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

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 #34 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.

INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode thirty-four of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.

Nominated one of the Best British True-Crime Podcasts of 2018 (yes, I plan to mention that until at least 2019, or maybe 2020), Murder Mile is based on my five-star rated guided walk, researched using the original declassified police investigation files, recorded using authentic sounds taken from the murder location, and comes complete with crime scene photos, location videos and a murder map to show you how close these murder truly are.

As always, Murder Mile is a lot like a hot date with a Thai hooker, as it features a quick thrill upfront, a mystery in the middle and a shock at the end, as well as lots of head-scratching and references to sausage, 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 Brian Alexander Robinson, a 19 year old part-time DJ who murdered a man he had never met before, for no financial gain nor personal malice. And yet, although he was found guilty, Brian should never have been tried for murder.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may upset the fluffy-bunny brigade, 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 34: Brian Alexander Robinson and the D’Arblay Street Death.

Today I’m standing on D’Arblay Street, smack bang in Soho’s centre; two streets west of the murder scene of Canadian masturbator Richard Rhodes Henley, one street north of The Blackout Ripper’s second victim Evelyn Oatley and one street north-east of sweet-natured sex-worker Ginger Rae.

Speckled with a messy mix of eighties eyesores, sixties shitpits and 18th century slum-houses, although D’Arblay Street is curiously quiet, bafflingly broken and painfully pug-ugly (owing to a teeny tiny hole in the road which – even after one and a half years - Westminster Council still hasn’t fixed), after a sizable injection of cash, this stumpy little side-street is finally being given a second lease of life, as… yes, you’ve guessed it… yet another haven for half-witted hipsters. Urgh!

And although, like a hipster’s head, it’s always half empty, except for vague hints of humus and falafel, the unsubtle sounds of bongos and digeridoos, and the sight of top-hatted twats supping micro-brewed beers made from liberated lentils, terrapin tears and ethically sourced breast-milk; if you’re idea of heaven is having a hat so tiny it looks like a boil on your bonce, jeans so tight that the world knows your religion, or a mush so hideously hairy it resembles an unkempt sailor’s anus (yes Marco, I mean you), give it a year, and D’Arblay Street may become your very own personal paradise.

And yet, today, on the south side of D’Arblay Street, by the dark and brooding archway of Wardour Mews, where a long-line of over-excited and easily-duped tourists, queue-up for two-to-three hours, simply so they can say that they’ve sat in a very specific if underwhelming café? It was right here, that Brian Robinson was forced to make a decision which would change two lives forever. (INTERSTITIAL)

On 22nd June 1948, a British troop-carrier docked in the Essex port of Tilbury having first made a detour to Kingston (Jamaica). On-board were 802 servicemen from the Commonwealth colony of the West Indies, who (as loyal subjects of His Majesty the King) had bravely fought in the Second World War, and now (with the Britain in an economic depression and suffering a severe labour shortage) these brave men were once again coming to our aid, but not as warriors, as workers. The ship would be known as The Windrush, and for many, it marked the birth of modern multiculturalism in Britain.

Having left behind their families, their homes and their lives, upon arrival at Tilbury Dock, with many men clutching a single suitcase, wearing their one good suit, a porkpie hat and a confused look as they wondered who stole the sun, hide all the fruit, covered everything in concrete and widdled in the water, some men stayed for just a few years, but most remained, later followed by their families.

And as immigration continued through the 1950’s, by the mid-1960’s, with the West Indian workers rarely (if ever) being thanked and habitually being branded the “bogie-man” by the uneducated whites and even by Britain’s other immigrants who’d quickly forgotten their own hardship and adopted a “we were here first” attitude to the new invaders, Britain in the 1960’s was a powder-keg of racial tension.

Sparked by far-right fascists such as Oswald Mosley's Union Movement who fought to “Keep Britain White”, inflamed by British Prime Minister Sir David Lloyd George who referred to Jamaica as “the slum of the Empire” and fanned by a Government who saw the West Indian emigres, no longer as help but as a hindrance, and not as a people but as a problem, almost a decade before the 1976 Race Relations Act (which made it illegal to refuse homes, jobs or services to anyone based on their ethnic heritage), it must have seemed like lunacy for any West Indian to want to come to Britain. But on 16th August 1961, a 16 year old boy did just that, and his name was Brian Robinson. (INTERSTITIAL).

Brian Alexander Robinson was born on 11th November 1944 in the Jamaican capital of Kingston. With stout little legs, podgy round cheeks and a pot-belly, Brian was the first-born son of two doting parents - Mary and Alexander. He was healthy, happy, loved and he would also be their last.

When Brian was just a one year old, his father died of cancer, leaving his distraught mother in the grip of depression. Being desperate for her attention, Brian became hyper-active and hot-tempered, but with him being the spitting image of her dear-departed husband, his love went unreturned.

Aged seven, being eager to be seen rather than smacked, whilst playing in the garden, Brian fell from a tree. And yet, as much as he screamed, cried and clutched his arm, with his mother having remarried and busy cuddling her new boy, neither Brian nor his injured arm received the attention they so badly needed. With his left humerus fractured, chronic inflammation having set in and with the bone going untreated, as Brian grew, his left arm didn’t, and the pain would plague him for the rest of his life.

Aged nine, Brian’s mother uprooted with her new family to Brooklyn (New York), leaving her first-born son behind in Kingston, the responsibility of relatives. Although studious, if a little easily upset, Brian studied hard at St Alison’s School and later at Grove College, but being of below-average intelligence and gaining no qualifications, aged just 16, Brian left the sunshine behind to seek a better life in Britain.

On the 16th August 1961, a five foot five inch man with square shoulders, an ambling gait and a little pot belly strutted down the gangplank at Southampton dock, his broad plump face beaming, as unlike the land he’d left behind; there was no sun, trees or sky, just a noisy cacophony of ships, trains, cars and cranes, as the air hung thick with smog. In his right hand, Brian held a small battered suitcase, and in his left hand, a hat, the arm of his brown suit having been re-stitched a few inches shorter.

Like most West Indians, raised on a diet of fruits, meats, vegetables and spice, the British cuisine was (at best) disappointing and (at worst) disgusting; a bland tepid over-boiled mush made from animal entrails, topped with an unpalatable pastry and – to combat the blandness – it would be slathered in salt, coated in ketchup or drowned in gravy, but for Brian, this was a symbol of his new life.

Sadly, 13 years after the first arrivals on the Windrush, the tide had turned, and with the West Indian emigres - who’d been invited to help rebuild Britain – now regarded by a thankless state as a burden, even highly workers struggled to find jobs – with doctors working as dishwashers, barristers as brickies and office clerks as cleaners – and being forced to live in slum-housing, their rights ignored and faced with a barrage of threats, hostility and violence, life for the British West-Indians was tough.

Having moved into a first-floor flat at 9 Elm Park in the West Indian enclave of Brixton (South London), although Brian briefly worked as a warehouseman and his work record was regarded as “satisfactory”, being easily riled, highly strung and hot-tempered, each job rarely lasted more than a few months. And always feeling like a stranger in a strange land, what Brian craved most for - was family.

Being hungry, desperate and broke, on 28th December 1962, Brian was fined 20 shillings for the theft of one loaf, four rolls and three pints of milk. On 17th January 1963, he was sentenced to three months in prison for handling forged money. And on 18th January 1964, he served five months for obtaining a stolen chequebook. And although he was hardly a career criminal; being a black man with a prison record in 1960s Britain, Brian struggled to find employment and after an endless slog of mind-numbing jobs (as a shop assistant, radio repair man and a laundry worker), in June 1964, Brian started work as a part-time DJ at the Limbo Club. Six weeks later, he would be charged with murder. (INTERSTITIAL)

Today, down the dark and brooding archway of Wardour Mews, just off D’Arblay Street, hidden in the basement of number 11b is D M Buttons; a bespoke embroiderers which monograms and personalises buttons for most of the exclusive tailors on Savile Row, but back in 1964, this was The Limbo Club.

With the eastern-side of Wardour Mews having been bombed during the blitz of World War Two, this thin, dark, Edwardian dead-end was once a no-go-zone for any sensible citizen, being packed (as it was) with derelict buildings, burned-out cars and broken glass. But amongst the debris, a series of illegal gambling dens, brothels, coffee-houses and nightclubs sprung up.

Hidden in the damp dark squalor of the rat-infested basement at 11b Wardour Mews, The Limbo Club was an illegal nightspot; notorious for its raids and run-in with the Police, frequent fights, racial tension and was predominantly frequented by black men keen to dance with white women, and visa-versa.

Being barely sixty feet wide by forty-feet deep with a low-slung ceiling, The Limbo Club was lined with threadbare benches along the bare peeling walls, with a brick stairs at one end, a badly painted mural of a Tuscan vineyard on the other, as well as a fag-machine, a few lights and a bar in the middle which served bottled beers and spirits. It was grubby, grimy and grim… but for Brian, this was home.

Perched in a corner cubby-hole, to the right of the brick stairs, with a hi-fi system, a vinyl turntable, a wooden chair and two stereo speakers, each evening, as the resident DJ, Brian spun a soulful mix of rocksteady, reggae and ska records, including Bob Marley and the Wailers, Toots and the Maytals, Prince Buster, Desmond Dekker and The Aces, Lord Tanamo and The Skatalites. And with many of the West Indian regulars drinking rum, smoking weed and chatting in a thick patois, although The Limbo Club was in a dingy basement in a bombed-out London slum, for Brian, it was a little piece of heaven

Ran by his best-friend Oliver (whose real name was Leon Winchester Williams), Oliver was 26 year old thin-faced Rasta with high cheekbones, tight dreads, a goatee beard and a thick Jamaican accent, who being a few years older and a few inches taller, Brian regarded as the brother he never had.

And with the Limbo Club being where Brian had met his 18 year old girlfriend Jacqueline Edwards, known as “Jackie”, a white girl from a Catholic family, who he planned to marry the following year? This wasn’t just a nightclub, this was his home and his family. And would do anything to protect them.

On the evening of Thursday 28th August 1964, one night before the murder, Brian – who was liked by everyone and had no known enemies – was DJ’ing in his corner cubby-hole. Sat near him on one of the threadbare benches was a large, white, ape-like bruiser from Deptford known as “Big Jim”; all knuckles, muscles and menace, his tree-trunk legs spread wide like he owned the place and a gruff scowl on his gormless face, as he necked back one too many beers.

Having stood up and stooped to pick-up a fallen vinyl record, Big Jim popped his paint-splattered boot on Brian’s chair. Being polite Brian asked “Excuse me, sorry can I have my chair” – as this thin wooden seat wasn’t just somewhere to park his bum, as with his fractured arm often caused him pain in the cold as well as the heat, Brian needed a place to rest it - but Big Jim grunted “no”.
Maybe he was genuinely tired? Maybe (like Brian) he was physically disabled? Or maybe, as a racist, Big Jim simply disliked a black man forcing black music into his white ears, but having asked politely twice, Brian shoved Big Jim’s foot and took the seat back. Without provocation, Big Jim pulled a flick-knife and drunkenly slashed at Brian’s torso, but missed and sliced a small hole in his jacket.

Enraged, Big Jim yanked the seat back, tossing the five-foot five-inch black youth to the floor, and as the white brute stood there, nostrils flared and knuckles gripped, towering over the small, chubby and physically disabled teen, with the shimmering blade of the flick-knife bared, Big Jim attacked again.

Suddenly, all Big Jim saw was bricks, as his snarling face was pinned to the wall by Eddie Cassar (the club’s burly bouncer) who disarmed him in an arm-lock. And as Big Jim yelled and frothed like a rabid dog, fearing a bloody aftermath, as Eddie held the drunken lout back, Oliver told Brian to run.

They’d had trouble in the Limbo Club before, not just because it was a club for black men, ran by black men and frequented by black men who danced with white women, and visa-versa, but because the Teddy Boys were always looking for a fight, and they’d travel into town to find it.

And – as senseless as it was - that’s how it started.

Friday 29th August 1964 was hot and sticky as the summer sun burned through the cloudless sky. For Brian, the heat and humidity was a welcome reminder of his Jamaican roots, as he sat shirtless on his sofa with Jackie, kissing and cuddling with the woman he loved. And as much as their lips lingered, little did they know, that this would be the last kiss they’d ever share.

At roughly 9pm, as the sun slowly set over the London skyline, his best-buddy Oliver, accompanied by his new girlfriend, Evelyn; a feisty Irish redhead who he’d met at the club just weeks before, called at Brian’s first floor flat at 9 Elm Park in Brixton. This was part of their usual routine.

As they fixed some cold drinks, Oliver cautioned his mate that the word on the street was that Big Jim would be back. Being no dummy, Brian knew this, and as much as he knew that a short tubby cripple didn’t stand a chance against a six foot oaf with a flick-knife, he knew he needed to even the odds.

From inside his blue jacket, Brian pulled a knife. Not a small knife, like the pathetic fish-slice that Big Jim had drunkenly waved about like a furious prude wafting away an unpleasant fart, but a real knife, with a thick steel blade, two inches wide by nine-inches long. Oliver’s wide eyes said it all, it truly was a terrifying piece, but that was the point. Brian wasn’t an idiot; he knew he was too crippled to fight, too small to run and had no experience of knives what-so-ever, so when Big Jim saw the big knife, it would be less of a lethal killing machine and more of a terrifying threat.

Again, Oliver warned Brian not to carry the knife, but his mind was made up. What if Big Jim attacked him? What if he attacked Oliver, Evelyn or Jackie? These weren’t just his friends, this was his family and (as a young boy with no real next-of-kin) these were the people he loved.

At 10pm; Oliver, Jackie, Evelyn and Brian – who was dressed in a blue corduroy jacket, crisp white shirt and blue jeans - caught the number 50 bus from Brixton to Charing Cross Road, and headed into Soho.

Although the sweltering sun had turned The Limbo Club into a stinking skunk-pit, as with having no windows, one door and being based in a damp basement, the feted stench of sweat, smoke and spilled spirits made the smell unbearable as the overheated patrons swigged back warm beers. With Big Jim nowhere to be seen, Brian’s seat staying under his bum and Oliver grooving with Evelyn on the dancefloor as Brian needle-dropped from ska track to reggae funk, apart from the usual blokey banter and argy-bargy from the local lads letting off steam, by all accounts, the night was uneventful.

In fact, the only fracas which preceded the murder was an unrecorded bit of verbal abuse between one group of local Teddy Boys, all of whom were white.

For whatever reason, a labourer called Peter Richardson Smith took umbrage with five local lads stood by the brick stairs; they were Johnny Howard, Victor Lazenby, Terry Marshall, Terry Kelly, Johnny’s brother David and Carole Anne Fisher, mother to Johnny’s four month old baby-daughter. But as fast as it flared up, the fury fizzed out, and – shortly afterwards - the lads left. It was just a regular night.

By 2am, with high-jinx over and everyone dancing, the nine-inch knife that Brian had stashed by his decks, ready to grab should Big Jim come cruising for a bruising, seemed pretty pointless. But the night was about to turn bad and that knife would change two lives forever.

Moments later, Oliver burst down the brick-stairs shouting “Brian! They’re here” and having barged passed the bulk of Eddie the bouncer, he hastily dashed into the bombed-out mess of Wardour Mews, his swift exit followed by a series of deafening thuds, smashed glass and muffled screams.

Eager to eavesdrop on the ensuing melee, the club’s patrons surged forward, causing a bottle-neck of sweaty bodies on the stairs, and being keen to keep the chaos outside, Eddie bolted the door shut.

Outside, a volley of hurled house-bricks and broken beer bottles bounced off the steel reinforced door, as a brutal cacophony of yells and screams echoed. As inside, Brian shouted “let me out, Oliver’s out there”, fearful of the unimaginable horror his best-friend was facing, as the missiles rained down.

(SILENCE) But the intended target was neither Oliver nor Brian; seeing a snarling gang of angry white youths, armed with bricks and bottles, Oliver thought these were Big Jim’s boys sent to bust Brian up. But huddled by the door, on the floor, he saw the bloody mess of Peter Richardson Smith, the labourer who’d had a brief verbal outburst with the local lads moments before, and as Oliver had exited the club, he’d accidentally been caught in the crossfire. Of course, Brian didn’t see any of this. (RETURN).

As the hail of homemade missiles died down and the fiery Jamaican forced his way out of The Limbo Club into the derelict bomb-sight of Wardour Mews, he didn’t see Peter Smith, he didn’t see anything, all he saw was Oliver; his friend, his brother and his family, slumped in sea of shattered debris, as pouring from his head was a steady stream of blood. Furiously, Brian demanded “who did this?”, and with a groggy trembling hand, Oliver said “those white boys” and pointed to a group of snarling yobs, dashing up the dark and brooding archway and out onto D’Arblay Street.

Seeing red as his seething blood boiled, as Brian charged up Wardour Mews, hurling a volley of abuse and bottles, as he dashed into the bright lights of D’Arblay Street, he very quickly realised his mistake. As being stood, smack-bang in the middle of the street, alone and exposed, Brian was surrounded by those fourteen white men, all armed, drunk and angry, as they slowly circled him. Most of whom had been in the club that night, one of whom was 25 year old local Teddy Boy - Johnny Howard.

As far as we know, neither Brian nor Johnny had ever met, talked or fought before. They were just two total strangers who’d come face-to-face. One was black, one was white, but both were hot-tempered.

Still steaming having seen his best-friend battered with bricks, fearing for the safety of his wife-to-be Jackie and believing that Big Jim had sent these angry white yobs to kill him, combined with the lethal mix of this being a racially volatile period in 1960’s London, Brian being a Jamaican Rasta, Johnny being a British Teddy-Boy and Jackie being Brian’s white girlfriend, that is all the moment took.

Being terrified, tiny and totally outnumbered, Brian pulled from his blue corduroy jacket the over-sized knife that he’d hidden by the hi-fi should Big Jim return. Although a threatening piece, now the realisation of Oliver’s words hit home; he was right, with Brian being short, crippled and not a born-fighter, he had no idea how to use the knife, and looking like a frightened zebra about to be pounced on by a wild pack of hungry hyenas, being desperate to escape, Brian began swinging and slashing indiscriminately with the sharp nine-inch piece of steel, mostly missing, until one of them hit.

Johnny Howard was stabbed just below his left nipple, the sharp blade piercing his crisp white shirt and khaki cardigan, sinking four inches long and three inches deep into his chest, skewering his left lung, severing his aorta and splitting his main artery. Johnny didn’t stand a chance.

As Brian and Jackie fled, having dived into a taxi on nearby Wardour Street, they didn’t see the horror unfolding behind them, as with steady spurts of hot red blood squirting from his severed heart, Johnny staggered towards his friends car, but having stumbled barely fifty feet, he suddenly stopped, just shy of Berwick Street, said “I’ve had it” and died in the street. He had a four month old baby daughter.

Brian was arrested in his first floor flat at 9 Elm Park (Brixton), just a few hours later, as he lay asleep with his girlfriend Jackie. Sitting on the bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of pants and a white vest, Brian professed his innocence, knowing his friends would back him up.

With the trial being held at The Old Bailey on 13th October 1964, less than six weeks later, with much of the eye-witness testimonies either being conflicted, convoluted or statements by hardly credible witnesses who (at the time of the murder) were either biased, drunk or drugged, even with the nine-inch knife and his bloodied shirt being found in his flat, Brian pleaded not guilty.

But having been implicated in the crime and fearful of receiving a lengthy prison sentence, one person colluded with the Police, became the star witness for the prosecution and testified that Brian alone was the murderer – it was his best-friend, Oliver. At his trial, an exasperated Brian stated “What a friend. He gets up in the box and says he saw me do it. When I get out, I’m never going to help anyone ever again”.  A few months later, just as he was starting a life term in prison, Jackie dumped him.

Brian Alexander Robinson, the 19 year old Jamaican youth, with a deceased father, an absent mother and a disabled arm, who’d travelled from the sun-kissed isles of the West Indies into the English gloom and racial turbulence of the early 1960’s to seek a better life, a steady job and – he hoped – a family, spent the next fifteen years of his life trapped in a cold grey cell in Brixton Prison, with no sunlight, no music, no love and no chance of acquittal or an early release.  

And as a black man in 1960’s Britain, who went to rescue his friend, was set-upon by an angry mob of white men and feared for his life, Brian appealed his life sentence on 24th May 1965, reasonably stating that he was threatened, provoked and (rightfully) he pleaded self-defence. His appeal was denied.

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

Stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are the Getting Off Podcast and Felon. (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 Lara Ingbordottir, Jay J, Stevie P, Mark Robotham, The Mysterious One and my lovely Eva, who’s paying me in kind. 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: Murder Mile's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, 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 (credits)
  
• Not The Street You Used To Walk by Phillip Weigl
  
• 2020 Instrumental by John Woodward
  
• As Below by Cult With No Name
  
• Wake Up by Kai Engel
  
• 
  

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

• Tropical Waves - https://freesound.org/people/tombenedict/sounds/397592/
  
• Tropical Birds - https://freesound.org/people/YleArkisto/sounds/254666/
• Jamaican Street – https://freesound.org/people/reinsamba/sounds/21683/
• Fog Horn - https://freesound.org/people/digifishmusic/sounds/276570/
• Tropical Thunder - https://freesound.org/people/Transconductor/sounds/59823/
• English Coast - https://freesound.org/people/Carlvus/sounds/182601/
• Ship Yard - https://freesound.org/people/LG/sounds/91759/
• Steam Engine - https://freesound.org/people/keithpeter/sounds/125211/
• Reggae Mix - https://freesound.org/people/abett/sounds/316998/
• Reggae Funk - https://freesound.org/people/stoyoyo/sounds/377477/

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

INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode thirty-three of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.

And we’re back, with season two of Murder Mile, which was nominated the Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018. Ooh exciting. So, if you love listening to new murder cases for the first time, old cases through a fresh pair of eyes, or classic cases with a twist, all researched using the original declassified police investigation files, then the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast is just for you.

As always, Murder Mile is layered like a bad 1980’s mullet, with the excitement upfront, the business at the back and occasional bangs, laughs and rude-words, 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, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Jacques Tratsart; a strange and deluded man who was so hell-bent on saving the world from tyranny and injustice, that he started by slaughtering his family over a delightful dinner.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may unnerve the easily perturbed, 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 33: Jacques Adrian Tratsart: The Corner House Killer.

Today I’m standing outside of Tottenham Court Road tube station (exit 1), on the north-east corner of Soho. Once it was a moneyed mecca for famished families, theatre tossers and ferocious females who would reduce whole stores to rubble simply to snatch one of seventy-six pointlessly pretty yet fashionably painful pairs of almost identical black shoes, and yet now, it’s a shithole.

Surrounded by a non-stop slew of construction crews, all digging holes, smoking ciggies and flashing a stack of sweaty bum-cracks, this side of Soho has truly lost its identity. As being burdened by budget eateries, a billion buskers all playing Hey Jude, paths lined with zonked-out hobos having been booted out of Centre Point homeless refuge so the tower-block can be converted into new posh flats, and the Dominion Theatre, which - without any irony at all - hosts Hillsong Church in the mornings, all under a 100 foot banner for the evening’s entertainment, a musical of Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell, featuring a giant demonic image of a leather-clad Satan riding his hell-bound Harley straight into the fiery abyss. But once, the pinnacle of Oxford Street was the Lyon’s Corner House.

Built in 1926 by J Lyons & Co, purveyors of female-friendly and family-orientated tearooms, the Corner House at 14-16 Oxford Street was the epitome of traditional values, speedy-service and affordability, set in an ornate four-storey neo-classical façade, consisting of white marble columns, stylish stone friezes and elegant steelwork, with stunning art-deco interiors. Sadly, having gone out of fashion in the 1960’s, the Lyon’s Corner House on Oxford Street later became the Virgin Megastore. Today it hosts Primark; a budget clothing store, where you too can purchase a ten t-shirts for two-quid, a pack of pants for a pound and six socks for a sixpence, as well as novelty items like a Tigger onesie, some Eeyore plus-fours and Winnie the Pooh mu-mu, and (for the men) a small selection of ripped jeans, hoodies, and cheap suits for funerals and court appearances, as well as a wide selection of grey terry-towelling tracksuits so that - you too - can look like a Bulgarian rapist.

But it was here, on the ground-floor of 14-16 Oxford Street, in the Corner House Tearoom of J Lyons & Co, that 27 year old Jacques Tratsart brutally slaughtered his family. (INTERSTITIAL).

Born on 18th October 1917 in Epping (Essex), Jacques Adrian Tratast affectionately known as “Jack” was the second oldest of six children born to Belgian parents; Adrienne, a doting mother who raised her family in a devoutly Roman Catholic way full of love, hope and morals; and Jean-Baptiste, a hard-working shoe-stylist who - being small, slim and sickly - battled through frequent bouts of emphysema and bronchitis to provide for his beloved family.

Being the oldest boy, burdened a great sense of responsibility, Jack cared deeply for his siblings; Anne, the youngest and who dreamt of becoming a pianist; and Monica and Mary, two strong and studious girls keen to pursue careers in medicine. But mostly, he cared for Claire and Hugh.

Although the oldest, being cursed by epilepsy, Claire was often struck down by violent seizures as her body shook fiercely and electrical storms battered her brain, leaving her shaking and exhausted. And although a happy boy, with Hugh being born with Cerebral Palsy, his body refused to listen to his brain which left him immobile and helpless. Thankfully they both coped well, being cared for by a loving family, but in an era of medical ignorance, they would otherwise be institutionalised.

And yet, through it all, none of the family were drinkers or druggies; they didn’t steal, swear or keep secrets; and there was no physical, sexual or mental abuse. They were just a very normal, very happy, very loving middle-class family struggling to make-ends-meet whilst living through two World Wars.

They were neat, polite and happy; their life revolved around family meals, the church, the children, their home and their education, and at the centre of it all was their beloved mother – Adrienne.

Being a bookish young man, who by his mid-teens was the mirror image of his father (Jean-Baptiste), albeit nine inches taller; often dressed in a practical grey suit which hung awkwardly off his weedy frame, Jack was slim, slight and bespectacled, with a pencil-thin moustache, a receding crop of fair hair which hung around his ears like a slipped halo, and always in his hand was a book.

Although insular, quiet and reflective, Jack (just like his siblings) was keen to make his mother proud. But being a solitary figure, who was more at ease dealing with paper than people, Jack channelled his energy into engineering, where he dreamed of making the world a better place for all of mankind, and especially for those whose lives would be hard, like his older sister Claire and his little brother Hugh.

By 1936, with the British economy in recovery having survived World War One and Jean-Baptiste’s shoe business on the up, all eight members of the Tratsart family moved into 27 The Chase in Norbury (South London); a lovely two-storey semi-detached house in a leafy middle-class neighbourhood. The children were well, their parents were happily married and life couldn’t get any better. And from this point onwards, it wouldn’t. In fact it would only get worse. (INTERSTITIAL).

Shortly after the New Year celebrations in the bitter winter of 1936, 45 year old Adrienne; the beloved wife, caring mother and emotional core of the Tratsart family died, after a short and sudden battle with cancer, leaving behind six children, the youngest of whom was just five.

Being distraught, with their lives upturned and their whole world shattered, the family were wracked with grief as Adrienne’s casket was closed and buried in Norbury Cemetery. But being besotted by his mother, Jack took her death worst and as he retreated further into isolation, he questioned his Roman Catholic faith and cursed this spiteful God who had ripped a good woman from her loving family,

Desperate to provide at least some semblance of maternal support, Jean-Baptiste hired a house-keeper called Francis Eugenie Chamberlain to cook and clean for his family as they grieved, and as much as they liked her, she filled a small piece of a big hole in their lives, but for Jack it wasn’t enough.

Aged 18, being fuelled by bitterness, confusion and hatred, Jack went to live with relatives in Belgium where – having enrolled in the Institute Technique de Charleroi to train as a draftsman and toolmaker – it was hoped that an intense period of technical study and intellectual reflection would distract Jack from his pain. But with his anger unresolved, his feelings bottled-up and his faith smashed, by the time Jack returned to England, one year later, he was little more than an unemotional husk of a man.

The second Jack’s suitcase thumped onto the hall floor of his family home in Norbury, something just didn’t seem right. His mother was gone, his father was there and also were his siblings, and yet in his home was someone else. A stranger, a woman, who looked exactly like the Francis, the house-keeper his father had hired, but for some inexplicable reason she was cooking in his dead mother’s kitchen, she was sitting in his dead mother’s chair, she was cuddling his dead mother’s children and she was sleeping in his dead mother’s bed, lying next to his traitorous father who kissed and cavorted with “the help” and soon enough, whether he liked it or not, his father and this woman would be married.

By every account, all of Jack’s siblings – whether Claire, Hugh, Monica, Mary or Anne – loved Francis to bits, having realised that; to their widowed father she brought love, to their shattered family she brought hope, to their religious beliefs she restored faith, and that as a single-woman, with no children of her own, who was suddenly thrust into a bright spotlight as the step-mother to six siblings, one of whom was epileptic and another who was physically handicapped, they all loved her… except Jack.

Jack felt betrayed; by his father, by his mother, by his faith, and most of all by God
.
Francis and Jean-Baptiste were married on 10th March 1938, just one year before the start of World War Two but the biggest battle was being fought in their family home.

Being insolent, argumentative and deeply anti-social, Jack could easily turn a trivial matter into a full-scale fight simply to prove himself right and his father and Francis wrong; whether that concerned Claire’s epilepsy (which – Jack was certain – limited her chance of leading a happy life whether as a worker, a married woman or a mother), whether that concerned Hugh’s Cerebral Palsy (which – Jack was positive – meant that his helpless, hopeless and drooling baby-brother had zero chance of ever living a full life) and yet, a bigger concern for the Tratsart family was Jack’s own mental decline.

In August 1938, shortly after his mother’s death, with Jack being struck down with a fit of depression and gripped by lengthy bouts of insomnia, Claire had suggested that Jack see a psychologist. To please her, he did, but after just one session with Dr Kenney of Harley Street, Jack stopped, believing it wouldn’t accomplish anything and having felt a sense of superiority over the so-called specialist.

Being angry right down to his very bones at the spiteful God who had murdered his beloved mother, Jack’s main point of contention with his devout Roman Catholic father and Francis was religion.

At first, Jack refused to attend Mass, which as a petty immature man in his early twenties, his father put down as a belated teenage tantrum. Next, having denied the existence of God, Jack tried to turn Claire and Hugh (his physically impaired siblings who God had denied a good life) against Catholicism much to his father’s chagrin. And having purposely purchased any book that the church had deemed too blasphemous, solely to antagonise his father, with their relationship already strained, although they lived in the same house, they soon descended only to communicating by written letter.

A typical diatribe in a letter from Jack to his father would include: “Hitler teaches Germans that they and they alone are the super race. Catholics teach that they and they alone have the right religion, and they are the chosen people. There is no difference between them. They are both dictatorships. They are both intolerant, selfish, abusive and ignorant”.

But it was the inclusion of derogatory remarks made against Francis which finally tipped his father over the edge, and – although he was a truly patient and caring man – he asked Jack to leave.

By the outbreak of World War Two, as London was engulfed in flames as Nazi bombers rained down fire from the skies, and the rest of the Tratsart family were evacuated to the safety of Northampton, Jack moved into a solitary bedsit at 1265b London Road, not far from the family home in Norbury.

By day, he worked in silent contemplation as a draftsman at Tickle & Veniard Precision Toolmakers; sketching and muttering, as his concerned colleagues shunned this strange young man. But by night, he retreated further into solitude, sleeping very little, eating even less, as his body was consumed by a lethal mix of insomnia, depression and insanity. And here he stayed for five long years.

Although cramped and sparse, over those years, when Jack wasn’t dragging his bed across the floor and slamming doors at ungodly hours, either he could be found cowering inside his homemade air-raid shelter which covered half of his tiny room, as he scrawled on scraps of paper the secrets of how to rebuilt the world, or he’d be ensconced in the cupboard he’d converted into his own personal workshop, as he concocted hair-brained schemes to help him survive the impending Armageddon.

In 1939, when Jack moved into the bedsit, he was polite, quiet and neat. But by the end of 1944, after years of isolation and no medication, Jack had become a ragged rambling mess whose mental decline was so acute, even the sound of his own violin caused him to hurl himself out of a third storey window in what would be the first of many ill-fated suicide attempts. Two months later, Jack bought a gun.

In November 1944, fearing for her safety, with Jack having been arrested and briefly institutionalised in a local mental hospital for smashing up his workplace at Tickle & Veniard, his landlady (Ms Winifred May Shrubsall) politely asked her wild-eyed lodger to move out, and with that, Jack returned to the broken and boarded-up shell of his childhood home at number 27 The Chase in Norbury.

1945 was a year of hope; the German forces were in retreat, the Nazi high-command was in total disarray and slowly British families were returning to the bombed-out remnants of their cities, to salvage what was left of their homes, their lives and their loved-ones. One of whom was Jean-Baptiste.

For the first time in six years, 27 year old Jack and his father 58 year old Jean-Baptiste were in the same room together, but 1945 truly was a time of peace, and with his step-mother Francis wanting nothing to do with Jack what-so-ever, this gave the two men a chance to talk. And as they painted the walls, unclogged the pipes and sanded the floors - so that once again the house would become a family home - although they said very little, they never fought.

Sensing a need for family unity, and with Francis unwilling to join them, Jean-Baptiste suggested that he and his children all meet for a delightful meal at Lyon’s Corner-House on Oxford Street. Jack agreed, but for him, this wasn’t just a dinner, this was his destiny. (INTERSTITIAL)

Two days prior, Jack sold off his personal possessions to Cecil Reginald Smith, a co-worker at Tickell & Veniard, including all of his clothes, his books, his furniture and the tools from workshop, everything except a drab grey suit, a notebook and a gun. Jack never gave a reason why, and Cecil never asked.

Friday 20th April 1945 should have been a time for celebration, the Soviet Army had surrounded Berlin, Göring and Himmler had fled, Mussolini’s neck was being fitted for a noose and Adolf Hitler was just ten days away from suicide. And soon, the war would be over, the blackout would be cancelled, peace would return and the jubilant bell known as Big Ben would ring across the smouldering city of London for the first time in almost 2000 days. But before that, there would be death.

By 5pm, six members of the Tratsart family were all seated around a white linen table amidst the art-deco splendour of the ground-floor tearoom of the Lyon’s Corner House. With their step-mother Francis back in Northampton, and sisters - Monica and Mary - still serving overseas, the family chatted excitedly as an endless procession of cakes, biscuits and buns flashed before their wide eyes as the super-speedy waitresses (known as Nippies) zipped by in a rush of sweet air, a blur of black and white pinnies and the long forgotten smell of fruit, ham and marzipan.

Sat on one side of the table; to the left was 29 year old eldest sister Claire (who’d gone three months without a seizure and her life was looking up having found work as an orderly at University College Hospital); in the middle was 13 year old Anne (youngest of six and an eager scholar at the local convent) and to the right; “Auntie Claire”, sister to their dear-departed mother. On the other side sat their father Jean-Baptiste (excited to have his babies back together), in the middle was 17 year old Hugh (confined to a wheelchair but eternally happy in his own little world) and to the right was Jack.

With his drab grey suit all ruffled, his halo of hair unkempt and a deep dark set of bags underscoring his bloodshot eyes, Jack sat with his back deliberately to the wall, saying nothing and eating nothing, just fiddling with the small black Smith & Wesson revolver in his lap, trying to decide who to kill first.

The gun’s chamber held eight bullets. Without reloading, he could shoot them all. But then again, he had no beef with “Auntie Claire” who he loved like he loved his own mother, and with Anne being so young, his one regret was that she would live to see them all die, but if he was going to bring an eternal peace to his family, it was now or never. Two for Claire, two for dad, two for Hugh and two for Jack.

So, his sweet sister Claire (who God had cursed) was first.

Amidst the noisy chatter as his excited family caught up on lost time, gripping the flat black revolver in his right hand, at eye-height, Jack aimed the barrel across the white linen table, his sights lined-up to hit Claire squarely in her epileptic head, and as he slowly squeezed the trigger…
…nothing. No bang, no scream, no death.

Confused, he tried again. Nothing. And again. Still nothing. Luckily nobody had noticed, except Hugh, who sat there, aimlessly grinning, as if the gun was a toy and this was playtime. Hiding it in his lap, his family oblivious, Jack sat there, cursing the Canadian sailor who’d sold him this piece of shit.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. Nothing. No smoke, no blood, no brains. Only this time, everybody saw Jack with a gun in his hand, feverishly clicking the trigger, the sights aimed at his sister’s head, but believing it was just one of Hugh’s water-pistols, Jack was lightly warned against squirting his family with tea during the meal, and with that, he popped the lethal weapon back under table.

Again, Jack fumed, his meticulous plan having gone to pot having been sold a shitty shooter by some salty seadog who’d slinked off with his fiver. Under the linen cloth, he discretely fiddled with the faulty firearm, yanking this and tugging that, unsure what he was doing having never held or even fired it before. But it was then that he heard the hammer click.

With this being his third and last chance, Jack lined the revolver’s sights at his sister’s eyes, squeezed the trigger tight and (BANG) with a muzzle flash, a puff of smoke and a deafening bang, Claire spun 90 degrees in her seat, as a .38 calibre bullet burst a penny-sized hole in her forehead, burrowing a deep channel through her soft grey brain and blasting out the base of her skull with a bloody thump. Being slumped in her seat, Jack fired again (BANG); a single shot ripped open the back of her head, coating the cake and tea covered table in brain matter and blood, as the bullet embedded into her left ear.

The café was in chaos, as a bottle-neck of terrified patrons scrambled to dash out of double-doors into Oxford Street; but Jack heard none of this and he saw none of this. Instead, as Claire’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the table and her open skull oozed down the white linen table cloth, as Jack pointed the smoking gun at his father’s face, Jean-Baptiste raised his hand in defence.

(BANG) A blistering hot bullet split the middle fingers of his right hand, and with the lightening quick lead still having enough velocity to rip apart his left cheek, it smashed his left jawbone, burst out his neck, slashed his jugular vein and embedded itself deep into his shoulder bone. Slumping backwards in his seat, Jack fired again (BANG) splitting open a gaping wound behind his father’s right ear, which blasted out of the top of his head and showered everyone within ten feet in a fine mist of hot sticky mess, and in his last few moments alive, his father said nothing, he simply rattled and rasped as he breathed.

And then there was Hugh; dear sweet innocent Hugh, his smiling face, his cheeky grin and his oblivious eyes, as – eager to send his beloved but broken brother to a happier place – Jack swung the gun at Hugh’s befuddled face, and at point blank range, he fired twice. (BANG/BANG)
With Auntie Claire safely huddling under the blood-soaked table with his terrified sister Anne, and his mission accomplished, being eager to finally find his own peace, Jack placed the hot steel barrel of the gun to his temple, shut his eyes, and with a quick tug of the trigger… nothing.

He tried again. Nothing.

He slammed the revovler on the table. Still nothing.

And – realising the chamber was empty – Jack hurled the hapless handgun up into a glass chandelier, only to spy, about the crimson pool of blood at his feet, two tiny silver objects glinting. As having previously feverishly fumbled with the faulty firearm under the table, in his anger, he’d accidentally ejected two of the eight .38 calibre bullets. But by then, it was too late.

Being unarmed and barely nine stone, Jack was rushed by a stout but sturdy soldier as well as several waiters. And as they bundled the surprisingly silent and serene spree-killer into a side-parlour to await the Police, as Jack turned to witness the bloody aftermath of his violent massacre, amongst a bloody mess of skin, hair and teeth, in the briefest of moments, he swore he saw his brother’s eyes blink.

58 year old widower and father of six, Jean-Baptiste, was admitted to Middlesex Hospital but died five minutes later. 29 year old Claire died at the scene as a Catholic priest prayed for her life. And Hugh? Dear sweet innocent Hugh, the ever smiling, ever happy 17 year old boy cursed with Cerebral Palsy, who’d been blasted twice in the face, at point blank range, with .38 caliber bullets? He survived.

Maybe it was fate? Maybe it was luck? Or maybe, having shattered his jaw-bone and his right cheek, that same God - who had plagued Jack’s baby-brother with wobbly limbs and an incomplete brain – had guided both bullets to miraculously miss every vital nerve, vein and artery, so that, after a short stay in hospital, Hugh went home. He lived a good life and died in July 1988, he was 61 years old.

Anne escaped unscathed, and to the best of my knowledge, she’s still alive, aged 82 years old. Francis remained a devoted step-mother to Anne, Hugh, Mary and Monica, she died in 1966, aged 71.

And Jack? On 28th May 1945, Jacques Adrian Tratsart was tried at The Old Bailey on two counts of murder, one count of attempted murder and one count of attempted suicide. And although he’d pleaded not guilty, Jack was deemed unfit to stand trial, found guilty by reason of insanity, and was detained at Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital at His Majesty’s Pleasure. On the 30th May 1947, just two years later, the ever-restless, ever-angry and ever-anxious Jack finally found peace… with a vein and shard of glass.

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

Stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Extraordinary Stories Podcast and Southern Gone. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to secret Murder Mile content and a personal thank you from me; they are Christian Deas, Jessica Gore, Anita Finlayson, Jennifer Swieter, Nichola Battalana, Shane Bradwell, and Catrina Hennessey. With a special thank you this week to Lizzie and Sophie at Acast. Thank you guys, you are ace. God I sound so 80’s.

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)
• Full of Stars by Philip Weigl
• Low Horizon by Kai Engel
• Money & Moulange by Rozkol
• Night II by Swelling
• The Fall by Peter Rudenko
• Inner Mental Cage by Controlled Insanity
• Like Starlight Through a Veil by Philip Weigl
• Plague by Kai Engel
• Imminence by Kai Engel
• Closing by Peter Rudenko

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

• Dawn Chorus - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/57620/
• Air Raid - https://freesound.org/people/CGEffex/sounds/93843/
• Colt 45 - https://freesound.org/people/Carmelomike/sounds/255216/

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, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: On Thursday 25th June 1942 at a few seconds after 9am, in the cold stone execution chamber inside Wandsworth Prison, the cruel life of the West End’s most sadistic spree-killer was cut short by a long drop and a sudden stop, as the second and third vertebrae of his neck was snapped, severing his spinal cord and (in an instant) The Blackout Ripper was dead.

With the trial concluded, the evidence archived and the limp body of Gordon Frederick Cummins buried in a pine box, the news stories ceased and his name was no longer plastered inside of every newspaper (nestled next to adverts for corsets, hair tonic and piles cream), as in the minds of the public and the press, the case was closed. But in a race to exploit the graphic details of his grisly crimes, one important question was never resolved, and that was “why did he kill?”

Why did a seemingly normal and relatively handsome 28 year old man with a bright military career, a happy marriage and a grammar school education, who was raised in a loving and a respectable middle-class family, and had no criminal record, drug issues or history of mental illness, why did he strangle, pose and mutilate four women, across four days, in London’s West End?

Trying to pin-down who Cummins is an impossible task, as some people say he was charming, pleasant and polite, whereas to others he was rude, aloof and arrogant. But regardless of what type of man he was, several questions remain; why did he steal when he was in a well-paying job, why did he lie when the evidence was against him, and why did he hate these women so much?

By the time of his death, he had given no confession, his statements were lies, there were no witnesses to back-up his story, and his wife and family totally believed in his innocence. So why did he kill? Well, that’s what we hope to explore in his episode, but I warn you now, there is smoking gun, there are no certainties, and what we unearth may ask more questions than it answers.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And (for the first time ever) I present to you, the final part of the full, true and untold story about the life of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Gordon Frederick Cummins was born on 18th February 1914, five months before the start of World War One, in the small rural village of Earswick; a quiet leafy hamlet nestling in wilds of North Yorkshire. Raised in an idyllic setting surrounded by fields, streams and buzzing bees, Cummins’ childhood was the epitome of perfect for a young boy, as with trees to climb, fresh fruit to eat and clean water to drink, he was a far-cry from the industrial filth, poverty and squalor of the big cities.

Being an adventurous boy who was eager to explore but was always constrained by the boundary of his tiny world, with Earswick consisting of little more than a handful of thatched cottages, twenty families and a small school, although his village was barely 4 ½ miles from the bustling city of York, for a quizzical and excitable boy, it must have seemed a world away.

Raised in a quiet aspirational middle-class house by his doting mother Anna, his strict school-master father John Robert and his older-brother John Harvey, who – as the first-born son had the honour of being named after his father – Gordon Cummins grew-up with no sisters, no female friends and no close relatives, as with John Robert being an intensely private man who (as a school-master) felt a certain sense of seniority over everyone else, and with Anna coming from Northumberland in the far north-east of England, Cummins had very few playmates, and almost none who were girls.

So, as an over-active, imaginative and frustrated young boy stuck in a small friendless world, with no-one (outside of his family) to talk to, to play with or to learn from, Cummins drifted into day-dreaming.

Did it bother him that his brother was the first-born and the favourite son? Did it matter that he knew very little about girls? And being the school-master’s son, was he bullied by the boys, teased by the girls, and allowed to get away with more than most? That we shall never know. But what he needed in his life was stability… and that’s exactly what was missing.

With the world in upheaval following World War One, the Cummins family went where the work was, so when John Robert became the school-master of Vicar Prichard's School in Llandovery in the south west of Wales; they packed-up, moved-out and once again, being uprooted, Cummins had lost the few friends he had, and as a new boy, in a new town, in a new country, he became the outsider.

And being from a middle-class English family in a Welsh working-class town, surrounded by people he didn’t know, who spoke a language he couldn’t speak and saw words he couldn’t read, as he withdrew into his own personal world, the more difficulty he had concentrating, the worse his academic record became, which (for his father being the school-master) was deeply shameful.

For anyone, those early teenage years are awkward enough, but for a hormonally-charged Gordon Cummins who lacked even basic social skills, a rudimentary knowledge of girls and a sense of himself, it was around this time that – being ashamed of his heritage and having a voice which was a mix of his father’s native Yorkshire twang and his mother’s natural Geordie drawl, being both working-class northern accents - that Cummins adopted a mock-posh accent, in a hope to distinguish himself.

But being a divisive figure, who (like his arrogant father) exuded the sense of seniority of a man in denial of his own upbringing, this new accent only served to alienate Cummins further, and the more he was ignored, the more he began to resent others for making him feel inferior.

Sadly, this sense of entitlement and a desire to live beyond his already generous means would bring a great shame on the family, when his father; a strict school-master and a devout Catholic was caught stealing money from the school. And although he professed his innocence, never confessed, but later (under the weight of evidence) repaid the money, being burdened by a sense of shame, he lost his job as the school-master and the family were forced to move back to England.

Did his father’s actions show Cummins that the world owed him more than he was given? Did it give him an appetite to live beyond his means, even if it meant stealing? And did his father’s foray into criminality, his arrogant rejection of the rules and his denial of his obvious guilt show Cummins that he was entitled to do whatever he wanted, and – better still – he could get away with it?

In 1929, the Cummins family uprooted to the typically English and delightfully picturesque rural village of Harlestone in the Northamptonshire countryside, five miles north-west of Northampton, which with a smattering of cottages, families and a school was not unlike his birth-place of Earswick.

Once again, they lived in the School House; with his father as the school-master, his mother as a house-wife, his older brother training to be a teacher and Cummins in his final year at Northampton grammar school, and although his father had committed fraud, having not been prosecuted and with very few repercussions for his actions, life for the Cummins family returned to normal. And even though they felt more at home here, as a private family, they rarely socialised and kept to themselves.

Aged 15 years old, having barely scraped through basic education at Northampton Grammar, with the help of his father’s connections, Cummins attended Northampton College of Technology where - even though he achieved a diploma in chemistry – he was described as lazy and easily distracted.

Having blossomed into a handsome young man of five foot nine inches tall, with pale blue eyes, fair wavy hair and a charming smile, with an athletic physique and a well-rehearsed upper-class accent, Cummins had started to gain the attention of girls, but being over-eager, immature and inexperienced, he found it difficult to be himself and instead he would boast, lie and show-off.

Quite when Cummins got his first girlfriend, we shall never know, but as a love-sick teenager desperate to explore this new-found world of feminine allure, although he was merely a student with a modest amount of pocket-money, being eager to lavish his lady lovers with a fine array of gifts and trinkets, Cummins often lived beyond his meagre means, and (to afford this lifestyle) he stole.

And as much as those who knew him stated that he stole, up until his arrest for assault and murder, Gordon Frederick Cummins he had no prior convictions, no criminal record and not even so much as a black-mark against his name. It’s as if (like his father) money was paid and his crimes were forgotten.

So, what did Cummins’s early foray into criminality include; theft, assault, cruelty? That we shall never know. Was he excited by these thefts, apathetic towards their victims and did robbery become an alternative means to achieve his goals (when his parents said no to more money)? And being described as a “thrill-seeker” and a “daredevil”; was adrenaline his drug of choice, was his love all-consuming, or in his desperate bid for attention did he injure his head and change his personality forever. Or was this arrogant, aloof and narcissistic young man already on course to become a mass-murderer?

In November 1932, being eager to see the world and spread-his-wings, 18 year old Cummins moved to his mother’s home city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the north-east of England where he worked as an assistant warehouseman for Elswick Leather Goods, but being dreadful at his job, easily distracted by girls and lacking any kind of concentration, he was dismissed after just five months.
Moving back home, a few months later Cummins started work at George Baker & Co, another leather manufacturers, this time in Northampton, but he barely lasted one year as not only was he incapable of following simple requests, but his employers described him as “abnormal and dense”, and once again, he was too easily distracted by girls.

In October 1934, 20 year old Cummins moved to London and worked as an assistant chemist in another leather goods firm called Reptile Dressers at 48/50 Bermondsey Street, where once again, he lasted just one year, before being booted out for being lazy, slow and unfocussed.

Three jobs in two years, and yet, in statements which would strangely mirror those who knew him in his final posting at the RAF base in Regent’s Park, at none of his work places did anyone recall Cummins having any friends; he was always short on money, always boasting and eager to impress the girls.

So, did moving to London (one of the world’s most expensive cities) fail to kerb his urge to live beyond his means? Did working in the leather tanning industry, a dangerous job which often meant workers were exposed to highly noxious chemicals such as chromium, cyanide and mercury based biocides, did this effect his personality, or was the damage already done? And did being based in Bermondsey, flanked by wharfs and factories on the south-side bank of the River Thames and surrounded by dock-workers, sailors, pubs and prostitutes, is this where he found his fondness for hard drink and easy sex?

Lacking any focus, Cummins may have squandered the next few years drifting through a series of short-term dead-end jobs in London’s docks, splashing out on booze, chasing after babes and blowing his cash before he’d even paid the rent, but it was here in the summer of 1935 that he met and fell in love with a 22 year old secretary, whose name was Marjorie Stevens.

Very little is known about Marjorie – who she was, how they met or what she looked like – and as a shy retiring person she was very much a homebody hoping to settle down in a nice house with a good man, and so, being a steadying influence, it seemed as if Marjorie would be the making of Cummins.

Marjorie and Gordon married on 28th December 1938 at Paddington Registry Office on Harrow Road (oddly, just a ten minute walk from where Evelyn Hamilton and Doris Jouanett would be murdered), by which time Marjorie had been promoted to a theatre producer’s secretary, Cummins had changed careers and they had both moved in together into a rented first-floor flat at 21 Westmoreland Road in the leafy suburb of Barnes (south west London), which they shared with Marjorie’s sister Freda.

In a rare statement recorded after the trial, the intensely private Marjorie described their marriage as “very very happy” and that her husband “has never been anything but kind and tolerant to me in every respect. He is a normal man who does not consort with other women and he is certainly not a sex-maniac or a pervert”, further stating that “he is not a drunkard, occasionally he would binge, but when he got drunk, he would just become quiet, withdrawn and would pass-out”.

Marjorie remained faithful, married to Cummins and maintained his innocence until the day he died, and although they wanted a family, in the four years of their marriage, they never had children.

Shortly after meeting Marjorie, Cummins quit the graft of the leather-work industry and enlisted in the Royal Air Force; a noble profession with regimented training, a regular income and even though he was stationed right across Britain, he’d regularly travel back to London’s West End to visit Marjorie.

So, with him being regularly billeted across the far-flung parts of Great Britain, did this cause a rift in their relationship? Was their marriage not as harmonious as she claims, with their marital bed being icy cold? Was this why they didn’t have children, or was he suffering from impotence? And was it during these regular weekend visits to the West End that Cummins started visiting Soho prostitutes?

Although the Royal Air Force kept the easily distracted Cummins in a strict routine of tight schedules, tidiness and discipline, just like his fractured childhood, he rarely stayed in one place for more than a few months, as Aircraftman Cummins was posted to several RAF bases in as many years.

Unlike his previous employment at the leather tanners, his Commanding Officer described Cummins’ conduct as “exemplary”, that he was efficient at his work and was never known to complain, and here he would remain in military service for eight years. But, as before, being unable to make new friends, eager for attention and desperate to disguise his true-self, his Commanding Officer also added that Cummins was “boastful, cunning, prone to lying, fond of drink and was morally loose”.

Initially stationed at RAF Felixstowe on the south-coast of England, Cummins was a Flight Rigger, part of No85 RAF Maintenance Unit based in Felixstowe harbour, who assembled the airframes for seaplanes. As before, by adopting a posh-accent and upper-class mannerisms, with his back straight and his nose in the air, as well as claiming to be well educated (which he wasn’t), pretending that he spoke French (which he didn’t) and professing to be wealthy (even though he was always broke), Cummins got the nickname of “The Count”.

Next, Cummins was posted to RAF Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire (Scotland); a recently opened top-secret facility known as the Marine Aircraft Experimental Establishment, where (with the German Luftwaffe bombing every allied runway, engineers were developing innovative avionics and seaplane technology) and once again, being disliked, deceptive and boastful about his many conquests with women, Cummins had become known as “The Duke”. And, as always, he was broke.

Next, Cummins was posted to RAF Catterick, an air-crew training base for Hurricane and Spitfires, back in his home-county of Yorkshire, where “The Count” was widely known as a boozer, a womaniser, a liar and with robbery and theft having become a regular part of his routine to purchase gifts and trinkets to impress the ladies, Cummins had bought himself a gun.

By April 1941, just 10 months before his killing spree, Cummins was posted to RAF Fighter and Bomber Command in Colerne, Wiltshire in the west of England, where – having bragged to locals in The White Heart, The Six Bells and the Fox & Goose public houses that he was the black-sheep in a well-to-do family – he was nicknamed the “Honourable Gordon Cummins”, and although he was notoriously broke, somehow Cummins would always come into money, which he would lavish on the ladies.

With Colerne being a small rural village built around an air-base, on his evenings, Cummins would travel to the city of Bath, just eight miles away, where he would regularly frequent the local brothels and places of ill-repute, such as the red-light district on Quiet Street, and infamous prostitute hang-outs at the Royal Hotel, the Francis Hotel and the Christopher, as well as a notorious café known as The Hole in the Wall, which was strictly out of bounds to all military personnel.

During those few months that Cummins was in Wiltshire, two women were robbed and beaten by a fair-haired airman in the village of Ford, three miles north-east of Colerne, and several ladies handbags were stolen in the Hole in the Wall café, again by a fair-haired airman. Sadly, no positive identification of the man was made, and by the time that Bath Police had begun the investigation, Cummins had been reposted to RAF Predanneck in Cornwall. Where once again, “The Count” having claimed to be nobility, became a member of the prestigious Blue Peter Club in Mullion, and having inveigled himself into a trusted position with the proprietor, he syphoned off the booze supplying free drinks to the local ladies and (it is said) he stole £1000 worth of jewellery from the apartments above. But for whatever reason, no formal complaint was made to the Police.
So, were these the only criminal acts which Cummins committed? A handful of thefts and a smattering of assaults in the pursuit of money and trinkets to impress his lady-friends, or had he progressed to being a prolific thief, able to bluff and bribe his way out of any conviction? That we shall never know.

His final posting was at Abbey Lodge, known as No3 Air-Crew Receiving Centre in Regent’s Park, where he was engaged in a three-week course to train as a pilot, starting on 2nd February 1942, just one week before the murder of Evelyn Hamilton. And having trotted out a familiar tale of him being a wealthy black-sheep, within his first week Cummins had become notorious for being a liar, a thief and an odd-ball, who none of the airmen either trusted or liked, especially when (having had his confiscated) he tried and failed to buy himself another gun.

Prior to his execution, Cummins was examined by Hugh A Grierson, Senior Medical Officer of Brixton Prison in which he stated that there was no history of insanity in the family, and that Cummins had no known mental health issues, no history of violence and no obvious hint of cruelty to either people or animals in his nature, all of which was corroborated by his father, his mother and his wife.

During this examination, Cummins was lucid, rational and polite, and although he was unemotional throughout, he denied suffering from blackouts, memory-loss, drunkenness or any sexual perversions. He was also tested for VD, syphilis and all known STDs and STIs, all of which came back negative.

So, who was Gordon Frederick Cummins and why did he kill?

Robbery? Well, all four of his murder victims (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett) all had money and personal items stolen, so if his impetus to kill began as thefts to obtain fancy trinkets like silver cigarette cases and a gold watch for his lady-friends, why did he keep them and why did he steal such valueless items like a handkerchief and a broken comb?

Hatred? If Cummins didn’t have a prior history of cruelty, why would he – as a man who supposedly committed several assaults, robberies and thefts - escalate to strangulation, torture, mutilation and murder in a matter of months? Was he secretly a sadist? Was there an incident that caused him to snap? And (as a man who constantly craved the attention of women) why did he hate them so much?

Rape? Cummins was clearly a man afflicted by erectile dysfunction, as at each murder scene, sex either didn’t take place or if it did he didn’t climax, as the condoms found on the floor were spent and empty. Impotence is extremely common amongst rapists, and as the attacks escalate, the sex becomes less important as their overriding desire is to over-power, to control and to humiliate, with many turning to strangulation and murder. So did Cummins have a prior history of rape which went unreported?

And finally, humiliation? With Cummins, his murders were never pre-planned (as he never carried any weapons), so were they spontaneous acts of aggression? The key element to all of his murders was his victim’s humiliation; he would rob, strangle and mutilate them, but - more importantly - he would pose them; with their bodies naked, their breasts exposed and their legs left wide open, as their bloodied and ripped corpses stared blankly towards the door – a shocking sight to greet the poor soul who found them. And yet, all of these injuries occurred after he had attempted sex. But why?

I want to show you an incident which occurred on the night of Monday 9th February 1942 at 11pm, the night that Evelyn Oatley was murdered.

On the western corner of Piccadilly Circus, on the junction of Regent Street, Cummins (dressed in his blue military tunic and dark great-coat) stood with the red-headed corporal, bartering for sex with two Soho prostitutes – a brunette called Molly DeSantos Alves and a blonde called Laura Denmark.

And as Laura escorted Cummins passed Café Monaco, she waved to a dark figure in a bright red jumper who was smoking a cigarette as she struggled to stay warm against the cold wintery wind, she was a working-girl that Laura only knew as ‘Lita Ward’, but whose real name was Evelyn Oatley.

Being a 22 year old pretty petite blonde, Laura Denmark was exactly Cummins’ type, and he wasn’t shy of showing her his affection as he unsteadily stumbled down Old Compton Street, towards her Frith Street flat, having sunk back one too many Canadian whiskies in Brasserie Universalle.

Situated on the first floor of 47 Frith Street (above Ronnie Scott’s jazz club today), Laura’s tiny first floor flat was sparsely furnished with just a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand, a packet of razor-blades, some hats, clothes, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery. And as she popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her electric fire to warm the flat up, they started to undress.

As Laura lay on her double divan bed, naked except for a pair of black stockings, Cummins held in his right hand a condom, as his left hand feverishly bobbed up and down inside the small tent of his white cotton pants, fiddling with his soft flaccid penis, as he leered at Laura’s nakedness, trying to get himself hard.

The more he tugged, the less it grew and the greater his frustration got, as desperation etched across his shamed face and his cheeks flushed red, as with a deep sigh of defeat he said “no, it’s gone”. And as a man who (many said) was unemotional, Laura sensed a sadness in his eyes.

Taking pity on him as his limp and shrivelled penis lay motionless, Laura sidled-up beside Cummins on the bed; a caring arm wrapped around this distraught man, a tender kiss on his cheek, as her head gently rested on his shoulder as they sat in silence, soaking up the warmth of the fire. And for the next half an hour, they chatted, they laughed, they joked and enjoyed each other’s company.

Months later, during his trial, Laura described Cummins as “polite, courteous and a real gentleman, he seemed a very decent sort of chap and was very respectful to me”.

Feeling more comfortable in her presence, as Cummins stroked her blonde hair, his penis swelled, and as the tent of his pants bobbed further and faster; with a grip, a grimace and groan, he was done. With a relieved exhale, Cummins apologised to Laura saying “I’m sorry for keeping you a long while, it must be the drink”; they dressed, walked back to Piccadilly Circus, where he shook her hand, politely said “I wish you all the best and I hope you earn more money tonight” and with that, he was gone.

This moment occurred one hour before Gordon Frederick Cummins brutally murdered Evelyn Oatley.

So, this begs the question, why was he so tender with women like Laura Denmark and Doreen Lytton (who he shared a cup of tea with), and yet, he would brutally torture, mutilate and humiliate Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett? At a critical moment in the night’s nuptuals, was his man-hood mocked? Is the difference between each woman whether or not they scoffed at his lack of sexual prowess? Did a word, a look or even a simple gesture spark a rage inside him, triggered by an unknown incident in this defiantly arrogant charlatan who believed in his own superiority? Or were these attacks entirely random? That we shall never know.

After his execution, unable to believe that a man with no known history of violence would suddenly go on killing-spree, murdering four women and attacking two others in as many days, the detectives of Scotland Yard examined their cold cases and found two unsolved murders with eerie similarities.

On Monday 13th October 1941, 19 year old shop-assistant Mabel Church waved goodbye to friend at Charing Cross Station, the next day demolition workers found her naked strangled body in a bombed-out derelict house on Hampstead Road, just a few roads east of Regents Park.

On Friday 17th October 1941, 49 year old Edith Eleanora Humphries was strangled and bludgeoned to death in bed, in her flat on Gloucester Crescent, just two roads north-east of Regents Park.

In both instances, their assailant was never arrested, questioned or identified.
In both instances, they were robbed of money and personal possessions.
In both instances, there was nothing that seemed to connect these women.
In both instances, they were strangled within days and streets of each other.

And even though, during that week, Cummins was stationed 98 miles away at RAF Colerne in Wiltshire; (just like Abbey Lodge) there was no accurate record of his movements in any log-book, as with most air-bases it was common for airmen to hitchhike to/from London so (if he did travel) his journey went unrecorded, and with Cummins regularly visiting his wife Marjorie at her workplace on The Strand, just a few streets south of Piccadilly Circus, not only would this put him within walking distance of Regents Park, but also on the same road as Charing Cross Station where Mabel Church was last seen.

Posthumously, Cummins was considered a viable suspect by the Police in both cases, but with very little evidence, no charges or conviction could be brought against him.

There’s no denying that Gordon Frederick Cummins was the epitome of a psychopath; arrogant, vain and self-obsessed, a habitual liar who showed no emotion for his victims, no remorse for his actions, gave no confession for his crimes and had a single-minded drive to fulfil only his own desires. And yet, somehow, by becoming a different person to different people, Cummins could be sweet and sadistic, charming and cruel, tender and a torturer, being opposite sides of the same personality.

Even during his trial, when he was faced with insurmountable evidence against him and his impending death, Cummins was less interested in defending himself than he was of catching the eye of any girl.

Was Cummins so arrogant that he truly believed he was innocent? Was Cummins such a day-dreamer that he could no longer tell the difference between right and wrong? Or as a lonely boy, with very little experience of girls, who was raised by doting mother and a self-righteous father who stole to fund a lavish lifestyle, a crime for which he was never convicted, did these minor moments shape an ordinary boy into a sadistic maniac, who believed he could (literally) get away with murder?

And, if the killing-spree of Gordon Frederick Cummins wasn’t a snap decision, but instead was an act of selfish greed which slowly manifested itself over the twenty-eight years of his life, the real question we should be asking is how many more women were attacked and murdered by The Blackout Ripper?

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

That was the final part of The Blackout Ripper series. Originally it was going to be a ten-parter, but I felt the life of Gordon Frederick Cummins, his personality and the key moments in his life (which led up to the murders) could be best summed up in a single episode, but there are still many unresolved questions about his life, so I shall be returning to The Blackout Ripper story once I’ve done more research. This is also the final episode of Murder Mile this season as I need to take a well-earned break to rest and research season two, but I hope to post some goodies whilst I’m away.

If you love The Blackout Ripper story, please rate it and share it with your friends, as the more listeners Murder Mile gets, the more stories I can tell, and the longer this podcast can keep going.
This week’s recommended podcasts of the week are Trace Evidence, hosted by Steven Pacheco, if you haven’t heard of Trace Evidence, why not? It’s a fabulous true-crime podcast where Steven digs deep into some truly fascinating unsolved murder cases with through research, heart and passion, hence why Oxygen .com voted it one of “7 True-Crime Podcasts you should listen to right away”, and luckily for you, here’s the promo.

And secondly we have Ignorance Was Bliss, hosted by Kate, Ignorance Was Bliss is a podcast about crime and psychology in which Kate tackles the difficult issues of domestic violence and the psychology behind it, as well as schizophrenia, anxiety and modern mental health crises, in a series which is honest, true and well researched. So check out Ignorance Was Bliss (promo).

This week’s new Patreon supporter is Anita, whose generous donation is going to buy myself an official set of Murder Mile knuckle-dusters, so if you see any mouthy youth in London with the words Elim Redrum written backwards on their foreheads, Anita that’s for you.

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.

And until Murder Mile returns, stay safe and sleep well.

Sources: Murder Mile's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, 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:

• -7 by Cult With No Name (intro)
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No name (theme & Interstitials)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Full of Stars by Phillip Weigl
• No News by Cult With No Name
• Nirvana VEVO by Chris Zabriski
• President’s March by The United States Army Old Guard Fife
• Waiting by Peter Rudenko
• Wake Up by Kai Engel
• Plague by Kai Engel

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

• Fog Horn - https://freesound.org/people/digifishmusic/sounds/276569/
• Spitfire Flyby - https://freesound.org/people/Fight2FlyPhoto/sounds/142897/
• Two Spitfires - https://freesound.org/people/Fight2FlyPhoto/sounds/142901/
• Seagulls - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/98479/
• Traditional Pub - https://freesound.org/people/traggeldy/sounds/368830/
• Sewing Machine - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/56538/
• Flute Machine - https://freesound.org/people/Ohrwurm/sounds/64487/
• Horse Whinney - https://freesound.org/people/Kubuzz/sounds/347036/
• Cows Mooing - https://freesound.org/people/Mystikuum/sounds/401636/​

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

If you love true-crime podcasts, subscribe to the Murder Mile on iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: On Friday 13th February 1942, 28 year old Royal Air Force air-cadet Gordon Frederick Cummins (a married man with no prior convictions) was arrested and charged with causing grievous bodily harm to 30 year old Greta Haywood in a suspected robbery in a back street just off Piccadilly Circus.

Faced with insurmountable evidence; including an accurate description which identified Cummins as her attacker (having had drinks with him barely an hour before), a corroborated witness statement by the man who had come to her aide, her home telephone number written in her handwriting which was found inside his grate-coat pocket, and his military issued gas-respirator discovered at the scene of the crime inside which he had written his RAF serial number - 525987 - a number so unique, it led the Police directly to Cummins; who apologised, feigned memory loss, blamed the incident on drink and would be remanded in custody at Brixton Prison until his court appearance.

With the trial being a legal formality, no loose ends to tie-up and the investigation into the attack on Greta Haywood being short, neat and complete, the Metropolitan Police could focus their efforts on more pressing matters, such as murder.

As on two consecutive days, on two different streets in London’s West End, two unrelated women (Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley) had been strangled, mutilated and posed by a serial sexual sadist, in two sickening and unnervingly similar attacks. With their attacker’s fingerprints not on record, no eye-witnesses to either murder and the victim’s last known movements being uncertain, the Police knew they had to catch him quick before he struck again…

…but little did they know that he had already murdered two others women (Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett), whose bodies were yet to be discovered, and that the Police had already caught The Blackout Ripper.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you, part seven of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of the Central Criminal Court, more affectionately known as The Old Bailey, which stands on the medieval grounds of the infamous execution site of Newgate Prison, on the junction of Holborn Viaduct and Newgate Street. Destroyed by fire and rebuilt between 1902 and 1907, The (new) Old Bailey is a stunning Georgian court-house made from sculpted blocks of pale Portland stone, designed in an imposing neo-Baroque style, and stood atop its 67 foot domed roof is a shimmering bronze statue of Lady Justice; a beacon of truth, with a sword in her left hand, scales in her right, and although she’s supposed to be blindfolded (as justice is meant to be blind), Lady Justice isn’t, as apparently, in the eyes of its sculptor, all ladies are fair, honest and unbiased. (snigger)

And although, as Britain’s most high-profile court, The Old Bailey has hosted such sensational murder trials as Dr Crippen, Kray Twins, Ruth Ellis and the Yorkshire Ripper, today its oak-panelled chambers mostly echo to the sounds of big business ducking hefty tax bills, failed pop-stars insisting they only snort sherbet (having recently been diagnosed with a severe sugar addiction), billionaires paying for the privilege to build a penis-shaped penthouse which overlooks Buckingham Palace (having previously been denied a passport) and undeniably dull TV nobodies supressing salacious stories about their nightly love sessions with a royal, a tub of butter, a ring-piece and a large root vegetable.

But it was here, on Monday 27th April 1942, in the bomb-damaged remains of The Old Bailey, that London’s most infamous spree-killer would be tried for murder. (Interstitial)

As Gordon Frederick Cummins sat in his prison cell, smoking and smirking, something just didn’t sit right with Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey, as although the assault on Greta Haywood was clear-cut, several unnervingly similar elements of the case sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Although the attack took place, at night and in private, which many in the West End do, Cummins stole cash from Greta’s handbag, and yet (according to her testimony) his wallet was stuffed full with close to thirty £1 notes, an amount that was considerably more than his fortnightly wage.

During the unprovoked assault on Greta, he didn’t shove, kick, punch, or even threaten her with a weapon, instead he strangled her with his left hand - a slow and sadistic method of attack, rarely used by robbers and muggers, which is more akin to murderers and rapists – and across his middle fingers were the bloody scabs of an injury, easily more than a few hours old, but most probably a few days.

And upon his arrest, not only did Cummins have in his possession a gold wrist-watch, a silver cigarette case and a greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing, none of which he said he owned, had seen before, or could account as to why they were found in his pockets, but (in the bright lights of West End Central police station) several blood splashes were visible on his brown shirt and blue tunic, and although she was bruised and unconscious, Greta Hayward didn’t bleed. So whose was the blood?

On the morning of Friday 13th February 1942, at around the time that Cummins was arrested, feisty Paddington prostitute Kathryn Mulcahy was examined by Dr Alexander Baldie who confirmed that her injuries were consistent with strangulation. Giving the Police a detailed description of her attacker, which was corroborated by her neighbours (Agnes Morris and Kitty McQuillan) and exactly matched Gordon Frederick Cummins, having handed-in the missing blue belt to his RAF tunic, on which were two specks of blood, feeling that the assaults on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy required further investigation, they were escalated to Chief Inspector Edward Greeno, one of the West End’s most senior detectives, who also headed up the murder investigation of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley.

But before Chief Inspector Greeno could even begin to consider Cummins as a viable suspect to two assaults and two unnervingly similar murders, two more bodies would be found.

At 4:30pm, having broken down the locked bedroom door of flat 4 at 9/10 Gosfield Street, Detective Sergeant Leonard Blacktop discovered 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe; her left-handed attacker had strangled her, posed the body, mutilated her using a variety of readily available household objects, and (although rape hadn’t occurred) he had violated her with a candle. Cash was taken, personal items were stolen and once again no-one saw her murder, or her murderer.

And even though Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had found three sets of his fingerprints; one on the base of the candlestick, one on a bottle in the kitchen and one on the half full glass of stout, which Margaret and her killer had shared, which he had then left on the mantelpiece, he couldn’t be identified as (with Cummins having been arrested for the first time, that very morning and the assault charge still pending) his fingerprints hadn’t yet to be put on file.

Then, at 7:50pm, having broken down the locked bedroom of flat 1 at 187 Sussex Gardens, PC Payne discovered 32 year old Doris Elizabeth Jouanett; her left-handed attacker had strangled her, posed the body and mutilated her using a variety of readily available household objects, but (this time) he hadn’t raped or violated her, as through sheer fear, she had wet herself. Cash was taken, personal items were stolen and once again no-one saw her murder, or her murderer.

And although no fingerprints were found, Home Office chief pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, who conducted all four autopsies on Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett, confirmed that it was highly likely that all four murders had been committed by one man.

There was no denying it, London’s West End was in the grip of a serial sexual sadist and spree-killer, who had murdered four women in just four days, and (with the press getting wind of the story) the Police had to catch The Blackout Ripper before he struck again. But Chief Inspector Greeno already had a prime suspect in his sights and – better still – he already had him locked-up in prison.

On Saturday 14th February 1942, Detective Inspector Freshney interviewed Cummins at Brixton Prison to ascertain his whereabouts between Sunday 8th and Thursday 12th February, and although the prisoner appeared pleasant, charming and helpful, his answers were deliberately vague and evasive.

In summary, he stated that these were his movements:

(Typewriter) Sunday 8th February (the night that Evelyn Hamilton was murdered): Cummins visited his wife in Barnes (South West London), said goodbye to her at 6pm, took a bus and tube to Baker Street, headed to his flat at St James Court and was in bed by 10pm. There is no mention of Maison Lyonese, Marble Arch or Montagu Place in his statement.

(Typewriter) Monday 9th February (the night that Evelyn Oatley was murdered): being on duty all day, he left his flat just after 6pm, headed into Piccadilly with a red-headed corporal, he got drunk, met two prostitutes (later identified Laura Denmark and Molly DeSantos-Alves) and returned back to his flat after midnight. Although partially true, there is no mention of Wardour Street in his statement.

(Typewriter) Tuesday 10th February (no known murders were committed by The Blackout Ripper that night): but being on duty all day, he finished at 6pm, went to the YMCA bar, and was in bed by 9:30pm.

(Typewriter) Wednesday 11th February (the night Margaret Florence Lowe was murdered): being on duty all day, he finished at 6pm, went to the YMCA bar, and was in bed by 9:30pm. There is no mention of Piccadilly Circus, Soho or Gosfield Street in his statement.

(Typewriter) Thursday 12th February (the night of Doris Jouanett’s murder, and the attacks on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy): being on duty all day, he left his flat just after 6pm, headed to the Volunteer public house by Baker Street with a red-headed corporal, got drunk, headed into Piccadilly, met Greta Haywood at Brasserie Universalle, but as he doesn’t remember much after that, he ended-up in bed with an unknown prostitute in Paddington (believed to be Doreen Lytton), arrived back at Abbey Lodge at 4:30am and was detained by the Orderly Corporal prior to the arrival of the police.

In his statement, Cummins deliberately admitted only to being in the places he knew he’d been seen, he avoids any reference to the murder locations, and by repeatedly stating that he returned to his billets before curfew on all other nights, with all of the air-cadets at Abbey Lodge and St James Close being unfamiliar with each other’s names, faces and movements (having met barely one week before), he knew that the chance of anyone accurately confirming his precise whereabouts across that whole week, in a major metropolitan city, at war-time and during the blackout, would be slim.

With an incomplete timeline and no witnesses to accurately corroborate his whereabouts, the Police were relying on one vital piece of evidence to either confirm or deny his story – the log-book.

As an active military instillation working under tight war-time conditions, the Royal Air Force dictated that no person was permitted to leave his or her station (whether at Abbey Lodge or St James Close) without signing in or out in the log-book first, using their name, rank and serial number, all of which was cross-checked using their military ID card in a visual inspection by an armed sentry.

It was supposed to be a fool-proof system, but with security amongst the cadets being lax – with many airmen signing in/out for each other, stuffing their bedsheets with clothes to thwart the midnight bed-check and accessing their flats via an often unguarded fire escape which led directly from the ground-floor – often the logbook (into which you could write in either pen or pencil) was incomplete.

When Detective Inspector Freshney examined each page of the log-book for Cummins’ whereabouts, his heart almost stopped dead: the page for Saturday 7th February had been torn-out, the page for Sunday 8th had no entry for Cummins, on Monday 9th he had signed out at 18:20 but never signed in, the pages for Tuesday 10th February and Wednesday 11th February had no entry for Cummins at all, and on Thursday 12th February he had signed out at 18:29, but never signed in.
Wherever Gordon Frederick Cummins was, during that week, was a mystery, which couldn’t be unravelled by relying on eye-witness testimony or military records. And so far, in terms of conviction, the Police had a lot of circumstantial evidence, but very little of which would stick.

With Cummins almost certain to be charged with causing the grievous bodily harm of Greta Haywood, the Police’s next steps were to confirm that Cummins (on the same night) had attacked Kathryn Mulcahy, to prove that both attacks were connected, and that this left-hander was a serial strangler.

And no matter how small, slim or seemingly insignificant, the over-worked and under-staffed detectives of the Metropolitan Police had to scrutinise every single piece of evidence they had, starting with his clothes, the spare gas-respirator and his money.

On Sunday 15th February, Cummins’ Royal Air Force uniform – consisting of a brown shirt, brown tie, long grate coat, blue woollen side-cap, blue trousers, blue tunic and the misplaced blue belt – were removed from Brixton Prison, and having spotted thirteen small blood stains on the shirt and belt, they were sent to the Police Laboratory in Hendon for an examination, which would take four days.

Having traced Paddington prostitute Doreen Lytton, she confirmed she had met Cummins in Piccadilly at roughly 2am on Friday 13th February, had gone back to her flat in Polygon Mews, and that she had given him her spare gas-respirator having found it the Saturday before. With its original owner having inked his army serial number of 823863 inside the gas-mask, Police confirmed it belonged to Gunner Aubrey John King of the 96th Field Regiment, who had lost it back in November 1941, and was stationed in Clacton-on-Sea, 70 miles away, during the full duration of the murders, ruling him out as a suspect.

Upon his arrest, Cummins had £10 in his possession (£2 in his wallet, £8 in the spare gas-respirator) but also, that evening he had given Kathryn Mulcahy ten £1 notes; £2 on Regent Street, £3 in the taxi and £5 as an apology for attempting to strangle her, which she handed into the Police as evidence.

According to the paymaster’s records (which - unlike the log-book at Abbey Lodge - was the epitome of military precision), Cummins received his fortnightly wage of £12 on Saturday 1st February, which was distributed by Pilot Officer John Rowan from a fresh block of 500 £1 notes that he had withdrawn from the bank that day, meaning the notes serial-numbers were all in an unbroken sequential order.

On Sunday 8th February, six days before his next pay-day, with Cummins being broke he was only able to borrow £1 off his wife, but by Monday 9th, Felix Sands Lebron Johnson (the red-headed corporal who Cummins treated to pints and whiskies, that night in Piccadilly) noted he had £19 on him. And yet, Cummins had no savings, no loans, no debts owing, no inheritance and no other source of funds.

With the paymaster having distributed each wage in alphabetical order, Pilot Officer Rowan checked the remaining bank notes of any cadet whose surname began with the letters b, c and d, and was able to accurately determine what the serial numbers of Cummins’ bank-notes would have been.

The Police cross-checked the serial-numbers of the bank notes in evidence and confirmed that, of his original £12 wage; one £1 note was found in the bundle of eight which Cummins had stashed inside the spare gas-respirator (along with the gold watch), two £1 notes were given to Kathryn Mulcahy and a further two £1 notes were found in the daily takings at Brasserie Universalle and the Salted Almond.

Without a shred of doubt, the Police could prove that Cummins had strangled two women - Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy - on the same night, now they just needed to piece together a picture of his movements that week, and prove that Gordon Frederick Cummins was The Blackout Ripper.

At 6:30pm on Saturday 14th February 1942, Detective Sergeant Leonard Crawford searched flat 27 at St James Close in Regent’s Park. On his bunk in room b, he found Cummins’ kitbag which was marked with his rank and surname - ‘LAC Cummins’ – and his spare blue tunic which was missing a blue belt, in the left pocket of which was his identity discs (etched with his serial number of 525987) and in his right breast pocket, DS Crawford found a black fountain pen, engraved with the initials of ‘DJ’.

On a hunch, Chief Inspector Greeno asked the victim’s next of kin to identify three personal items found in Cummins possession; Margaret Florence Lowe’s 15 year old daughter Barbara confirmed that the silver cigarette case was her mother’s, and Henri Jouanett, Doris’ husband identified the greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing as Doris’, as well as the gold wrist-watch, which he had brought in France in 1927 and had gifted it to his wife on their wedding anniversary just four years prior.

Within just three days, Police had conclusively linked Cummins to two stranglings and three murders, within streets of each other on London’s West End and the evidence against him was escalating.

Eager to cross-check his whereabouts, on Monday 16th February, Chief Inspector Greeno interviewed Cummins at Brixton Prison, stating “I’m conducting an enquiry into the murder of three women”, and once again, although the prisoner was pleasant, charming and helpful, his answers were deliberately vague and evasive.

Keeping a straight face as he calmly toked on a smoke, Cummins denied he’d ever been to Gosfield Street or Sussex Gardens, denied going to any flat with a West End prostitute (even though he’d previously admitted he had had sex with both Laura Denmark and Doreen Lytton) and denied he had ever seen the black fountain pen, the gold watch or the silver cigarette case before, and yet, strangely, he admitted that Doris Jouanett’s broken greeny-blue comb was his, even though it wasn’t.

And once again, confirming that his statement was true and accurate, he signed it with his left hand, as across his middle fingers were a series of bloody scabs, all at least one week old.

Having noticed that his scuffed black boots made an unusually flat sound as he walked, Chief Inspector Greeno asked “Are those your RAF boots?”, to which Cummins nodded, grinned and removed his size 8’s. Now, whether the Police had found his footprints at either crime scene was irrelevant, as (during the full hour that Cummins was left unsupervised in his flat, surrounded by sleeping airmen) in an attempt to outwit the Police, he had crudely cut-off the rubber soles of his RAF boots, having hastily disposed of them and gave no explanation why.

With the interview over, Chief Inspector Greeno stated to Cummins that “tomorrow, on Tuesday 17th February 1942, you will be brought to Bow Street Magistrates Court and charged with murder”. Remaining calm, composed and almost cocky, Cummins replied “am I to be charged with murder? Oh…”, only to casually enquire “how many women did you say?”, to which Greeno replied “three”, and Cummins was led away to his cell, a smug grin spread across his face, knowing there were four.

On Tuesday 17th February at 10am, at the back of Bow Street Magistrates Court, Gordon Frederick Cummins was charged with the murder of Doris Jouanett, he was cautioned but made no reply.

As part of the formal process, Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s print bureau took Cummins’ fingerprints, and compared them to the left thumbprint found on Evelyn Oatley compact mirror, the left little finger found on her can-opener, and the left index finger found on the bottle and the glass of stout he had shared with Margaret Florence Lowe, all of which were a perfect match.

And with Dr Davidson of Hendon Police Laboratory confirming that the thirteen blood-spots found on his blue RAF tunic, his blue belt and the left sleeve of his brown shirt were not Cummins’ own blood, but that the blood type matched that of Doris Jouanett’s. Police could conclusively link Cummins to the attacks on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy, as well as the murder of Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett, but sadly, not Evelyn Hamilton.

It was then that the Police were blessed with an amazing piece of good fortune.

That same day, Cummins’ bunk-mate, Sergeant Keith Edward Moon was cleaning out the kitchenette they shared in flat 27 of St James Close, when he discovered secreted on the top shelf of their fridge, a silver cigarette case, which Cummins had hidden during his hour of solitude, and it contained a small photograph of a pretty blonde lady and the case was etched with the initials ‘LW’.  

Concerned that this may be evidence, the cadets conducted their own search. And at 2:30pm, Corporal Gordon Arthur Freeman found in the kitchen bin, the hastily sawn-off rubber soles to Cummins’ black scuffed boots, a green and black pencil and a handkerchief etched with the laundry mark of E2474.

Again, Chief Inspector Greeno asked those closest to the victims to identify two personal items found in Cummins’ flat; grieving widower Harold Oatley confirmed that the silver cigarette case etched with the initials ‘LW’ belonged to his wife Evelyn Oatley (also known as Lita Ward) and that the photo inside was of her mother Rossina,. And former chemist’s assistant 14 year old Bettina Grace Gray confirmed that she had loaned the green and black pencil to her manager Evelyn Hamilton one week prior.

With the handkerchief’s laundry mark of E2474 verified by Thorpebay Laundry Company in Romford, which matched an identical set found in Evelyn Hamilton’s suitcase, left in her hotel room at The Three Arts Club in Marylebone, and having confirmed that the grey brick mortar found in Cummins’ own gas respirator matched the sample taken from the air-raid shelter in Montague Place, the Police now had more than enough evidence to go to trial and (they hoped) to convince Cummins to confess…

…which he refused to do…

On Tuesday 10th March 1942, at the back of The Old Bailey, Cummins was charged with the murders of Evelyn Hamilton, Margaret Florence Lowe, Doris Jouanett and the assaults on Greta Haywood and Kathryn Mulcahy, to which he replied “absurd”.

On Thursday 26th March 1942, at the back of The Old Bailey, Cummins was charged with the murder of Evelyn Oatley, to which he replied “that’s ridiculous”.

…Cummins denied all charges and gave no confession.

On Monday 27th April 1942, 28 year old Gordon Frederick Cummins was tried before Mr Justice Asquith and a jury of twelve men in court two of the Central Criminal Court, known as The Old Bailey. As was his prerogative, even in the face of the overwhelming and irrefutable evidence against him, Cummins – in a mixture of either stupidity, confidence or arrogance – gave no evidence in his defence, submitted no witnesses to back-up his claims, didn’t enter an insanity plea, or put forward any mitigating factors (like a history of mental illness), and – facing almost certain death - he pleaded not guilty to all charges.

If anything, as his face beamed bright with a contented grin, as mawkish crowds of spectators jostled in the gallery and rabid journalists jotted down his name, in a legal defence entirely funded by the British tax-payer, although brief, he actually seemed to relish his time in the limelight.

In a trial which didn’t even last the whole day, the jury only needed to deliberate for just thirty-five minutes before they came to a unanimous conclusion, and found Gordon Frederick Cummins, on the charges of four counts of murder, one count of grievous bodily harm and one charge of assault – guilty.

And although he protested his innocence, his parents put forward several legal appeals and his wife applied for clemency, Gordon Frederick Cummins, the West End’s most infamous spree-killer and serial sexual sadist, who also known as The Blackout Ripper was sentenced to death.

On Thursday 25th June 1942, at a little before 9am, in the condemned man’s cell in Wandsworth Prison, Cummins sat wearing itchy woollen prison-issue fatigues which caused him to shift uncomfortably as he sat on a hard wooden chair, trapped by four cold stone walls, a barred window and a steel door.

The room was cold, basic and simple, sparsely furnished with few comforts, not unlike the bedrooms of the many women he had mauled, mutilated and massacred. But this time there were no knives, no razors, no candle, curling tongs nor can-opener to occupy his endless hours, as all he had here was a bed with a sheet, a simple wooden chair, a table with a jug of water, a bucket to defecate in and a large wardrobe (not unlike the kind his victim’s filled with hats, coats and handbags) but this particular wardrobe held a big surprise for Cummins, which even he wouldn’t expect

Having declined a final meal, instead supping back a glass of brandy, whether to settle his nerves, toast his life or celebrate his crimes, Cummins sat with his back to the wardrobe, facing the pale white wall with a sickly green hue, smoking and smirking, excitably chatting away, as having had no company for the last three months but his own dark thoughts, he was desperate to talk, but the guards said nothing.

Having written a few farewell letters, Cummins knew that today was the day of his death and that at precisely 9am - not a minute early and not a minute late – that he would be dead. But with no clock on the wall, no watch on his wrist and guards motionless and silent, as the morning sun of a bright new day raised up into the sky, time dragged slowly for Cummins, as (just like with his victims) he would be forced to live with the terrifying agony of never knowing when his end would come.

During those last days of his wasted life, having had many lonely nights to contemplate his killings, visualise his victims and mull-over the mutilation, full of horrifying images which would haunt their families forever, Cummins often visited the prison chapel; to pray for his wife, his father, his mother, his brother, his friends and especially for himself, but he never prayed for his victims or for forgiveness.

Although his visitors were few; mostly consisting of close family, Police officers and a priest, never once in those three months of solemn reflection did he ever confess to his crimes, and when asked why he did it, he’d simply reply “I didn’t”, as in his mind, he was innocent.

And the morning dragged on and time seemed to stall, the more his leg jiggled, his fingers strummed and his charming façade dropped as he became more even more impatient. And although he wouldn’t know this, the time was one minute to nine…

…in the briefest of moments, with a hard heavy clunk, the cold steel door of the cell would swing open, and as his two flanking guards would sharply raise Cummins to his feet, in would swiftly walk the prison governor, the doctor and the chaplain, accompanied by a slight and almost debonair 30 year old who would shackle the prisoner’s hands behind his back, as Cummins came face-to-face with a slim, short and unassuming man in a brown suit, with a kind face and a small wisp of hair on his head.

This was Albert Pierrepoint – his executioner.

Just like Cummins, Pierrepoint was a Yorkshireman. Just like Cummins, Pierrepoint was synonymous with death. And just like Cummins; Pierrepoint was charming, well-mannered and polite, and in his company Cummins felt safe, so for those who were due to die at his hands, his kindly demeanour was a false sense of security. And that’s where the similarities ended.

Pierrepoint was a professional whose precisely calculated, intricately rehearsed and swiftly performed executions were the epitome of efficiency, designed to be as humane and painless as possible, with the time from the prisoner hearing the cell door open to their body dangling at the end of a rope being less than ten seconds, and (as a master of his art) his quickest was seven.

Unlike his victims, Cummins wouldn’t suffer a horrendously painful death, as a sadistic maniac slowly strangled every breath out of his trembling body, crushing his throat and vocal chords, as with joyous glaring eyes his executioner clutched both sides of the stocking around his neck and pulled, chocking every ounce of life out of him, over several long, agonising and terrifying minutes.
No. He wouldn’t be mutilated, he wouldn’t be violated and he wouldn’t be posed. His loved ones wouldn’t witness his dead dangling corpse and his burial would be simple but dignified.

With Harry Allen, the executioner’s assistant having shackled the prisoner’s hands behind his back, as a prison guard slid aside the large wooden wardrobe, Cummins would be turned to face the dark secret behind the wardrobe, as barely ten feet from where he stood was the execution chamber. There was no long walk and no green mile, death had come to him.

Being led into the cold stone chamber, barely forty feet wide, high and deep, the eerily empty room had pale green walls, a set of sprung trap-doors in the centre and a wooden beam across the ceiling from which dangled a thick hemp rope, its end curled into a noose, measured to fit Cummins’ head.

And as they would swiftly position Cummins onto the chalk-marked ‘T’, dead-centre on the trap-doors, before he could even realise where he was, a white silken hood would be pulled down over his head, the silk-lined noose would be placed around his neck, and – having precisely calculated the prisoner’s five foot nine inch / eleven and a half stone frame – Pierrepoint would remove the bolt, and Cummins would drop. His six foot three inch fall, lasting less than half a second and releasing 1000 foot lbs of energy, as his motionless body was stopped from hitting the stone-tiled floor by the thick hemp rope, which would dislocated the second and third vertebrae of his neck, as fast as a foot snaps a stick.

As a legal requirement, his body would be left to hang for a full hour to ensure he was dead, and with no cheer, no joy and no applause, Cummins would be buried and Pierrepoint would be paid his £12.

That would be the end of The Blackout Ripper.

But before the strike of 9am, in his last minute alive, Gordon Frederick Cummins - the man who had terrorised London’s West End, brutally and savagely slaying four women and leaving two more scarred for life – continued to profess his innocence, gave no further statements and made no confession.

Instead, having stubbed out his cigarette and huffing like a man who had better things to do, Cummins impatiently protested to his guards “come on, let’s get this done”. And as the steel door opened, his arms were shackled, the wardrobe was slid back, his legs were secured, his head was hooded, his neck was noosed and Pierrepoint gripped the bolt – amidst the irony that London, that very morning, was in the grip of an air-raid, with a cacophony of sirens wailing, almost like a fond farewell to the West End’s most sadistic spree-killer – from underneath the heaving hood as his terrified breath quickened, with barely a second left to utter his final words, The Blackout Ripper said… nothing.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the eighth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper. Yes, that’s right, the eighth part, as although this was the finale of The Blackout Ripper’s story, because he professed his innocence and never gave a confession, I think it’s only right to re-examine the case. So, next week, for the first time ever, we’ll dive deep into the personal life of The Blackout Ripper, to look at his childhood, his relationships and his life leading up to the murders to see if there are any clues as to why he committed these murders, and we’ll do an episode showing his exact movements at the time of the killings and a Q&A episode where you can post me any questions, and post your theories as to why he did it. Message me on any social media platform with a Q&A question or theory.

If you love The Blackout Ripper story, please rate it and share it with your friends, as the more listeners Murder Mile gets, the more stories I can tell, and the longer this podcast can keep going.
This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Murderish, hosted by Jami, Murderish is an intriguing true-crime series which dives into the minds, method and the madness of murderers and those who track them, with excellent interviews with retired FBI profiler Jim Fitzgerald (who played a significant role in catching the Unabomber), Rob Demery (homicide investigator) and Emily Meehan (daughter of the infamous Dirty John) to name but a few. Check out Murderish. (play promo)

This week’s new Patreon supporter is Coralee, whose donation to the Keep Murder Mile Alive Fund is really appreciated, and truly helps cover the costs of researching each episode, as well as the 50-60 hours a week they each take to write, record and edit, so every penny really is appreciated. In answer to your question, my preferred method of attack is a ball kick, up-cut to the nose and a throat smash followed by a head-butt, or (if that’s sounds too aggressive) simply rip off his wig, mock his small hands, and tell him that Obama was a much better President, that should work. Good luck.

And a quick shout-out to two excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Redrum Blonde, hosted by Erin, the latest episode of Redrum Blonde is a real kicker, as she deep-dives into the sinister world of Scientology and the mysterious death of Lisa McPherson, so if you love true-crime with a twist, check out Redrum Blonde. And second is Heist Podcast, co-hosted by Matt & Simon, Heist Podcast trawls the news archives to bring you some of the world’s craziest, most bizarre and baffling robberies, from across the world, whether historical or topical. So if these podcasts sound perfect for you, check them out on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

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.

Next week’s episode… is part eight, about the early life of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: The Blackout Ripper series for Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using all of the original declassified police investigation files form the National Archive.

With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution), and additional music used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive, with all additional tracks written & performed by various artists.

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme tune)
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and outro)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• As Below by Cult With No Name
• Night II by Swelling
• Heir of the Dog by Cult With No Name
• Just Blue by Lee Rosevere
• A Pound Full of Penny Gaffs by Cult With No Name
• Have You a Patient Called Caligari by Cult With No Name
• Cold War Echo by Kai Engel
• Delirium by Kai Engel
• Sopor by Kai Engel

With additional sounds supplied by Freesound.org, a fabulous repository of free sound effects, available to use under the Free Attribution Agreement. Credits include:

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• Door Slam - https://freesound.org/people/viznoman/sounds/267306/
• Rope Pull - https://freesound.org/people/Huggy13ear/sounds/138958/

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” 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, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

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

INTRO: Between the 9th and the 12th February 1942, a sadistic sexual maniac stalked London’s West End brutally murdering four women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett) and strangling two others (Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy). And as much as the government kept a lid on any stories which could cause hysteria, none of The Blackout Ripper’s killings made front page news, instead they were relegated to small columns hidden on the inside pages.

The first recorded use of the term “Blackout Ripper” was just one day after Evelyn Oatley’s death. But with few papers taking up this salacious moniker, although it was muttered amongst the locals (almost as if he was a bogie-man), as soon as the trial was over, the case-files were archived, the story was lost, the victims were forgotten and “The Blackout Ripper” didn’t reappear in print until the mid-1950’s when a resurgence in true-crime led to these stories being sensationally and inaccurately retold.

And although The Blackout Ripper had echoes of the infamous Jack the Ripper case 54 years earlier, by the turn of 1942, not only had cinema audiences become incredibly savvy having been raised on a diet of sensational thrillers and the tired clichés of the tabloid press, buby living under the constant threat of the Nazi invasion with a terrifying barrage of bombs raining down from the skies, soldiers and civilians being slaughtered in their millions and ordinary people witnessing death on their doorsteps on an almost daily basis, in the grand scheme of things, the bloody murders of The Blackout Ripper were insignificant during war-time London. And so, once again, one of Britain’s most sadistic spree-killers disappeared into the darkness and his name was almost forgotten.  

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part six of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of West End Central police station on Saville Row, W1; a tall, grey, drab but imposing seven-storey concrete monstrosity just off Regent Street. And although police stations are supposed to instil into a nervous victim a reassuring sense of safety; having a flat featureless façade like a mummified face, a multitude of black shiny windows like a spider’s eye and an ominously wide main-door, lying dead-centre like the dark gaping mouth of a starving snake, West End Central evokes an intake of breath, a tightness in the chest and the spackling of the anal sphincter.

Built in 1940 to support local police stations like Vine Street, Bow Street and Great Marlborough Street as a war-time crime-wave swept through the city, sadly West End Central is now defunct as a working police station. And although it is still used as a local support unit, being full of coppers, panda-cars and riot vans, the glory days are gone and the good old London Bobbie has been relegated to posing for tourists photos, letting pregnant ladies pee in their helmets and having American tourists repeatedly ask them “excuse me sir, can you tell me the way to Li-Ces-Tur Square” and other such places that they deliberately mispronounce just to piss us off, such as Ed-in-bu-ro, Wor-chuster-shire and of course Loogaburg (which – for those of us who actually speak English – is Loughborough).

And yet, although West End Central police station is now nothing more than an admin block, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942, where Greta Hayward gave the Police a description of the man who had attacked her. But little would she know that these details would lead to the capture of one of London’s most prolific spree-killers, who was known as The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

The mug of milky tea was warm and soothing as Greta raised it to her trembling lips, most of which she spilled as her hands violently shook, and yet as reassuring as its sweetness was, even swallowing the smallest of gulps caused Greta to wince in pain, as the tea trickled down her swollen throat and an ominous purple-y yellow outline of a left hand formed across her bruised neck.

And although her attacker was still out there, somewhere, possibly prowling the back-streets of Soho and Piccadilly, inside Interview Room 2 of West End Central police station Greta was safe, as she gave a detailed description to Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey; a semi-senior detective whose remit was muggings, robberies and violent assaults (which this most certainly was), as well as murders.

So, for DI Jeffrey, with divisional surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie having confirmed that her injuries were consistent with strangulation, with Greta having provided an accurate sketch of the airman, aided by John Shine’s credible witness statement and the swift discovery of her eight inch torch and her stolen handbag (with the paper money missing), although none of these items retained any fingerprints owing to the wet weather, Greta’s attacker was quickly identified by his unique military serial number he had written in indelible ink inside his Royal Air Force issued gas respirator.

With a kind smile, tired eyes and a world-weary face, which had barely slept in several days - as every time he blinked; the ripped, splayed and mutilated body of Evelyn Oatley flashed before his eyes, having witnessed the horror on Wardour Street just two days before - DI Jeffrey reassured Greta that this was an open-and-shut case and they should have her attacker in custody by the morning.

Having deduced that the airman was stationed at the nearby RAF aircrew reception centre in Regent’s Park, DI Jeffrey telephoned Corporal William Crook, the orderly corporal in charge of Abbey Lodge where the aircrew were stationed, he confirmed that the serial number of ‘525987’ belonged to Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, a 28 year old blue-eyed fair-haired airmen, and that being under investigation for a possible robbery and an assault, DI Jeffrey instructed the orderly corporal to place Cummins under arrest until the arrival of the Police.

Of course, there were elements of this case which didn’t make any sense - such as why would a total stranger would want to attack Greta Hayward, why a robber would treat his victim to supper first, why (if this was an attempted murder) did he not bring any weapons with him, and why were there several scrapes and a few odd fragments of grey brick mortar inside of the gas-respirator, which didn’t match any wall found in or near where Greta was attacked? But then again, not all cases are neat.

So, as DI Jeffrey prepared the necessary paperwork for the attack on Greta Hayward, as a seasoned detective he knew that – if this actually ended up in court, which many cases (for various reasons) don’t – even with the evidence and statements they had, at best Cummins would be convicted of the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm, and sentenced to a few months in prison, or more likely (with him being an airman, this being war-time and – especially -if this was his first offence) he may get off with just a fine.

But first they would need to find him, as with Gordon Frederick Cummins not asleep in his bed, and the logbook at Abbey Lodge confirming that he hadn’t returned from a night out, that meant that somewhere across the West End, still stalking the city’s streets was The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

It may seem strange, sinister or even stupid, but at 2am on Friday 13th February 1942, barely a few hours after he had committed a brutal murder and two attempted murders, that Gordon Frederick Cummins would return to Piccadilly Circus, but that’s exactly what he did.

By that ungodly hour, Piccadilly Circus was dark, cold and deathly quiet, so with the streets speckled with a smattering of police constables on the look-out for anyone suspicious whether muggers eyeing-up drunken marks, peepers perving through sexy lady’s keyholes and lost servicemen who accidentally ask for directions from lone women who just happened to be prostitutes, it’s almost inconceivable that Cummins would flock here like some-kind of homicidal pigeon, but he did.

I mean, he could have picked literally anywhere in the whole of London’s West End to return to. But instead, being slightly drunk, strangely bored and more than a little arrogant, Cummins headed back to Piccadilly Circus; the place where murdered prostitutes Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where mutilated sex-worker Doris Jouanett was heading that night, where that very evening he had picked-up feisty Irish women Kathryn Mulcahy who had kicked six shades of shit out of his guts, and where – just five hours earlier – in a doorway just one street away – he had robbed, assaulted and strangled Greta Hayward; a women who was still alive, had seen his face, knew his history and at whose feet he had dropped his ridiculously unique gas respirator, who was now barely a six minute walk away at West End Central police station, and yet still, like a bad smell in a blocked toilet, Cummins returns to Piccadilly Circus.

Oh yes, Piccadilly Circus was the perfect place for a wanted murderer to blend-in; if you exclude the fact that he had cuts on his left hand, scuff marks on his boots, that the Police had his missing gas-mask and would soon have the belt to his blue tunic which he had misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat, and as long as you entirely ignore the fact that the blue Royal Air Force uniform he was wearing right then was splattered with the blood of Doris Jouanett, there was nothing suspicious about Gordon Frederick Cummins at all. So it made perfect sense for him to be in Piccadilly Circus.

But it was here, on the north-side of Piccadilly Circus, right outside of the notorious Café Monaco, that he picked-up another prostitute, hopped in a taxi with her and – in a move which once again was either strange, sinister or just plain stupid – he headed back to her flat, which (given the irony of where he had just been) was quite possibly in the second worst place in the whole of the West End for The Blackout Ripper to return to. Her flat was in Paddington and her name was Doreen Lytton (Interstitial)

As the taxi chugged back along the desolate darkness of West End, Doreen Lytton (a recently married mother of two, housewife and part-time prostitute) sat in the taxi’s back-seat with Cummins, unable to see the deep-red blood on his dark-blue clothes, as in the darkness, everything looked black.

Having slugged back a few too many whiskies, he was clearly tipsy, but unlike her usual clients who – having got her alone, on a back-seat, in a taxi – would feverishly fondle and grope this lone female to satisfy their strange sexual urges, but this one seemed different; he was quiet, calm and distant. And as he stared out of the window, watching the world go by, as the cab passed Maison Lyonese and turned right onto the all-too familiar sight of Edgware Road, Cummins politely enquired “Can I spend an hour with you? I’ll give you £3”, to which Doreen said “yeah, okay”, as in his company she felt safe.

Moments later, the taxi dropped them off at Porchester Place; two streets south of Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat at 28 Southwick Street (where the Police had just recently been, taken a statement and picked-up the missing belt to his blue tunic) and three streets south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens (where the mutilated body of Doris Jouanett would lay undiscovered for the next 17 hours), they walked through to Polygon Mews, Doreen unlocked her door and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

Being a small first-floor flat rented solely for sex-work, it was basic, drab and fitted with only the bare essentials, such as a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery. And having put the £3 on the mantelpiece, behind a framed photograph of her two beloved babies, Doreen popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire to warm the flat up and she started to undress.

But being slumped on her bed, his tired face all sunken, his bloodshot eyes all sullen and expelling a deep exhale of exhaustion, Cummins shook his head and calmly said “that won’t be necessary, I only want to talk, I have been drinking too much”, and so, being unable to perform, Doreen sat, in her flat, on an armchair, opposite the West End’s most prolific spree-killer and serial sexual sadist, and for an hour, over a nice warm cup of tea, they just sat and chatted.

Doreen would later state that he was polite, calm and courteous; a real gentleman, who sat quietly, listened intently and truly seemed to care about her life, as with a genuinely warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes, she showed him the photograph of her beloved family; a husband, a wife and two kids, and the more they talked, with her maternal instincts kicking in, Doreen felt pity for him.

During that very pleasant hour together, nothing immoral took place and they both remained clothed, seated and apart. Being honest with Doreen, Cummins apologised for his lack of libido and reassured her that he definitely did fancy her, but that his real reason for being here was simply to pass an hour or two, as (on tonight of all nights) he was in big trouble.

Of course, during their conversation, he never once mentioned that he was a deeply disturbed sexual sadist who (over the last few days) had strangled and tortured four women; sliced, ripped and filleted their skins, had taken a deeply-disturbing level of pleasure in disfiguring their genitals, into which he had inserted a series of phallic household objects, having then posed each women like morbid mannequins, stolen a creepy collection of souvenirs, and let two women live, who (just like Doreen) knew most of his life story. No, instead, Cummins was concerned with more pressing matters.

As being several hours too late for his 10:30pm curfew back at Abbey Lodge, having misplaced the blue belt to his RAF tunic and lost his serial-numbered gas-respirator, all of which were chargeable offences under the Royal Air Force’s code of conduct, Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins (who was only in London on a three week course) was less concerned with his brutal murders, and more concerned about these minor misdemeanours, as any black mark against his name could seriously jeopardise his chance of ever becoming an RAF pilot. 

With the hour almost up and his £3 spent, taking pity on his plea, Doreen handed the airman an almost identical gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag, that she had found just one week before, he thanked her for the tea, took her telephone number saying he’d love to see her again, and at a little before 4am, Doreen Lytton waved goodbye to The Blackout Ripper, as he disappeared into the darkness.

Today, Abbey Lodge - with its art-deco stylings, wrought iron gates and intricate gold inlayed doors - is a stunning six-storey Georgian mansion-block for the supremely wealthy, situated in the exclusive north-west corner of Regent’s Park, with flats selling for just £3-12million, or rented for £5000 a week. But in 1942, having been requisitioned by the military, Abbey Lodge was known as Number Three Reception Centre, where trainee pilots for the Royal Air Force were stationed.

Although stationed at Abbey Lodge, Cummins resided at the newly built apartments on St James Close on the north-side of Regent’s Park. But with armed sentries positioned on all the doors, added security patrolling the perimeter (especially the fire-escapes which airmen, having missed their curfew would often climb up and sneak into their flats unnoticed) and with a higher risk of him being shot if he tried to break-in, with no other options, Cummins approached the main entrance of Abbey Lodge.

From the darkness of the doorway, into his startled face, the hollow muzzle of a Lee Enfield .303 rifle was aimed as Air Cadets Cyril Woolfenden and David Alfred Arch challenged Cummins. Playing it cool, Cummins beamed a winning smile, showed the sentries his identification card; clarified his name, rank and serial number (“Cummins; Gordon Frederick; Leading Aircraftman, 525987”) and following strict orders to detain Cummins on sight, he was swiftly marched to the guard-room.

Entering the guardroom, Cummins gulped, knowing he was in deep shit, when he was confronted by Corporal Charles Johnson (the Orderly Sargent with an overpowering smell of body-odour and starch) who’s long thin fingers strummed on the battered log-book and Corporal William Crook (the fresh-faced, squat-framed and spud-headed Orderly Corporal) who had taken the call from DI Jeffrey of West End Central.

Feigning ignorance, having smeared on his best poker-face, Cummins casually enquired “what’s this all about?”, to which Orderly Corporal Crook replied “a woman’s been attacked in Piccadilly, your respirator was found at the scene”. But without missing a beat, Cummins let out an audible sigh and uttered “thank God for that” (or words to that affect), tapped the black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag which was slung over his left shoulder, and having reassured both orderlies that this was nothing more than a silly mix-up, Cummins was escorted on a 15 minute walk back to his billets.

Still partially under construction, Cummins was billeted at St James Close; a seven-storey brown-brick art-deco building, situated on Prince Albert Road on the northern perimeter of Regent’s Park, and although he was not permitted to leave the premises until the Police arrived, at no time during his detention was he ever searched, supervised, locked-in or even placed under armed guard.

At roughly 4:50am, on Friday 13th February 1942, Cummins quietly crept into flat 27, on the first floor of St James Close, trying not to wake his buddies who slept as soundly as seven men could on wire-sprung cots with scratchy woollen bedsheets, but as silent as he was, he was desperate to talk.

Having shaken his bunk-buddy awake, with Flight Sargent Raymond Snelus noticing it was still dark and that Cummins was dressed, he groggily asked “where have you been”, to which Cummins replied “I am in the shit, someone swapped my respirator and it was found at the scene of a crime”. But being unimpressed and needing his extra hour of sleep, Snelus rolled over, farted and nodded off.

And so, for almost a whole hour, amongst a sea of sleeping airmen, Cummins was unobserved.

Having been alerted of his arrival, the police were on their way to question Cummins, but with this being a simple assault and robbery charge, with clear evidence, corroborated witness statements and their only suspect being held inside a secure military location, given that the Police had more pressing matters to deal with – like a sadistic maniac who, so far, had brutally murdered two women in the West End, with two more bodies still to be discovered - there was no real rush to arrest Cummins.

So what he did, during that hour, would determine the course of the rest of his life. It would be the difference between a career and unemployment, prison and freedom, and even life and death,

What did the police really know? Was this about the assault, or was this about the murders? Did they only know about Greta Hayward? Had Kathryn Mulcahy blabbed? Or had they linked him to the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, and later Margaret Florence Lowe and Doris Jouanett? Did the Police know more than they said, or could Gordon Frederick Cummins outwit them?

Time was on his side… but the clock was ticking.

At 5:45am on Friday 13th February 1942 - Detective Charles Bennett and Detective Sargent Thomas Shepherd - arrived at flat 27 of St James Close to interview Leading Aircraftman Gordon Frederick Cummins, who was nonchalantly lying on his bunk, fully clothed and smoking a cigarette from a silver cigarette case, as he casually greeted the plain-clothed officers with a courteous “good morning”.

Having established Cummins’ identity using his military ID, Detective Bennett stated “your respirator has been found by the side of a woman who had been badly assaulted and you answer the description of a man who she described”, to which Cummins simply nodded and said nothing.

“Is that your respirator, sir?” Detective Bennett enquired, pointing to the black rubber gas-mask in the beige canvas bag on his bunk (which just hours before Doreen Lytton had given him), but knowing full well that the serial number etched inside didn’t match his own, Cummins replied “no, I picked that up in the Universal Brasserie, someone must have picked up my one by mistake, so I took this one”.

With Cummins fitting the description, Detective Bennett stated “I’m arresting you for causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward on St Alban’s Street, on the evening of Thursday 12th February 1942”. Cummins was cautioned and handcuffed but made no reply. Calmly stubbing out his cigarette underfoot, the officers escorted their suspect to the awaiting police car, his scuffed black boots making a very slight and unusually flat sound as he walked, which (amongst the hubbub) nobody noticed.

At 9am, a few hours later, having been transferred to West End Central police station, Cummins – who was composed, polite, helpful and almost jokey at the ridiculousness of the situation - was questioned by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey who stated “I understand you deny being the man who assaulted Mrs Heyward, it will therefore be necessary to hold you for an identification parade”.

But confronted with the overwhelming evidence against him – the gas-respirator etched with his serial number (525987), the witness statements by Greta Hayward and John Shine, the scuff marks on his left hand, the blood-stains on his shirt and having found a small slip of paper in his grate-coat pocket on which had been written “Colindale 6622” (which was Greta Hayward’s phone number) - Cummins quickly confessed, stating “No, that won’t be necessary, I am the man, I was drinking very heavily that night and I remember being with a woman in Piccadilly, but I cannot remember anything else that happened.” At which, Cummins asked to make a full statement.

Part of it read: “… I had several whiskies and brandies, I cannot remember how many, but I know I had several. After some minutes, I cannot recall how many exactly, I went over and spoke to a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs (in the Universal Brasserie), I had some conversation with her and I believe I brought her a drink. I cannot remember exactly what followed but I have a hazy recollection of walking around the streets with her. By this time, I was very drunk and did not know what I was doing. The next thing I remember, it was around 02:30am, I found myself in Marble Arch and caught a cab back to Regent’s Park. I have a hazy recollection of being with a woman but I cannot remember striking her. I deeply regret what has happened and I am willing to pay her compensation”. Cummins re-read his statement, confirmed its accuracy and signed it with his left hand.

As was standard protocol, Cummins agreed to be searched by Detective Bennett in the presence of DI Jeffrey, and his unremarkable personal affects included two £1 notes in his wallet, three shillings and six pence in his pocket, his RAF identity card, a few personal letters on RAF notepaper, a silver cigarette case, a greeny-blue comb with several teeth missing, and in the other gas-respirator (given to him by Doreen Lytton) he had stashed eight £1 notes and a gold wrist-watch.

None of which seemed strange, suspicious or out of the ordinary; a worn leather wallet, a few crinkled pound notes, his military ID, a slightly battered silver cigarette case, an old broken comb and a gold wrist-watch (the type that married couples – like  Mrs & Mrs Cummins – would give each other on a special anniversary). To the untrained eye, they were nothing more than a random assortment of everyday items that most men would carry, and which meant nothing to the Police. But to Cummins, they were personal items, too precious to dispose of or destroy during a vital last hour alone, they were mementoes of his morbid memories and souvenirs of his sadistic crimes.

On the afternoon of Friday 13th February 1942, a grinning Gordon Frederick Cummins appeared at Bow Street Magistrates Court where he was charged with the minor offence of causing grievous bodily harm to Mrs Greta Hayward. As a condition of this charge, Cummins would be remanded in custody at Brixton Prison until his court appearance on 12th March 1942.

If found guilty of GHB, having already spent a month in prison awaiting his trial, although this custodial sentence would be inconvenient, Cummins would most likely be released owing to “time served”, imposed with a small fine and (having missed the remainder of his three week course in Regent’s Park) with the Royal Air Force in need of strong young men to fight off the impending German invasion, Cummins would most likely be demoted and redeployed elsewhere, where he could retrain as a pilot. And once again, into the darkness of the West End, The Blackout Ripper would disappear.

And as he sat there, smoking in the privacy of his small prison cell in Brixton Prison, as his slight grin slowly morphed to a beaming smirk, having outsmarted both the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard and left a bloody trail of terror across the West End with four women brutally mutilated and two attacked, all in just four days, Cummins knew that he had literally gotten away with murder.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the seventh part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Island, brilliantly hosted by your very own Aussie news anchor-man called Cambo, True-Crime Island covers the very latest breaking true-crime news stories from around the world. So if you like your true-crime delivered to you in a fast, fresh and fun way, check out True-Crime Island. (Play Promo)

If you fancy becoming a Patreon supporter, receiving exclusive access to original Murder Mile content including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases, as well as ensuring the future of Murder Mile, you can do this for just £2 a month (or £2 in real money) by clicking on the link in the show-notes.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Pleasing Terrors; hosted by Mike (who like myself is a tour guide), Pleasing Terrors is a really well-told series of creepy but true tales which will have you on the edge of your seat (trust me the ouiji board episode in Charleston Prison, I had to switch off, as I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep. And second is Swindled, hosted by an unnamed narrator, Swindled dives into the murky world of white collar crime, focussing on corporate crimes, scandals and swindles, such as the Bopal disaster, Love canal and the mysterious death of the pizza delivery man. So check out Pleasing Terrors and Swindled on iTunes and all podcast platforms.

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.

Next week’s episode… is part seven of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: Murder MIle's series on The Blackout Ripper was taken entirely from all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, and too almost eight months to intensively research, 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:

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme music)
  
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and main theme)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
• Even When We Fall by Philipp Weigl
• A Vital Piece of Music for all your Soundtrack Needs by Steve Combs
• Untitled by Seclorance
• Waiting for the Punchline by Cult With No Name
• Itsca It’s Glowing Red Hot by Chris Zabriski
• Sunset by Kai Engel
• Warm of Mechanical Heart by Kai Engel
• Modum by Kai Engel
  

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

• Marching - https://freesound.org/people/WebbFilmsUK/sounds/200322/
  
• Rifle Cock - https://freesound.org/people/SpliceSound/sounds/153560/
• Snoring 1 - https://freesound.org/people/Daxter31/sounds/114609/
• Snoring 2 - https://freesound.org/people/swapnil_gt/sounds/370336/

 

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 wal

If you love true-crime podcasts, subscribe to the Murder Mile on iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Libsyn

INTRO: After Britain declared war against Germany on 3rd September 1939, the first liberation took place, starting in British prisons. With the country desperate to clear its cells for the true enemies of the state; such as spies, traitors, looters and deserters, and in short supply of eligible young men for conscription, any prisoners with three months or less to serve were granted their freedom.

Buoyed by a sense of national pride, some prisoners enlisted, but others did not. And with the cities short on experienced Police officers, rationing enforced, and with basic essentials (such as soap and fuel) being sold at vastly over-inflated prices, some ex-con’s saw war-time as the perfect opportunity for criminal enterprise, and even honest people turned to crime under the cover of the blackout.

Between 1939 and 1945, the crime rate in England & Wales rose by 57%, with the number of reported murder cases increasing from 280 in 1939 to 490 in 1945, and with death, injury and disappearance being a daily occurrence in most war-time cities, many murders were impossible to prove.

But four horrifying deaths, over four nights, in four different parts of the London’s West End, were unmistakable as murders committed by a serial sexual sadist; whose attacks were random, bloody and brutal. And although, by Thursday 12th February 1942, on the fifth day of his five-day killing spree, only the badly mutilated bodies of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley had been found, with Margaret Florence Lowe still lying undiscovered, barely hours before the agonising death of his final victim – Doris Jouanett – in one night, having met them just one hour and two hundred feet apart, as his bloodlust escalated, the West End’s most prolific spree-killer would attack two more women.

My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part five of the full, true and untold story of The Blackout Ripper.

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Piccadilly Circus, W1; an iconic London landmark which interconnects the roads of Regent Street, Coventry Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Piccadilly and Haymarket. Built in 1819 under its original name of Regent’s Circus, it later became Piccadilly Circus, after the area it covered, coined after local tailor Robert Baker’s infamous 17th century collar, called the “piccadillio”. And that’s about as exciting as it gets.

Featuring the infamous Criterion Theatre, the London Pavilion, the ghost of Tower Records, two truly hideous tourist attractions (where – for an insulting steep amount of money – you too can stare at badly sculpted plastic replicas of real people) and a statue which every idiot calls Eros (even though it’s not Eros, it’s Anteros - the angel of Christian charity, but then again being educated is so overrated), as everyone stares at Piccadilly’s infamous neon advertising and feels an overwhelming urge to scoff fatty chicken corpses, drink fizzy sugary piss, or smell like a footballer’s arse, they suddenly realise that Piccadilly Circus is nothing more than a world-famous semi-circular traffic contraflow, where every year millions of dipsticks flock to watch traffic; “oh look there’s a truck”, “oh look a bus”, “oh look a bike”, “oh look an accident”, “oh look blood”, “oh look brains”, “oh look entrails”, “oh look a road sweeper”, “oh look a lovely clean road”, as the tourist takes a selfie and says “oh look, there’s a Albanian immigrant wearing a cheap Yoda mask who’s pretending to float, that does look fun”. Sigh!

But actually, for us murder aficionados, Piccadilly Circus is fascinating, As it’s here that Doris Jouanett was heading for her date with The Captain, where both Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe were last seen alive, where two local prostitutes Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves met a red-headed corporal and a blue-eyed fair-haired airman, and waved goodbye to Evelyn Oatley just hours before her death. And yet, it was here, on Thursday 12th February 1942 at 8pm, where The Blackout Ripper would meet his fourth victim. And her name was Greta Hayward (Interstitial).

As always, being a little too eager and (if she was honest with herself) enthusiastic to escape her home in Kingsbury (North West London) which she shared with her soon-to-be ex-husband; 30 year old Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, whose friends called her “Greta”, had hopped on the Metropolitan line to Baker Street, changed onto the Bakerloo Line to Piccadilly Circus and was stood outside of the Criterion Theatre – a full hour too early for her date – with nothing to do but wait.

With the shops shut, she couldn’t blow an hour by browsing. With only two films on at the flicks being Bette Davis in The Man Who Came To Dinner and Will Hay in The Black Sheep of Whitehall, she didn’t want to waste a shilling watching a newsreel, a cartoon and half of the pre-feature five-reel b-movie. With the Criterion Theatre having been requisitioned by the BBC to perform live radio for the duration of the war, and tonight’s broadcast being the brutally-dull music show ‘Take Your Choice‘ followed by the BBC Salon Orchestra conducted by Leslie Bridgewater, Greta was already bored of waiting, but she didn’t fancy falling into a coma. And even though Café Monaco was only on the opposite side of Piccadilly Circus, being packed full of sozzled servicemen, as an attractive blonde female sitting by herself, her chance of enjoying a quiet drink was zero.

And so, it was there, at the bottom of the steps of the Criterion Theatre, with time ticking by, her date an hour away and Greta all out of options that a blue-eyed fair-haired airman approached her, with a polite and pleasant proposition she simply couldn’t refuse. (Interstitial)

“Excuse me, are you waiting for somebody?” the airman asked, in an accent which, although well-spoken with the appearance of wealth, class and status, had the unmistakable twang and reassuring hints of North Yorkshire, where Greta was from. Sensing a pick-up attempt, she brushed off his request with the truth that she was awaiting a date with an Army Captain - her clever ploy being to pull rank on this inferior airman, the distinctive white flash on his side-cap suggesting he was still a cadet – but with the snow turning to drizzle, 9pm still an hour away, and the airman seeming harmless enough, with a sweet smile, a kind face and his gentlemanly offer that “I could buy you a drink while you wait for your friend?”, she thought it would certainly pass the time, and in his presence she felt safe.

The Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus began life in the late 1800’s as a grand concert-hall full of cafes, galleries and a fine-dining restaurant in an opulent ballroom, which played host to stars, artists and royals. But after years of neglect and being on its last legs, by 1942, the restaurant had descended into being simply another shoddy pick-up joint for sailors, soldiers and airmen. It was called ‘Brasserie Universelle’, but it was more appropriately known as ‘The Universal Brothel’ or ‘The Brass Ass’.

As always, the bar of Brasserie Universelle was rammed with the sticky bustle of hot bodies as British and Canadian servicemen drank, danced and dry-humped their latest squeeze or conquest. And with the air thick with lewd chatter, fast jazz, cigarette smoke and the unpleasant whiff of jizz, as Greta and the airman drank a whiskey together, it was hard to heard themselves think.

And as much as he failed to flirt with her, by telling her she was beautiful and trotting out other equally unimaginative and retch-worthy chat-up lines, she reminded him of her impending date, he politely apologised and invited her to a spot of supper in the quieter, calmer and the less boisterous ambience of the Salted Almond Cocktail bar in the nearby Trocadero. So with fifty minutes still to go, feeling a little peckish having not eaten since lunch, and with him having agreed to escort her back to the brasserie by 9pm, a time which suited him fine as the rules of the RAF dictated that he had to be back in his Regent’s Park billets by 10:30pm, Greta headed out to supper with the unnamed airman.

He didn’t seem like a bad sort, Greta thought. Yes, he was a little tipsy, but he wasn’t rude, crude or abusive. Yes, the knuckles of his left-hand were scraped, but being an airman he probably did a manual job like a mechanic. And yes, he was a little forward in his approach, but looking rather dashing in his long military grate coat, his shiny black rubber-soled boots, his starched blue tunic with matching belt, his neat brown shirt and straightened tie, his side-cap emblazoned with the insignia of the Royal Air Force, and slung over his left shoulder was a black gas-respirator in a beige canvas bag (the kind of gas-mask that all military personnel were required to carry); she knew nothing bad would happen to her, as on the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold wedding band, and having proffered her a smoke, she spied a small black & white photo of a pretty blonde lady hidden inside his silver cigarette case, which (she thought) was engraved with her initials of ‘LW’.

The Salted Almond situated in the Trocadero’s original location on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Windmill Street, just off the north-east corner of Piccadilly Circus, would have been a good choice for a quiet spot of supper, as being owned by J Lyon & Sons, creators of corner-house tearooms such as Maison Lyonese, it prided itself on being safe, calm and pleasant for women, but sadly, as the night drew on, the same could not be said for Greta’s new companion.

Being a few whiskies in, with supper looking unlikely and his disarmingly charming tone having shifted to that of a lecherous oaf, the airman lustfully enquired “are you a naughty girl?” - ignoring her plea that she wasn’t a prostitute, had never been and had no plans to be – and bragged that “I’m not broke, look”, as he pried open his wallet, which was stuffed thick with thirty £1 notes (almost £1000 today).

Getting petulant as Greta batted away his advances, he stated “I don’t think there’s time for supper now…” and quickly piped-up with “…come out to dinner with me tomorrow evening?” And with Greta eager to leave, she reluctantly agreed to a date, impressed upon him that sex would not happen and wrote on a slip of paper her phone number (of Colindale 6622) which he pocketed. And as he huffed “Alright, if you don’t want to, I can’t make you, but you seem a nice girl and I really do want you”, Greta brushed him off again, and as promised, at 8:45pm, he escorted her back for her 9pm date.

With the blackout in full force, with every light dipped, dulled or turned-off and even the illuminated signs of Piccadilly Circus switched-off, the streets would have been in near-darkness as Greta was guided out of the Trocadero, taking the brisk three minute walk, straight down the bustling throng of Shaftesbury Avenue and across Piccadilly Circus, back to the front entrance of the Criterion Theatre.

But then again, the airman didn’t take the most direct route. And with Greta having been subjected to a tirade of moody drunken mumblings by the airman, having bragged that he’d “once knocked a girl out”, she didn’t argue with him for fear of incurring his wrath, as he led the nervous lady down the thinner, quieter and darker side-streets to the brasserie’s back entrance.

And as they entered Jermyn Street, an almost pitch-black empty side-street behind Piccadilly Circus, as Greta pulled out of her handbag an eight inch metal torch to see her way and possibly alert a passing Policeman to her need for help, the airman snatched the torch from her hand, balking “you won’t be needing that” and pocketed it, as he casually strolled passed the brasserie’s back entrance.

With her heart racing, her eyes wide and her mouth dry, as the airman led her south down St Alban’s Street, a narrow alley heading away from the brasserie, he expressed his wish to give her a goodnight kiss, and in a chillingly eerie statement (possibly uttered barely four nights before to a painfully shy 41 year old pharmacist in Montagu Place), he said “aren’t there any air-raid shelters nearby?”

Although petite, standing her ground, Greta replied “I don’t know and in any case I wouldn’t go in one of them with you”, but as he led her into the ominous silence of the equally dark St James’ Market, in the cold shadow of the Captain’s Cabin pub, the airman dragged Greta into an unlit doorway.

Removing his RAF issue gas-respirator in its beige canvas bag from his left shoulder and placing it on the ground, the airman pulled Greta’s trembling body close as he started to kiss her; the feted stench of tobacco on his breath, as he rammed his tongue deep into her mouth. And as his hands grabbed at her hips, tugged at her blouse and groped at her breasts, she pushed him away gasping “you mustn’t, you mustn’t do that”. But with his passion enflamed and not being a man who took no for an answer, with an odd glint in his eyes, having placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, she thought (having heard her plea) he was either forthcoming with an apology or a tender but friendly kiss? But as his left hand slipped down her face, slowly caressing her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, all the while muttering “you won’t, you won’t”, until her vision went black. 

Nobody heard her screams. Nobody saw his face. Nobody found any weapons.

And at 9pm, on Thursday 12th February 1942, at the back of the Criterion Theatre on Piccadilly Circus, barely two hours before the brutal, shocking and sadistic murder of Doris Jouanett, Margaret Mary Theresa Hayward, known to her friends as “Greta” became the fourth victim of The Blackout Ripper.

Just like the others, she was a lone female. Just like the others, she was attacked in private. Just like the others, she was robbed. But unlike the others… she didn’t die.

Hearing shoes scuffling, a muffled croaky voice and seeing a torch frantically flickering, as 24 year old night-porter John Shine approached St Alban’s Street, he spotted a pair of women’s legs slumped on the wet floor and sticking out of an unlit doorway. Sensing something was wrong, John Shine shouted “Police!” at the top of his lungs, panicking the ominous shape which loomed over the collapsed lady, and before he could do anything, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness.

And although she was unconscious, Greta was alive…

…but did her survival lead to the death of another woman?

At a little after 10pm, barely an hour later; with his heart pumping, his nerves tingling and his bloodlust unsated, having sunk several more whiskies, the slightly dishevelled airman spotted a lone female, standing in the darkened doorway of Oddenino’s restaurant, near the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus, where just two days before, Evelyn Oatley was last seen alive.

Being a tall, slim and attractive lady, with bobbed flame-red hair, luminous pale skin, stunning grey-eyes and dressed in a black tailored coat, skirt and hat, he was instantly aroused by her. As a 34 year old soon-to-be divorcee who had succumbed to sex-work simply to pay the rent, she reluctantly hopped in a taxi with the drunken airman and took him back to her Paddington flat. And although she was known locally as “Mrs King”, her real name was Kathryn Mulcahy. (Interstitial)

Unlike before, the sozzled airman wasn’t in the mood for small-talk, and having paid her two £1 notes upfront for sex (roughly £60 today), Kathryn sighed “I wish I could make £5 tonight”, at which he flashed his bulging wallet, peeled-off three further £1 notes for her, and in the backseat of the taxi, having got down on his knees, lifted up her skirt and pulled aside her knickers, he began to kiss her genitals, as their taxi drove west along Oxford Street, passing Selfridges, and Doris Jouanett.

Having politely pacified his advances in her soft Irish brogue, stating “don’t be silly, we’ll be in my flat soon enough”, Kathryn was intimidated by his eagerness, as their taxi continued up Edgware Road, along Sussex Gardens and stopped just shy of Paddington Station, outside of 29 Southwick Street.

As the taxi pulled away, a bitterly cold wind blew down the dark and strangely quiet side-street, and although Kathryn shivered, it wasn’t just the icy gust which riddled her skin with goose-bumps, and as she led the amorous airman, off the side-street, under a darkened archway and into eerie silence of Southwick Mews, she unlocked her front door, and welcomed into her flat The Blackout Ripper.

With Kathryn having been out most of the day, and a winter frost having settled on the icy snow, her small second-floor flat was chillingly cold, and being only sparsely furnished with few comforts (just the basics, like a bed with a sheet, a table with a candlestick, a wash-stand with a packet of razor-blades, and a wardrobe full of clothes, hats, curling tongs and a collection of kitchen cutlery) she popped a shilling in the coin-slot of her gas-fire, to warm the flat up, as they undressed.

Being naked, all except for her boots (with her toes too cold to be exposed), Kathryn was desperate for the sex to be over-and-done with quickly, but with the airman ignoring her pleas, the unrolled condom in her hand and his penis still flaccid, he continued fondling her breasts and kissing her vagina.

Lying flat on her back, her trembling body sprawled diagonally across the bed, the airman never once attempted to have sex with Kathryn; instead straddling her slim pale torso, with his knees either side of her hips and an odd glint in his wide blue eyes, he placed both hands on her quivering cheeks, as if to tenderly kiss her, but as his left hand slowly caressed the nap of her neck, he tightly gripped her throat and squeezed, until her vision went black. 

But as a feisty Irish woman, raised by a drunken father, an absent mother and several brothers, who had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband and had given her only child up for adoption, although timid, Kathryn was a born fighter. And having yanked both of thumbs back so hard that the bone almost snapped, making him squeal, having freed her leg, Kathryn booted him squarely in the chest, kicking her assailant right off the bed.

Not wishing to spend a second longer with this maniac, Kathryn ran from her flat screaming “Murder! Police!”, banging on the doors of her neighbours – Agnes Morris and Kitty McQuillan – who came to the naked woman’s aide. But he didn’t run. Instead, seeming unflustered, almost as if nothing had actually happened, as the airman calmly dressed, fixed his hair and sparked up a cigarette (even stopping so low as to ask Kitty if she had a light), being cocky in his lack of haste, he casually apologised to Kathryn, tossed her five £1 notes, and left.

The time was roughly 11pm. The date was Thursday 12th February 1942. And with his anger rising, his hatred fuming and his bloodlust unsated, having turned right and strolled down Southwick Street, The Blackout Ripper disappeared into the darkness of Sussex Gardens, and the home of his final victim.

But unlike his other attacks; this time there were screams, this time there were witnesses, this time they had seen his face, and this time he had left behind evidence. And not just the canvas belt to his blue military tunic he’d misplaced in Kathryn Mulcahy’s flat. No, this was something different.

Roughly one mile away, in a dark alley at the back of Piccadilly Circus, having sustained cuts,. Bruises, concussion and a fractured larynx, although she struggled to breathe, with the aid of the night-porter John Shine, Greta Hayward made her way to West End Central Police Station on nearby Saville Row, where she gave a description of the man who had attacked her.

Although a little fuzzy at first, Greta quickly compiled a detailed description of her unnamed attacker, stating he was “a British Airman, aged 30-ish, 5 foot 9 inches tall, clean shaven, soft features, light blue eyes, slim build, fair-haired, dressed in an Royal Air Force blue uniform, with long black grate coat, a woollen side-cap with a white cadet’s emblem, and over his left shoulder he carried a black gas respirator in beige canvas bag”. And although her depiction was highly accurate, with his attacks all occurring during World War Two, that description could easily match one of thousands of airmen in and around London, that day. But one detail was unique…

…in his haste to escape, Greta’s attacker had dropped his gas-mask; and although it was nothing more than a standard-issue gas respirator, made in a generic black rubber, fitted with a readily available air-filter and carried in a nondescript beige canvas bag, which was mass-produced, cheaply made and widely distributed to all military personnel across the entire British Armed Forces…

…inside his gas respirator, for fear of confusing it with the millions of others which dotted the country, in black permanent marker, he had written his Royal Air Force serial number; a very unique six-digit code and identifiable to just one man. And his name was Gordon Frederick Cummins.

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

Don’t forget to join us next week for the sixth part of the true story of The Blackout Ripper.

And, although we still have a few more episodes to go, if you have any questions about the previous episodes, please message me on social media, and I will include these in a special Q&A episode at the end of this series.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Eye For An Eye, hosted by Lisa and Matt, Eye For An Eye is a weekly true-crime podcast which delves into the deeply disturbing mind of murderers, sociopaths and psychotics, with a big dose of humour, and songs a-plenty. If this sounds perfect for you, check out the promo for Eye For An Eye. (Play Promo)

A big thank you goes to my brand new Patreon supporters who get exclusive access to original Murder Mile content, including crime-scene photos, murder location videos and Patron-only Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 cases. They are Jim Balfour, Steve Stadalink, Kathryn Williams, and an extra special friend who asked to be anonymous, all have asked “which bits of human flesh are the tastiest?” Well friends, in ascending order they are; the bum-bum, the boobie, the winkie, the nu-nu, the flaps, the muffin-top and the calamari. Bon appetite.

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.

Next week’s episode… is part five of The Blackout Ripper.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: The Blackout Ripper series for Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using all of the original declassified police investigation files form the National Archive.

With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution), and additional music used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive, with all additional tracks written & performed by various artists.

• -7 by Cult With No Name (theme tune)
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (interstitials and outro)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)
  

• Gorgon Original by Jesse Spillane
  
• Faster Does It by Kevin MacLeod
• Piano Blue by Cult With No Name
• Sopor by Kai Engel
• Realness by Kai Engel
• Low Horizon by Kai Engel

With additional sounds supplied by Freesound.org, a fabulous repository of free sound effects, available to use under the Free Attribution Agreement. Credits include:

• Car Crash - https://freesound.org/people/squareal/sounds/237375/
  
• Truck - https://freesound.org/people/jberkuta14/sounds/134898/
• Bus - https://freesound.org/people/Robinhood76/sounds/62490/
• Wind Howling – https://freesound.org/people/inchadney/sounds/157204/
• Veteran Car - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/77096/
  

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” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk