebrity, a failed pop-star, and maybe even a murderer.

As it was here on Friday 14th March 2008, that 23 year old Martine Vik Magnussen was lured back to the flat of a close friend… and murdered. (INTERSTITIAL)

As a bitter Norwegian wind blew across the icy frozen tundra, in the early hours of Wednesday 6th February 1985, the deathly silence was cut short by the sharp squeal of tyres and the roar of a high-revving engine, as a set of Saab headlights ripped along the pitch black coastal road from Nesoya to Oslo. To the left, darkness; to the right, the sea, eerily still and black like blood in the moonlight.

Behind the steering wheel, fighting the grip, as the speeding weaving car blew through every stop sign, red light and road-block, was 25 year old (Aad) Odd Petter Magnussen. Being a tall slim man with wavy blonde hair and a kindly yet concerned face, although (for the first time in his life) he’d broken several traffic violations, Petter wasn’t a criminal, a fugitive or a maniac, but a loving father.

And as a series of pained screams echoed from the backseat, between the legs of his heavily pregnant wife (Kristin), a tiny blonde crown of hair peeped out, as their excitable second child got bored of waiting and with a new world to explore and no time to waste, out she popped, just inside the doors of Oslo hospital. With wide hazel-green eyes, soft blonde hair and a bright beaming smile, as Petter held his perfect little girl in his arms, he promised to love and protect her.

The childhood of Martine Vik Magnussen could easily be described as idyllic, and as the beloved middle child of two loving parents, who was adored by her older brother Magnus and younger sister Mathilda, she grew-up surrounded by love, joy and happiness.

On the small beautiful island of Nesoya, 25 miles south-east of Oslo, the Magnussen family lived in a little wooden cottage on the brow of a hill overlooking a stunning snowy fjord. And with the air being fresh, the water being clean and the streets being safe, as an active child, here Martine could run, swim and play, all day. But being an inquisitive girl with a thirst for knowledge and an adventurous spirit, coming from a remote island, her family knew that one day she would leave to see the world.

As a popular, generous and honest girl with a heart so big it’s amazing it managed to fit into her 5 foot 4 inch frame - being bright, kind and bubbly - Martine was beautiful inside and out.

Every summer, when the Norwegian snow had melted into crystal clear streams and crisp blue lakes, in a little wooden hut nestled on the shoreline at the bottom of the family garden, Martine would host parties for her nearest and dearest; singing, dancing and cooking treats. And as an instantly likable young lady with no enemies, only friends, Petter described his daughter as "pure sunshine". (Silence)

So, I guess you’re probably expecting to hear about a horrific incident in her idyllic childhood – maybe involving drugs, death, debt or disaster - where everything she ever loved fell apart and her life was changed forever? But it didn’t. In fact, the worst thing that happened was the divorce of her parents when Martine was 15, but as a loving couple, deeply committed to their children, they amicably split and remained close, spending birthdays, Christmases and holidays together. (End silence)

Encouraged by her doting father to be confident, independent and ambitious; having once dreamed of being a prima ballerina, a showjumper and a professional netballer, after graduation from Kristelig Gymnasium (a private Christian school in Oslo), in February 2007, Martine moved to London and later enrolled in an International Business Relations degree at Regents Business School, barely a 15 minute walk from Seaford Court - the five-storey red brick mansion block at 222 Great Portland Street.

As a dynamic girl in a bustling city, 23 year old Martine academically thrived, emotionally blossomed and socially flourished, and although she was over a thousand miles from home; she lived well, stayed safe and made many new friends. One of whom was Farouk Abdulhak (INTERSTITIAL)

Born in Sana’a, the capital city of the Arab sovereign state of Yemen, on the 18th February 1987, Farouk Abdulhak was the eldest son of Egyptian and Yemeni parents. And although the Yemen is the poorest country in the Arabian Peninsula, with half the population living on less than £1 a day and with limited access to fresh food and clean drinking water, the life of Farouk Abdulhak was very different.

Raised in opulence, wealth and privilege, Farouk was the first-born son of billionaire Shaher Abdulhak; dubbed the ‘King of Sugar’ owing to his business interests in Coca-Cola, as a powerful man with many influential allies, Farouk’s father was a close personal friend of the Yemani president and his personal net worth of $9 billion was the equivalent of 1/10th of his country’s annual GDP.

As future heir to his father’s fortune, Farouk attended Azal Hadda primary school in Sala’a, was educated in the traditional core values of Islam - tolerance, abstinence and compassion – and although a lot rested on such a small set of shoulders, Farouk was friendly, respectful, pleasant, polite and shy. The kind of guy his school friends said “wouldn’t hurt a fly”.

Being 5 foot 7 inches tall; slim and toned with chestnut eyes, cropped dark hair, a chiselled face and a neatly trimmed designer beard, being dressed in the latest brands, gold chains and snazzy trainers, although slightly vain, 21 year old Farouk was an unremarkable young man, who looked like almost any other wealthy Arab’s son raised in the West on an excess of money, freedom and privilege.

Eager for the offspring to his ever-expanding empire to be well-educated and develop solid experience in both Arab and Western cultures, Farouk’s father sent his son to some of Britain’s top boarding schools, and - although Farouk rebelled against his strict Islamic father by drinking, smoking and professing to be agnostic - in September 2007, he enrolled in an International Business Relations degree at Regents Business School in London, where he met Martine Vik Magnussen. (Silence)

So, I guess you’re probably expecting to hear about a horrific incident in his idyllic childhood – maybe involving drink and drugs, guns and gangsters, massacres and mental illness – of how a shy boy became a psychopath and his life was changed forever? But it didn’t. Farouk was a billionaire’s son, living in London, studying by day, partying by night and although he was 4500 miles from his home, the worst thing that happened to Farouk was the pressure of having to uphold his family’s honour. So, as far as we know, Farouk had no reason to kill Martine… but he did. (End silence)

In June 2007, Martine moved into a modest four-bedroomed flat just off Chelsea Bridge Road, in a safe, local and well-lit part of town, that she shared with three Norwegian friends, and which she funded by working a part-time job at Mulberry clothing store in Mayfair.

And as a confident girl who liked the nightlife, hailing from a small island and living in a big city, Martine never took risks with her safety, she was street-smart, careful and cautious. She didn’t walk home at night, she didn’t hitchhike, she never accepted lifts from strangers and if any of her flatmates decided not to come home, the rule was "always text, always stay in touch”… and Martine always did.

Her female friends would often joke that there were no men left in London as they were all in love with Martine, and being a mesmerising woman who had an innate ability to make everyone feel special, warm and loved, some men fancied Martine, where-as others were besotted.

Farouk and Martine had known each other for eight months; and (to the best of our knowledge) they never dated, fought, kissed or fornicated; they had no debts, lies or secrets; and often being seen together, although it was obvious that Farouk fancied her, he never asked Martine out and she never rejected him. They were just two good friends… one of whom would end up dead

The murder of Martine Vik Magnussen is part of an on-going investigation, so the following details are based on the limited information available, therefore there will be gaps, lapses and loose-threads.

Thursday 13th March 2008 was a night for celebration, as not only was this the end of term for the students of the Regents Business School, but in her exams, Martine had come top of her class.

Being eager to drink, dance and let off steam; Martine, Farouk and some school friends headed out to a boutique nightclub called Maddox at 3-4 Mill Street in fashionable Mayfair; where the guest-list is by invite, membership is by referral and being secreted beneath an unassumingly bland office building, with no neon sign or flashing lights, the Maddox Club is only for those who know.

Stylishly dressed in skinny blue designer jeans, a fawn coloured vest-top and brown snakeskin shoes, which she’d accessorised with Christian Dior earrings, a silver Guess watch and a black leather Marc Jacobs handbag, and with her trademark blonde hair, pink lipstick and silver eye-shadow, as Martine slinked down the spiral staircase, into the club’s pseudo-futuristic back-lit façade, she seamlessly blended in midst a sea of student and socialites; singing, dancing, mingling and laughing.

By all accounts, a fabulous night was had by all, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. There were no fights, spats, strops, huffs, tuts, tears or bad-blood spilled. It was an evening perfectly summed up by one of the many photos taken that night; it shows Martine and Farouk, two friends in a gentle embrace, her arm draped over his shoulder, and both are happy, smiling and relaxed.

At 3:20am, with her pooped-out friends’ eager to sleep and a full-of-beans Martine desperate to dance till dawn, outside of the Maddox Club, they parted ways. And having misplaced her mobile phone one week prior, her flat mates knew not to expect a text, and besides, she was with Farouk, so they knew she’d be safe. A few moments later, Martine and Farouk hopped in a black cab on Mill Street and headed north into Fitzrovia. That was the last time anyone (but her killer) saw her alive ever again.

On the morning of Friday 14th March 2008, her bleary-eyed flat-mates spotted that Martine’s bed hadn’t been slept-in, her snake-skin shoes weren’t scattered on the floor, her Marc Jacobs handbag wasn’t slung over the door, and although she didn’t have her phone, she knew the rules and (no matter what) she would find a way to say she was safe… but she hadn’t.

They messaged her via Facebook – no reply. They called all of her friends – no sighting. They called Farouk – no answer. And growing even more concerned, as day turned to night, they retraced her last known steps, handing out flyers adorned with her photograph – but no-one had seen her.

Having been missing for 24 hours, Martine’s disappearance was reported to the Police, but being a popular foreign student, in London, on a bank holiday weekend, it was assumed she was partying and no search was done. But then again, Martine wasn’t the only person who had gone missing that night.

Unusually, for such a media savvy man, shortly after his arrival home, Farouk switched his mobile off. Strangely, for such a social climber, the door to his flat remained firmly shut. And – in a sinister twist - at roughly 4am, barely forty minutes after he and Martine had hopped in a black cab, Farouk updated his Facebook status, it read “Farouk is home alone”. One day later, he deleted his profile completely.

Knowing their friend and fearing the worst, Martine’s flat-mates approached the Police with their findings and pestered them to call on Farouk. And seeing the clues before them leading to something unseemly, PC James Tauber was dispatched to Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street.

Farouk wasn’t home. He hadn’t been for more than a day, and with his clothes, his phone, his wallet, his bag and his passport missing, it looked like, wherever he’d gone, he’d left in a hurry.

And although she was nowhere to be seen, the officer instinctively knew that Martine had been there, and that something bad had happened to her, as sprawled across the flush white carpet, in a crumpled messy heap, lay her fawn coloured vest-top, and - like a grisly version of Hansel & Gretel – pointing towards the flat’s front door, in an ominous spotted line, were rivulets of little red dots.

As PC Tauber traced the sporadic speckles of concealed blood down the cold stone stairs, as his booted feet echoed off the hard walls, his ghastly treasure hunt ended, as the crimson spots came to a dead stop at a basement door, its padlock dotted with dried and crusted blood.

At 10:20am, on Sunday 16th March 2008, in the damp, dark and unlit basement of 222 Great Portland Street, the semi-clad body of 23 year old Martine Vik Magnussen was found, hastily dumped under a pile of builder’s rubble, as her left arm protruded from a mess of sand and cement, in a rushed attempt by her killer to conceal his crime. Martine had been raped and strangled.

The next day, Odd Petter Magnussen, Martine’s doting father (who just 23 years earlier had raced through the icy Norwegian tundra, from Nesoya to Oslo, to ensure the safe birth of his beautiful baby) had flown from Oslo to London, to undertake a duty which no father should ever have to do.

In the sterile coldness of the mortuary, on an aluminium gurney, draped in a blue plastic sheet, lay the body of Martine Magnussen. And although the Police told Petter everything to prepare him for the sight he was about to see – that she’d been strangled, that she’d been raped and that she’d fought for her life – it would never be enough, as lying in front of him, was his daughter, all cold and lifeless.

And although her flawless skin was mottled with a mix of yellow, brown and purple bruises; with her face swollen, her tongue protruding and her neck etched with an odd mark, it was the little details which brought the most pain for Petter. He would say of that day, “she looked like Martine, she still had her eyeshadow on”. And as she lay there, and his trembling hand stroked her cold face, even as an unemotional man, Petter was reduced to tears, at the sight of his beautiful baby - dead.

And of all the harrowing details he had heard that day of his daughter’s demise, the worst he would have to live with was this; as an illuminous young woman who had brought so much happiness to the world, her last moments alive weren’t spent in love, or joy, or delight, but in pain, fear and dread.

Forensic pathologist Dr Nathaniel Carey confirmed that Martine had 43 substantial injuries to her head, neck and body. And although toxicology tests confirmed she had consumed 130mg (milligrams) of alcohol and a small amount of cocaine (consistent with any weekend drinker and recreational user); she was fully conscious at the time she was raped, and that the unusual mark across her neck was consistent with compression, as if she’d been pinned to the floor by an object, a hand, or a foot.

Almost ten years on, the murder of Martine Vik Magnussen remains unresolved, but not unsolved.
After a short Police investigation, although they only had one suspect; they knew who he was, where he was, and they knew (and could prove) that he was guilty. His name was Farouk Abdulhak. The problem was, they couldn’t arrest him.

On the afternoon of Friday 14th March 2008, having erased his Facebook profile, packed his bags and pocketed his passport, Farouk boarded a flight from London Heathrow to the Egyptian capital of Cairo, where he was spirited out of the country, to Sanaa in Yemen, in his billionaire father’s private jet.

Protected by armed guards, iron gates and a vast wealth, although his whereabouts cannot be verified, it is said that Farouk is hidden in the remote village of Thaba Abous in southern Yemen; he’s grown a beard to blend in with the strict Islamic culture, he studied Arabic at the local university, he recently married a divorced Yemeni woman, and – although a European warrant was issued for his arrest - as neither Britain nor Norway have an extradition treaty with the Yemen, it is unlikely that Farouk Abdulhak will ever be arrested, imprisoned or convicted, and (as of today) he remains the one and only suspect in the murder of Martine Vik Magnussen.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is Bloody Murder (PLAY PROMO)

A big thank you goes out to my amazing Patreon supporters, who get treated to some very exclusive content but also they get a big load of love from me: this week’s star Patreons are Kate from the fabulous Ignorance Was Bliss podcast, Steve Stadalink who, like a blumming hero, increased his pledge to mega proportions, and a new patreon – the lovely Ambar from Phoenix (Arizona), who I met on my weekly Murder Mile walk, and she gave me £30 in cash to support Murder Mile. So to all of my Patreo-fans, I give you big kisses, from the bottom of my heart, the bottom of my liver, but not from the bottom of my bottom, because nobody wants a kiss from there, except real weirdos. 

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.

Sources: As this case is an on-going murder investigation, there are very few official sources (and no file at the National Archives) so some of the sources I have used are listed below:

• https://news.fitzrovia.org.uk/2014/02/26/six-years-after-murder-at-great-portland-street-the-suspect-still-evades-justice/
• http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7309009.stm
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2010/feb/22/the-murder-of-martine-vik-magnussen
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2010/feb/22/the-murder-of-martine-vik-magnussen
• https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-43400426
• https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/new-cctv-footage-released-10-years-after-students-murder-in-desperate-bid-to-find-killer-a3789951.html
• http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1332645/Martine-Vik-Magnussen-murder-Playboy-suspect-Farouk-Abdulhak-escapes-justice.html
• https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/8157122/Father-of-murdered-Norwegian-socialite-pleads-with-Arab-suspect-to-face-justice-in-Britain.html
• http://justiceformartine.com/

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• In Every Way by Cult With No Name
  
• Piano Sketch 2 by Cult With No Name
• Bir Demet Yasemen by Turku
• Heir of the Dog by Cult With No Name
• Today’s The Day by Cult With No Name
  
• 
  

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Car Moving 1 - https://freesound.org/people/jazbavac/sounds/198522/
• Birds Norway - https://freesound.org/people/soundbytez/sounds/108759/
• Birds Norway 2 - https://freesound.org/people/1ratatosk1/sounds/392181/
• Norwegian Kids Playing - https://freesound.org/people/giuseppegavazza/sounds/74880/
• Rubbish Collection - https://freesound.org/people/acclivity/sounds/31057/
• High Pass Trucks - https://freesound.org/people/Martineerok/sounds/391804/
• Truck Traffic - https://freesound.org/people/Robinhood76/sounds/63219/
• Polish Busker - https://freesound.org/people/vflefevre/sounds/166203/
• Dog Yapping - https://freesound.org/people/punisherman/sounds/426730/
• Cheering - https://freesound.org/people/Sirderf/sounds/332305/

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #36 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below.

Thank you for downloading episode thirty-six of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

Each week on Murder Mile, there’s a free competition to win exclusive Murder Mile merchandise, such as Murder Mile badges, stickers and fridge magnets (which aren’t available to buy) as well as a personal thank you from me. To enter the competition, join us on the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast (Discussion Group) on Facebook, or click on the link in the show-notes.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Helen Mary Pickwoad; a lovely lady looking for love, who fell for the man of her dreams - a dashing Army Captain - but owing to arrogance, incompetence and a grossly unfair law, this love affair led to her slow and agonising death.

Murder Mile contains harrowing details which may make the uneasy quite queasy, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 36: Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad.

Today I’m standing outside of the Amba Hotel on the east-side of the West End’s infamous shopping district; two streets south of 35 Bryanston Square where former Iraqi Prime Minister Abd al-Naif wasn’t shot dead by two incompetent assassins, one street east of the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane where he was, and two streets south of 112 Bryanston Court where Derek Thayer Lees-Smith murdered his own mother over a matter of just a few pounds - coming soon to Murder Mile.

Situated at 508/540 Oxford Street, the four-star Amba Hotel is a colossal, eight storey, art-deco hotel from the mid-1930’s, covering half a square block, with brown brick walls, white metal windows and a stylish curved corner which looks down the length of Oxford Street. Originally called Mount Royal Hotel, its exterior has barely changed since its glory days, situated as it was, at the back of the infamous corner house tearoom (Maison Lyonese) where (it is said) The Blackout Ripper met his first victim.

The Mount Royal Hotel was (and still is) a hugely popular and highly respectable West End hotel, and (as with most hotels) what happens behind the doors of its 684 rooms is none of our business; whether they’re full of randy couples rutting away, dodgy drug-dealers divvying up dope, a horny teen bobbing his one-eyed warrior over three minutes of semi-sexy stroke teasers, a seedy Saudi businessmen who (each night) has a new “girlfriend” who only stays for 58 minutes, or two pooped-out parents sodding the shopping-trip and savouring a whole weekend of child-free silence. Ah bliss.

But one room has a very sordid history; as it was here, on Wednesday 20th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel, that Helen Mary Pickwoad died a slow and agonising death. (Interstitial)

Being born on 25th June 1914, barely five weeks before the outbreak of the First World War - a brutal and bloody conflict which left millions destitute, disabled and dead – by contrast, the early life of Helen Pickwoad had no hunger, horror or hardship, as being raised in an affluent middle-class family with two servants, the very worst that her upbringing could be described as was delightful, but dull.

As the youngest of five children, all born to Alice (a devoutly Christian housewife) and Walter (a stern Scottish doctor), Helen was strong-willed and belligerent; but with her father’s respectable profession being at stake, as much as their three-storey townhouse at 103 Manchester Road in Southport was an extension of his prestige, so too were his children, and (as a necessary appendage to his status) at all times he demanded that they were well-dressed, well-educated and well-mannered.

And so, although they had food, clothes and warmth; life was full of rules and routines, but being busy posing as the perfect family, what they lacked was love, and so, Helen descended into day-dreaming.

As a pretty petite brunette with a big heart, brown almond-like eyes and a sweet smile; being a true romantic – as much as her parents ushered her towards the dreary life of a housewife and mother married to a dull loveless man - although she dreaded the stigma of bringing shame on her family, Helen dreamed not of wedding bells and babies, but of love, romance and passion.

By March 1940, aged 25, and still being seen as a sinfully single woman with no husband, ring or offspring, as with the word “spinster” being unflatteringly bandied about in a cruel ruse to shame her into being trapped by tradition, Helen clung to the dream that one day her prince would come. And one day, he did, and his name… was Captain Tickell. (Interstitial)

Following the outbreak of the Second World War on 1st September 1939, as a well-educated young lady from a respectable middle-class family, Helen was conscripted into the war effort, as a censor.

As swarms of Nazi bombers obliterated Britain’s cities as they rained down fire from the skies, being based at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, Helen was one of 120 censors whose job it was to intercept any letters, parcels or postcards; steam them open, assess the contents, and black-out any political, illegal or morally dubious sections which may prove detrimental to the war effort.

For Helen, life was great; she had a good job, a solid wage and a lived in a three storey, four bedroomed Georgian terraced house at 20 Canning Street in Liverpool. One room of which was rented out to a tall, dashing and elegant Army captain named Edward Tickell… who would change her life forever.

Born on St Valentine’s Day on 14th February 1905, in the Irish capital of Dublin, Edward Jerrard Tickell was a natural born charmer, whose chiselled good looks could lure in any lovely lady and whose cheeky chatter could talk his way out of any trouble. Being loved and loathed in equal measure, Edward was an enigma; a man who some saw as either confident or cocky, appealing or arrogant, sweet or selfish. And no matter which, being born into wealth and privilege, Edward Tickell was raised with a high sense of self-worth, a desire to take what he felt was his, and all without any conscience or consequence.

Having being privately educated at the prestigious Highgate School; after graduation, Edward began an apprenticeship at Lever Brothers and stayed for three whole years. But being a trust-fund baby, and having no real reason to work, Edward jacked in the job, and piddled off to Hungary to become a sheep-farmer. Only to return to England two years later to set-up his own advertising agency. By the outbreak of World War Two, having enlisted in the Royal Army Service Corps, he was swiftly promoted from 2nd Lieutenant to Staff Captain in just six months and was seconded into the rather cushy position of an examiner at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, where he met Helen Pickwoad.

Based miles away from the prying eyes of her prudish parents, the longer Helen shared the same house with Edward, the more their love blossomed. But with Edward being an enigma, who was loved and loathed in equal measure; as much as Helen was besotted by him, and her best-friends (Neil & Mary Barkla) were still undecided, Helen’s parents disapproved, as beyond his confidence and his crisp Captain’s uniform, there was an arrogance they just didn’t like, and the same was said by his employer.

One year into their relationship; on 31st January 1941, Edward’s superior submitted a report – marked file 2646E - to MI5 (the British Secret Service) stating that Captain Edward Tickell had staunch political opinions (possibly fostered during those two-years living in a Hungarian Communist kibbutz), that his right-wing rhetoric had proved unpopular by colleagues and that he required close observation.

By March 1941, with Helen in floods of tears, Edward packed-up his personal items, moved-out of 20 Canning Street and was transferred to the Postal Censorship Office, 225 miles away in London.

Although distraught, Helen knew that true-love knew no distance, that they were meant to be together and that – one day – she would be Mrs Edward Tickell. But what she didn’t know about her beloved boyfriend was the truth; as although he was a German-speaking Communist and a possible threat to national security, one detail had passed her by - Captain Edward Tickell was married.

In 1929, thirteen years before Helen and Edward had met, Edward Tickell had married Renee Oriana Haynes in St Martin’s in the Field church in London; they had two lovely children and lived happily at Mill Cottage, in the quaint Oxfordshire village of Burford. But Helen knew none of this.

To Edward, she was just a “bit of fun”, but being so besotted, Helen travelled from Liverpool to London, every two weeks, and yet - every time – Edward ignored her; choosing instead to boast to his army buddies about the many affairs he was having behind his wife’s back, as drenched in tears, Helen sobbed her way home, so that once again, Neil & Mary Barkla could picked up the pieces.

Throughout their relationship, Helen kept a diary; sometimes she loved him, sometimes she loathed him, sometimes they’d break-up and other times she’d woo him back. But on Wednesday 25th June 1941, there was just one entry in her diary, it simply read: “my birthday – nothing from Edward”.

On Saturday 17th January 1942, eager to re-ignite the dying embers of their on/off dalliance, Helen caught a train from Liverpool to Leeds to London – a deliberately confusing route designed to hide her clandestine affair from her disapproving parents – and with freshly coiffured hair, a poof of perfume and wearing a pretty dress, she headed into the West End for a romantic weekend away with Edward.

Having booked into the modestly-priced Westway Hotel on Endsleigh Street, conveniently located just opposite Euston Station, Edward & Helen signed in as Mr & Mrs Tickell, stayed in Room 70, and both departed the very next morning. That moment marked the start of one life and the end of another.

Over the next three months, Helen wrote the following entries in her diary: Friday 6th February 1942: “no curse”, Friday 6th March 1942: “no curse” and Monday 6th April 1942: “no curse”. With her body swelling, a small bump in her belly and having missed three periods, when Dr Holmes confirmed that Helen was pregnant, she should have been jumping for joy, but she wasn’t.

As she looked down at her stomach, all she saw was sin, as inside her belly a baby grew who was conceived in secret, fathered by a married man and would be born illegitimate. And as much as child-birth would hurt, the greater pain she felt was the shame she’d bring on her family, and – right then - Helen swore, if ever her parents found out, she’d stick her head in the gas oven.

Confiding in her closest friends, Neil & Mary Barkla were a rock during this turbulent time, providing Helen with a safe place to stay, and in the warmth of their home, she could have her baby in secret.

In 1942, a pregnant woman had just two options; have the baby and keep it, or have the baby and don’t. Of course, there was always the third option, but that was both illegal and dangerous.

Helen tried several times to notify Captain Tickell of the swelling in her belly, but choosing to ignore her calls, letters and telegrams, of the two replies she received, both were jokey and dismissive. When told of her missed periods, Tickell brushed it off by writing back “oi, oi, oi, what a to-do, that’s the Censorship office getting you down”, but when told of her confirmed pregnancy, he cut their affair short by replying “Anyhow, we had a good run for our money, we can’t complain”.

Edward Tickell had had his fun, and now this whole pregnancy hullaballoo was becoming a drag, so wanting nothing more with to do with the baby, or Helen (for that matter), as a privileged man with no conscience or consequence, Edward did what he always did, and threw money at the problem.

Wracked with guilt at the shame that her sinful shenanigans would bring upon her beloved family, on Tuesday 12th May 1942, Helen boarded a train from Liverpool to London. And against Neil & Mary’s advice, Edward introduced her to a doctor, whose name was George de Fossard. (INTERSTITIAL).

On the evening of Wednesday 13th May 1942, in the Denmark Public House in Kensington, Helen Pickwoad met the impressively titled George Frederic Montagu de Fossard over a few light ales with Edward. To any outsider, nothing seemed untoward, they were just three friends chatting over a drink.

Although initially suspicious of George de Fossard; an unusual little fellow with a low whispering voice, a nervous shake and blinking eyes which never met hers; as a 44 year old German who’d studied medicine at King’s College and served in the British Army, although such a “sordid business” wasn’t his usual profession, Edward assured her that de Fossard was highly recommended as an abortionist.

Having pocketed £15, George de Fossard and Helen Pickwoad popped off for a few minutes as Captain Tickell watched their drinks. To anyone else, it looked as if they’d scooted off to buy some ciggies, but as Helen casually stood and inhaled the smoke, a different deadly poison swirled about the four-month foetus in her belly, having just ingested eight grams of Ergotin. And now, the termination had begun. That night, although a little bit anxious, Helen felt fine.

Having performed an abortion many times before, de Fossard warned her of the risks and side-effects, and assured her that the termination would take four days. Having swallowed the pills, by Thursday, she would feel nauseous; by Friday, the deceased foetus would be removed, and with two days of bed-rest as a precautionary measure, by Sunday she would be home, with her family none the wiser.

To aide her recovery, Captain Tickell booked Helen into Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel on Oxford Street. Obviously, he didn’t book the room himself, he said he was far too busy, so he got a friend to do it. And although he paid for the room, in cash, he didn’t want his good name sullied by such a sordid thing, so he had it booked in Helen’s name. And, of course, wanting nothing more to do with the baby or Helen, he didn’t bother to visit. He just threw money at the problem, and hoped it would go away.

And although it can’t be proved whether Captain Tickell arranged the abortion, even though the man he’d booked, had performed abortions many times before, and had been arrested and imprisoned twice prior, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard wasn’t a real doctor. In fact, he wasn’t doctor at all.

Born on 16th March 1898 in Bueckenberg (Germany) to a British mother and a Russian father, it’s true that George de Fossard trained in medicine at King’s College, but being broke, having quit after just nine months, he set himself up as plastic surgeon and an abortionist, having gained no qualifications.

On Friday 15th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, with her life in his hands and dressed in nothing but a light pink nightie, Helen lay back on the dark green double bed; its colour coordinated to match the carpet, the curtains, the sink and the walls, in a shade about as subtle as surgical scrubs.

Aided by little more than a handful of basic medical items; towels, hot water, a glass funnel, forceps and a length of rubber tubing; although the operation was done without anaesthetic, Helen felt only an odd twinge, as between her trembling legs - with no tears, no cries and no squeals - she caught a brief glimpse of a little baby boy; barely the size of the doctor’s hand but fully formed in every way. And although her baby was perfect, already he was dead.

With two days food in the cupboard of the kitchenette, a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table and a stash of sanitary towels to stem the blood-flow, de Fossard left Helen to rest. And there she lay, feeling alone and empty in the echoing silence of Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel. Her parents unaware, her boyfriend absent and – somewhere, in London – the perfect little body of her supposedly shameful sin was being disposed of in a bin. And for the next two days, she cried… …but not in grief.

On Saturday 16th May 1942 at 8:40pm, a full thirty-two hours after the abortion, Neil Barkla received a phone-call. Neil: “Hello?”, after a short silence the caller’s voice cracked with tears at the reassuring sound of her friend; Helen: “Neil?”, Neil: “Helen? Is everything okay?”, Helen: “No, the baby’s out, but… something went wrong”. And that’s all the words he needed to hear. As a loyal friend, as his wife Mary watched the kids, Neil caught the midnight train to London, and at 9:15am on Sunday 17th May 1942, Neil arrived at the Royal Mount Hotel. As all the while, Captain Tickell slept soundly in his bed.

Inside Room 365, the first thing Neil saw on Helen’s sweat-soaked face was her sweet-smile which somehow beamed through all of her pain, and as he clutched her hand and gave her a hug, she knew everything was going to be okay. But as he looked around her, the room told a different story.

Everywhere, on every surface, lay a chaotic mix of syringes, swabs and small glass bottles, as if in a feverish panic, an incompetent medic had wheeled his whole surgery in, and injected her with drug after drug in the hope that one would work. And even though the overpowering aroma of methylated spirit stung his eyes, it wasn’t this medical smell which would forever be burned into his brain.

A foul stench of rotten meat hung in the air; a feted and putrid smell so repulsive, it made Neil recoil and retch, as amongst the sea of bloodied sanitary towels and clumps of matted cotton rolls which littered the floor, a swarm of flies swirled, making it look as if the carpet was crawling to escape.

On the previously green bedspread lay Helen; her flushed face a ghostly white and her brown eyes all blood-shot and red, as with a gas mask covering her mouth she gulped great gasps of oxygen from a large metal cylinder. And although her baby was gone, still she writhed in pain, groaning and panting, her stomach all distended and swollen, as her exhausted body sat slumped amongst a sea of sweat, vomit and brown vaginal discharge; some new and fresh, some old and congealed. Neil tried his best to hide his horror behind a mask of hopefulness, but Helen knew the truth.

To her side, stood George de Fossard; whatever he’d done, he’d done wrong; and whatever he was doing, it wasn’t working, as he scrawled down her fluctuating temperature on the back of a fag packet. And although he was unqualified, one thing he knew for certain, although the baby was out, parts of the placenta were not, and of those bloody ruptured pieces which remained within her, all had gone rotten, rancid and septic.

Helen was in serious danger, but unwilling to call an ambulance (for fear of arrest) and believing he knew best, the unqualified doctor gave her more insulin, and for the next four hours, he did nothing.

By 6pm, being drenched in sweat, Helen’s heart-rate erratically peaked at 200 beats per minute, twice its normal pulse, and with her body temperature being too high to record, suspecting that her death was literally hours away, de Fossard finally bit the bullet and called a professional.

By 8pm, with Neil holding Helen up, her scalding skin too hot to touch, she was taken to 15 King’s Court in Chelsea, the surgery of Doctor Ernst Blumberg, a widely respected and highly qualified doctor.

Seeing her obvious distress, weakened state and a stinking brown liquid oozing from between her legs, Dr Blumberg examined Helen in his sterilised operating room; noted a jagged tear on the anterior wall of her cervix – the tell-tale sign of a botched abortion – and with her body being poisoned to death by acute peritonitis, the doctor administered a strong antibiotic, a safe anaesthetic, he carefully removed every piece of putrefying placenta and flushed out her cervix with two pints of strong detergent.

By 10pm, with her pulse calmer, her temperature down and her swelling subsiding, being pain-free, Helen’s sweet smile had returned, and although Dr Blumberg couldn’t prove that it was the de Fossard who had incompetently performed this illegal abortion, he recommended that (as a precaution) Helen be taken to the nearest hospital. By 10:15pm, Helen walked out of the surgery unaided…

…by 11pm, being too afraid of arrest, de Fossard had driven her back to Room 365 at the Mount Royal Hotel. And with the airless room being stiflingly hot and the windows shut, the congealed vomit and caked blood had turned into a feeding frenzy of bacteria, flies and maggots.

On Monday 18th May, after a restful night’s sleep, Helen was feeling weak but well. On Tuesday 19th May, being restless and sore, Helen’s swelling had returned, along with a feted stench of rotting flesh, and as she thrashed about, sweating and screaming, the brown liquid oozed from her nostrils. By 6:30, the next morning, having lapsed into a coma, 27 year old Helen Mary Pickwoad was dead.

When informed of Helen’s death, although Captain Tickell claimed to be upset, he shed no tears, said no prayers, and even though he was only a few doors away at Maison Lyonese in the Cumberland Hotel, he never entered the Mount Royal Hotel, or Room 365, where his girlfriend was dead.

Unlike so many deaths in London’s West End, for the Police, there was no real mystery here. With his fingerprints found on the bloody forceps, George de Fossard was arrested for the murder of Helen Mary Pickwoad. Six days later, on Tuesday 26th May 1942, they arrested Captain Edward Tickell.

In a lengthy trial, lasting almost a month, beginning on 4th June 1942, at The Old Bailey, with both men charged with manslaughter and conspiring to perform an illegal abortion, they pleaded not guilty.

On Friday 2nd July 1942, 44 year old German national, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard; with his low whispering voice, his nervous shake, his suspiciously blinking eyes and two prior convictions as an abortionist, was found guilty of manslaughter and was sentenced to five years in prison.

And 37 year old Captain Edward Jerrard Tickell; the natural born charmer with chiselled good looks which could lure in any lovely lady and a cheeky chatter that could talk his way out of any trouble?

Although his guilt was obvious to the Police, with Tickell having not booked the hotel himself, paid for the abortion in cash, written nothing on paper and with no witnesses to confirm whether he was anywhere near Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, at any time, during Helen’s life or death, And with no evidence against him, Captain Edward Tickell was found not guilty and released. And once again, being born into wealth and privilege, he walked away, without any conscience or consequence.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Cult of Domesticity and Colour Me Dead. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susan Atkins and Gary Lante. Thank you guys, you are super dooper.

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.

Sources: This case was entirely investigated using all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew..

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Full of Star by Phillip Weigl
• She Wolf In My Heart by Sergey Cheremisinov
• Anxiety by Kai Engel
• Sunset by Kai Engel
• Untitled by Seclorance
• I Knew A Guy by Kevin MacLeod
• Between by Mayden
• Meekness by Kai Engel
• Comatose by Kai Engel
• Dybbuks White Eyes by Sergey Cheremisinov 

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Spitfires Flyby – https://freesound.org/people/Fight2FlyPhoto/sounds/142901/
  
• Air-Raid Soundscape - https://freesound.org/people/CGEffex/sounds/93843/
  
• Wedding Bells - https://freesound.org/people/phonoflora/sounds/201170/
  
• Cheer - https://freesound.org/people/jayfrosting/sounds/333404/
  
• Train Leaving Moor Street – https://freesound.org/people/keithpeter/sounds/125211/
  
• Old Phone Ringing – https://freesound.org/people/Werra/sounds/78565/
  
• Writing-  https://freesound.org/people/MoKoLoKo/sounds/325134/
  

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.

As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script. 

You can DOWNLOAD episode #35 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below

Thank you for downloading episode thirty-five of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

Each week, on Extra Mile, I’ll be hosting a listener Q & A, so if you have any questions about Murder Mile, the making of Murder Mile, it’s recent nomination as one of the Best British True-Crime Podcasts of 2018 (whoops, did I mention it again, oh well), or any questions on the cases we’ve covered, feel free to message me via the links in the show-notes, and I’ll do my very best to answer them.

As always, Murder Mile is arranged like dinner date with famous Belgian detective Hercules Poirot; as what begins with a very detailed dissection of a grisly death, soon descends into a sarcastic amount of waffle, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif (Abd ar-Razzak Sayheed al-Nay-eef); an exiled Iraqi national, living in the West End, who found himself the target of several assassinations. And yet, as high up as the orders to have him killed came, his death was left in the hands of a most unlikely man.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may disturb any delicate poppets, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 35: The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi.

Today I’m standing in Bryanston Square, W1; two streets north of Oxford Street, two streets east of Edgware Road and two tube stops west of Soho. If this sounds familiar, that’s because situated on the north side of the square, at the junction of Wyndham Place and Montagu Place, there once stood an air-raid shelter, where Evelyn Margaret Hamilton became the first victim of The Blackout Ripper.

With its private garden surrounded by several seven-story Edwardian mansion houses, so anonymous they can only differentiated by subtle changes in their brown bricks, white windows and black wrought iron gates; this square is so exclusive and yet deliberately discrete; with so many embassies nearby, it’s highly likely that the bin-men are bugged, the street-sweeper’s a secret sniper, each concierge has top secret clearance, the milkman’s been knighted, the homeless are only here by royal appointment, and even a posh poodle doing a doggy poo-doodle on the path is protected by diplomatic immunity.

And with me not being an oily oligarch, a Saudi slime-ball, a disgraced duke, or an aristocratic bit of hoity-toity who’s under house-arrest as the judge deemed him too posh for prison; the second I even think of setting foot in their private garden; alarms will wail, flood-lights will flash and six black-suited men with Uzis will hurl me into a holding cell, I’ll be frisked, stripped and water-boarded; tortured, strangled and chopped into a rather fancy pate, as (in their eyes) anyone who doesn’t have a diamond-encrusted Rolex, a Beamer painted by Picasso, an aversion to paying tax, a dubious human rights record and isn’t a regular donor to the Tory party is clearly suspicious.
And although this was the home of socialite Wallace Simpson (the American divorcee who caused King Edward VIII to abdicate) and Osmond Barnes, the man who gave the whole of India to Queen Victoria as a gift, it was here, outside Flat 21 of 35 Bryanston Square, that Abd al-Naif, an exiled Iraqi national with a death sentence on his head faced a very unlikely firing squad. (INTERSTITIAL).

On Friday 18th February 1972 at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple were shopping amongst Edgware Road’s noisy, excitable and chaotic Middle Eastern bustle of shawarma bars, shisha cafes, deli’s, tailors and coffee-houses. Being home to many Arabian immigrants since the late 19th century; regardless of where their roots lay (whether in the Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Israel or Egypt), although this half mile stretch of Edgware Road is often dubbed “Little Beirut”, it’s always been a place of peace, safety and anonymity.

Being five foot nine inches tall with black wavy hair, thin brown eyes and a lantern jaw, 38 year old Abd was the epitome of an Iraqi businessmen; as dressed in a tailored suit and shiny shoes with a crisp shirt and tie, although he had the heft of a man with a military background, with a thin uneasy grimace about his lips, he had the face of a politician. But by those who knew him, he was widely respected.

Side-by-side, Abd walked with 34 year old Lamya, his beloved wife of sixteen years and mother to their five children (the youngest of which – Ali – they’d dropped off at a local nursery). And although she was an unassuming little lady with long dark hair, beautiful eyes and an intoxicating smile, having followed her husband through thick-and-thin, she was his strength, his confidante and his soul-mate.

And as much as they resembled an average middle-class Iraqi couple who’d relocated to London in the early 1970’s, they were anything but, and very few people knew who he truly was.

Born in the Iraqi city of Fallujah (43 miles west of Baghdad) on 18th June 1934, Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was raised in an affluent middle-class family, the second oldest of six siblings, and educated with traditional values, religious upbringing and a passionate patriotism for his country.

As a confident, polite and driven young man; aged 16, Abd enrolled in the Iraqi Military Academy. Being eager to rise through the ranks of the Army, after three years of intensive training, Abd was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant, graduated with a degree from the State College of Baghdad and being both a successful soldier and a political thinker, with Iraq being our ally in the years after World War Two, Abd was trained by British intelligence at an undisclosed military base in Uckfield (Sussex).

By 1964, Abd was appointed Deputy Head of Iraqi Military Intelligence. By 1965, he was Advisor to the Iraqi President (Abdul Salam Arif). And by 1968, Abd was promoted to General, all by the age of 34.

But by 1968, with the Cold War heating up as the US and the USSR battled for supremacy in both the Space Race and the Arms Race, with the government of Iraqi leaning towards Communism, on 17th July 1968, Abd initiated a “bloodless coup”, seized control of the state and appointed General Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr of the Ba’ath Party as President, and himself as the 39th Prime Minister of Iraq.

Dubbed “The White Revolution”; this bloodless coup was seen as indicative of the peaceful coalition government Abd had created with al-Bakr as an Arab Socialist and himself as an independent, but after just 15 days as Prime Minister, President al-Bakr and several Ba’ath Party conspirators - one of whom was the future Iraqi President Saddam Hussein – had Abd arrested.

Eager to keep-up the pretence of a peaceful transition, al-Bakr had Abd ejected from Iraq, exiled to Rambat and (fearing for his life) was forced to take-up the powerless position as the Iraqi Ambassador to Morocco. One month later, having been shipped-off to Switzerland to act as the Iraqi Minister for Swiss Foreign Affairs, Abd was warned that the Ba’ath Party were plotting to have him killed.

As the authorities in Switzerland were unable to offer him protection, with his escape bankrolled by a wealthy Iraqi ally - Sheik Mulalhal Balasim al-Yassin – Abd, Lamya and their five children fled to London on 15th September 1969 and moved into the safety of Flat 21 at 35 Bryanston Square.

It was here they hoped to live a normal life, far from al-Bakr, the Ba’ath Party and Iraqi politics. But living in a city surrounded by strangers, with a death sentence hanging over his head, he would never be sure who would be sent to kill him. On 18th February 1972, Abd came face-to-face with his assassin, and he arrived in the very unlikely guise of a man named Yahya Qassim. (INTERSTITIAL).

Born in the Iraqi capital of Baghdad on 10th October 1914, 58 year old Yahya QASSIM (Yiy-yah Cazim) is described by eye-witnesses as “odd”, “feeble” and “wizened”. Being just five foot three inches tall, seven stone in weight and burdened by a wrinkled weedy frame (so thin and slight) that a sharp gust of wind could easily blow him off his feet; and dressed in a shabby raincoat, a crumpled suit, a bent trilby hat and thick wire-framed glasses, Qassim hardly looked like a hired killer.

With no military experience, intelligence training or knowledge of espionage; Qassim wasn’t a soldier, a spy or an assassin. If anything, being awkward, agitated and highly strung, not only was he the sort of man who struggled to reach things on a high shelf and needed help to open a jar of pickles, but with a nervous stutter so pronounced he was often impossible to understand, being the type of weasel-like weirdo you’d naturally steel clear of, Qassim looked suspicious, devious and untrustworthy.

But then, Qassim wasn’t a killer, he was a scholar. Being bright, erudite and political, in 1934, aged 20, Qassim graduated from Baghdad College with a law degree, set-up his own legal practice, and later became Assistant Secretary to the Baghdad Council of Ministers, Legal Adviser to the Iraqi Railway, editor of his own left-wing Arab newspaper - ‘Ash-Sha’b’ and devout member of the Ba’ath Party.

By 1971, as a writer, a lawyer and a married man with two grown-up sons, Qassim lived at 4 Hyde Park Place, a nine minute walk from Bryanston Square. Having never owned a gun, held a gun, or even risked firing one for fear that that recoil may break his wrist, Qassim’s role in the assassination was not as the killer, but as the bait, and under the guise of an ally, eager to rebuild the reputation of this exiled Iraqi General, he would lure Abd into a public place, where his assassins would lay in wait.

But first, he needed Abd to trust him… and for the weasily Qassim, that was easier said than done.

Abd’s trusted friend - Sheik al-Yassin – the Arab businessman who had bankrolled Abd’s escape, exile and had even financed the education of his five kids, reluctantly introduced Abd to Qassim one year prior, describing the stuttering lawyer as a persistent pest and an irritant who was never to be trusted.

Being a polite and patient man, burdened by a desire to never cause offence, Abd agreed to a brief meeting with Qassim in the safety of Sheikk al-Yassin’s Kensington office, and as they said goodbye, he considered the matter closed… but this meeting marked the beginning of the end of his life.

It started with phone-calls; sometimes weekly, sometimes daily, sometimes nightly, and always on the end of the phone was Qassim, pestering Abd for more meetings to discuss the eventual overthrow of the Ba’ath Party regime and the exiled General’s glorious return to power as the rightful Prime Minister of Iraq. None of which Abd even wanted, but still Qassim droned on, and on, and on. 

And then came the meetings, endless meetings with a never-ending slew of nameless people, as Qassim waffled on about Abd’s impending rise to power as the leader of an anti-Ba’ath Party revolution, which Qassim had claimed to have already mustered the support of powerful allies - such as the Jordanian Prime Minister, the Shah of Persia, the Iranian Minister for Foreign Affairs and King Feisal of Saudi Arabia – and yet, as much as Abd politely tried to persuade the nervous little lawyer that he had no plans, at all, to re-ignite the Iraqi revolution, to destabilise the Ba’ath party, and that he only cared about his family’s safety, Qassim remained persistent and droned on, and on, and on.

A few weeks prior to the assassination plot, Abd had grown deeply suspicious of Qassim’s questioning, as what began as polite pleasantries before a tedious barrage of business talk, soon felt more like he was deliberately fishing for information about the minutiae of Abd’s daily routine.

Early December 1971: Abd received a series of strange and silent calls from public phone-boxes to his home phone, but – on every occasion - the second he’d pick-up, they’d hang-up.

Late December 1971: Qassim organised a meeting between Abd and Saddig El Bassam, a (supposedly) high-profile Iraqi merchant and staunch opponent of the Ba’ath Party, and yet, as urgent as their meeting was, very little was said, the details were vague, and the next day, the merchant had vanished.

January 1972: Having bumped into Qassim on George Street (a residential road one street south of Bryanston Square), with his stutter being unusually pronounced, Qassim told Abd of the rumour that he was protected by Persian bodyguards and carried a gun. In a momentary lapse in judgement, being desperate to depart this loathsome little man, Abd denied both and opened his jacket to prove it.

February 1972: Qassim organised yet another urgent meeting, only this time with Aga Jaffar; an Iraqi businessman who Abd had already met, and yet, as pointless as this meeting was, Qassim’s mind wasn’t on business, or politics, or even Iraq. Instead he steered the conversation towards more trivial matters about Abd’s life; where he shopped, what he ate, who he drank with and how he travelled. And when asked why he wanted to know, Qassim simply stuttered “nothing, nothing, nothing”.

As a solid judge of character, Lamya (Abd’s wife) instantly took a dislike to Qassim, and being desperate never to share the same space as such a devious and weasily little man, she asked Abd never to invite him to their home, or if he did, she would need to be elsewhere.

The first assassination attempt on the life of Abd al-Naif took place on Monday 14th February 1972 at 3pm. Or it would have done, had Qassim not been so awkward, odious and inept.

That afternoon, as if the city’s decrepit old sewers had been blocked by a steamy stinking cesspool of human waste, a bad smell returned to 35 Bryanston Square. And dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the stuttering rambling shambles of Qassim slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.

With a crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, but with this being the early 1970’s, an era long before video intercoms, this call was strictly audio only, and having no idea who it was, the General let out an audible groan when he heard the nasal whine of “Abd? It’s Qassim”. Abd was too tired for this, too fed-up, too bored and too frustrated. In essence, their conversation broke down like this:

Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things. Come on down, we’ll go to the Portman Hotel, have coffee, tea, my treat”, Abd: “We? Who’s this we?”, Qassim: “We? You? Me? And… some people. You must come”. At which, feeling uncomfortable by the vagueness of the details and with his patience tested, Abd replied “no”.

A long silence ensued, and although Abd couldn’t be certain, he swore he heard the scuffle of feet and the mutter of frustrated voices, as Qassim piped up with “come down here then, we can talk here”, as persistent as ever. But even from all the way up on the sixth floor, Aba smelled a rat.

“No” Abd replied, “No, I think I won’t, I’m busy, maybe next week, okay?”, but Qassim said nothing. There was another crackle of static, another mutter, another scuffle, followed by a series of stuttering statements as Qassim insisted that what he had to tell Abd was vital, urgent and too secret to be said over an intercom. And knowing that this persistent pest would buzz about his ear like a blood-hungry mosquito – with Lamya (his wife) being out – and with an air of reluctance, Abd invited him up.

For an interminably long minute, through the spy-hole of flat 21, Abd hesitantly watched as the needle of the sixth floor lift slowly crept up; from ground floor, to first, to second, to third, then it stopped, then it restarted, to fourth, to fifth, and then (ping) to sixth. Behind his thick wooden door, as the art-deco gates of the lift spread aside, into the hall, Abd spied the solitary shambling mess of Qassim. His wrinkled face grimacing an awkward grin as his wizened old hand knocked on the door, which Abd cautiously (and reluctantly) opened, and – once again - Qassim had invited himself into the flat of the exiled Iraqi Prime Minister, unaware that his presence was rarely (if ever) welcome.

For fifteen minutes, they sat, sipped tea and chatted; nothing urgent cropped up, nothing important was discussed, and - once again - Abd denied he has any political plans, any revolutionary ambitions, and simply wanted to live with his family in peace. And with that, Qassim wished him well and left.

Having lived in a constant fear of being killed for the last four years, maybe the stress had got the better of him, Abd had thought? Maybe he was seeing threats where there weren’t any? As if the Iraqi Ba’ath Party were going to send an assassin, why would they send Qassim? The idea was ludicrous.

But as inept as it seemed, this wasn’t an aborted attempt to assassinate Abd al-Naif, this was just a dry-run for the real thing, which would occur just four days later, but first…

(Phone rings) Wednesday 17th February 1972 at 7pm, Abd received a phone-call. Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things”, Abd: “What things?”, Qassim: “Just things… too secret to say over the phone”. And so it was agreed that they’d meet, the next day, at 4pm, in Abd’s flat. (Phone hangs up).

On Friday 18th February 1972, at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple – known locally as Abd & Lamya – strolled along the chaotic bustle of “Little Beirut” on the Edgware Road; their senses tantalised by the sharp tang of freshly brewed coffee, the fruity waft of shisha pipes and the spitting spice of lamb shawarma, as excitable café owners lured prospective patrons in with the promise of falafel, baklava, kofta, manakeesh, grilled halloumi, fattoush and - a delicacy of Iraq - Masgouf (a slowly cooked carp seasoned with lemon and pickles).

And as much as Lamya inhaled those beautiful familiar smells from her homeland, Abd’s eyes and ears were elsewhere. Was it his imagination, or was he being watched, was he being followed, were there a lot of Iraqi men milling about on Edgware Road, or was he seeing threats where there weren’t any? He looked at his watch, it was 3pm, he’d have to head home for his meeting with that irritant Qassim.

(Phone rings) Thursday 18th February 1972 at 3:30pm; Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “Our meeting…?”, Abd: “4pm, in my flat, I haven’t forgotten”, and then there was a pause, Qassim: “Hmm, let’s meet on the ground-floor, you come down”, Abd: “Down? Why?”, Qassim: “I’m worried about the lift. What if there’s a power-cut?”, Abd: “There’s no power-cut”, Qassim: “What if it’s broken?”, Abd: “I just used it, it’s not broken”, Qassim: “What if it breaks?”, Abd: “Use the stairs”. And with his patience wearing very thin, Abd said something to the effect of “here, 4pm, be there, or don’t” (phone hangs up). And with that, the assassination of Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was set.

At 3:40pm, three men exited 4 Hyde Park Place and took a brisk nine minute walk over Edgware Road to Bryanston Square; two of them are a mystery. Described as men of Middle-Eastern appearance, of average height, weight and build, aged in their 20’s or 30’s, dressed in dark plain clothing, and with no scars, tattoos or redeeming features of any kind, it’s almost as if they were trained to blend-in and disappear, as of everyone who saw them, no-one can remember anything about them.

Where-as the third man? There was no mystery as to who he was; as being a short shambling rambling mess, dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the only real mystery was why 58 year old Yahya Qassim (Yay-yah Cazim) was even hired.

At ten minutes to four on Friday 18th February 1972, Qassim and his two mysterious assassins slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.

With a sharp crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, hearing a slight scuffle Abd asked “Are you alone?”, with a nervous stutter Qassim replied “Yes… alone”, and with an electric buzz and a metal thung, the black front door of 35 Bryanston Square opened.

Which was most convenient for 72 year old Millicent Harris, resident of flat 8 on the second floor, as with her arms weighted down with shopping bags, one of the nice young men held the door open for her, and – with a sense of good manners, often absent with today’s youth – they let the lady into the lift, as they stood side-by-side; Qassim, Millicent and two highly trained Iraqi assassins, in one hand they held black balaclavas and in the other 9mm Browning revolvers.

With all four squeezed into the slightly compact lift, as the mysterious man nearest the panel prodded the button to the sixth floor, Millicent politely asked “second floor please”, but the man ignored her. She asked again “second floor please”, but once again he ignored her, they all did (which was odd as Qassim was fluent in English), so believing these reprobates were either foreign, ignorant or rude, she jabbed at the button herself, and scowled at the naughty men with her most withering look.

On the sixth floor, Abd watched as the lift’s needle stalled four floors below. Behind him, busy in her kitchen, Lamya prepared dinner. With Qassim closing in, normally she’d be out, but having finished her chores and with no reason to leave, she stayed, as Abd promised to keep the meeting brief.

Suddenly, the needle of the sixth floor lift restarted, and slowly crept up from second floor, to third, to fourth, to fifth and finally (ping) to sixth, but Abd had no sense of trepidation. Qassim was more of an ass than an assassin and only thing he was likely to kill was time, air and brain-cells. But as the lift’s art-deco gates opened wide and the solitary shambling mess of Qassim stepped out… he froze in fear.

There was no awkward grin on Qassim’s wrinkled old face and no wizened old hand knocking on the door. As (unlike ever time prior) the ever-cautious Abd wasn’t peeping through the spy-hole, waiting for the very last second to open his heavy wooden door. Instead, he was standing in front of it.

Qassim tried to warn his co-conspirators, but with his wibbling lips only able muster a stutter, and a crazy compilation of consonants hardly being helpful to these hired assassins, as they strolled out of the lift – their black balaclavas off and their revolvers not cocked – sensing his immediate danger, Abd bolted backwards and slammed the door shut, as a volley of 9mm shots ripped through the wood,

Behind the splintered door of flat 21; amongst the shrill screams and the choking tears, Lamya could be heard sobbing “my husband is killed, my husband is killed”, as the assassins fled, their booted feet thundering down the stairs, but gripped with fear, Qassim simply stood motionless and stared.

Hearing the shots, Ernest Taylor, the caretaker of 35 Bryanston Square, bravely attempted to grapple with the fleeing assassins, but with both men being young, fit and swift, they easily dodged passed the elderly gent, dashed into the quiet residential street and disappeared forever.

Unsure whether his mission was successful, Qassim (always being a bastion of tact) telephoned his victim’s flat and calmly asked “Lamya? It’s Qassim, what has happened?” To which (seeing blood pour from a bullet-hole in her body and her husband slumped on the floor) she screamed “you have killed my husband, you have killed me”, and then, he promptly hung up.

Unlike the spry-assassins, the 58 year old, five foot three inch Yahya Qassim was easily collared by the mansion block’s caretaker - Ernest Taylor, questioned by the Police, of which he denied all knowledge, and with both guns and masks found nearby, on 28th February 1972, Qassim was formerly charged…

…but not with murder. You see, so inept was Qassim and his assassins, that nobody actually died.

With the door slammed shut and unable to see their target, of those five shots fired; one hit the hall skirting board, one hit the bedroom doorframe, two hit the door, and with all five shots entirely missing Abd - who’s military training had told him to drop to the deck and stay low – one bullet had hit Lamya in the right shoulder. But after just two weeks in hospital, Lamya had made a full recovery.

Yahya Qassim was tried at the Old Bailey on 19th June 1972 and charged with the attempted murder of Abd al-Naif and with intent to cause grievous bodily harm to Lamya al-Naif. He pleaded not guilty to all charges and the jury (unanimously) found him… not guilty. With no gun on his person, no bullets in his pocket, no mask on his face, no fingerprints anywhere at the scene and no witnesses able to confirm whether Qassim had fired (let alone held) a gun, he was found innocent and walked free.

Six years later, on Sunday 9th July 1978, outside of the five-star Intercontinental Hotel on London’s Park Lane, as the exiled Iraqi General hopped in a taxi and headed home to his beloved wife, he was cut down by a hail of bullets, one of which blasted a hole in the back of his head, and he died the very next day. This time, his Iraqi assassins were professionals, and his death sentence having been (reportedly) ordered by the ambitious Vice-President of Iraq, whose name was Saddam Hussein.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Killafornia Dreaming and Targeted. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susie Brace, Lina Cho, Roger M, The Quiet One and Gunga-Dun. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook.

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.

Sources: This episode  of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, so everything you hear is original and true.

Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:

• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits)
  
• Bir Demet Yaseman by Turku (Nomads of the Silk Road)
• A Vital Piece of Music by Steve Combs
  
• Muhabet by Turku (Nomads of the Silk Road)
• Imminence by Kai Engel
• Untitled by Seclorance
• Contempt by Seclorance
• Drum Solo by Turku (Nomads of the Silk Road)
• She Wolf in my Heart by Sergey Cheremisinov
• Delirium by Kai Engel
• Exile by Seclorance
  

Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).

• Pakacaping Music - https://freesound.org/people/RTB45/sounds/253616/
  
• Muslim Protest - https://freesound.org/people/karymronda/sounds/271425/
• Call to Prayer - https://freesound.org/people/fthgurdy/sounds/427428/
• Gaza traffic - https://freesound.org/people/kyles/sounds/406878/
• Tambura music - https://freesound.org/people/Tomlija/sounds/110333/
• Iraq in Fragments - https://freesound.org/people/james_longley/sounds/433791/
• Old cars - https://freesound.org/people/daveincamas/sounds/43802/
• Marching - https://freesound.org/people/WebbFilmsUK/sounds/200322/
• Old Trucks - https://freesound.org/people/daveincamas/sounds/43804/
• Bazaar - https://freesound.org/people/BrN/sounds/60602/
• Fish Market - https://freesound.org/people/CaganCelik/sounds/414669/
• African Market - https://freesound.org/people/mikewest/sounds/407641/
• Moroccan Market - https://freesound.org/people/jensfelger/sounds/424255/

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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk