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:

• Church Bells - https://freesound.org/people/sinewave1kHz/sounds/207436/
  
• Chorus - https://freesound.org/people/klankbeeld/sounds/263612/
• Cell door-  https://freesound.org/people/kd_jack/sounds/214231/
• Execution March - https://freesound.org/people/ddohler/sounds/34259/
• Hangman’s Rope - https://freesound.org/people/jameswrowles/sounds/274798/
• 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

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: By 1942, at the height of World War Two, with everyday essentials like butter, sugar, eggs, milk, meat, flour, fuel and even clothes in a limited supply and strictly rationed; life was tough, money was tight and ordinary people would be forced to make desperate decisions simply to survive.

Having yet to fully appreciate how invaluable women would become in Britain’s defence, the Second World War proved a turning point for women’s suffrage, as (with men dying in their million) women would become the backbone of the war-effort (not only later as conscripted soldiers, but also) as munitions-workers, doctors, fire-crews, hauliers, air-raid wardens and police constables.

But with the economy in disarray and honest jobs being badly paid, even good women were forced to take drastic steps. And with the cities full of soldiers, sailors and airmen with heavy wallets, empty hearts and endless hard-ons – some women turned to prostitution; becoming a housewife by day and a whore by night, in a clandestine affair, hidden from their husbands, simply to pay the bills.

So synonymous were Soho’s sex-workers for their tactics, speed and cunning as they pursued, pounced and pestered any serviceman, that American GI’s dubbed them the “Piccadilly Commandos”.

But unbeknownst to any women (whether prostitute or not), during February 1942, a sadistic sexual sadist stalked the blacked-out and bomb-damaged streets of the West End; so far, three unrelated women (Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Florence Lowe) were tortured, posed and mutilated on three consecutive nights, in the first half of his five-day killing spree.

No-one knew his name, and yet all three women found him confident, charming and unassuming. No-one saw his face, and yet (in his presence) they all felt safe, happy and comfortable. No-one saw him kill, and yet, as he smiled, chatted, drank and carried no weapons, none of these women had any idea of the horror which awaited them at the hands of this homicidal maniac. But tonight, with his blood lust escalating and his sexual desire unsated, he would go in search of his next victim.

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

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing in Sussex Gardens, W2, in an area most people call Paddington, which was formerly known as Tyburnia; a district made famous as the host of London’s bloodiest execution site – The Tyburn Tree – a hangman’s gallows situated at Marble Arch, at the junction of Edgware Road and Oxford Street, where many a bad lad’s neck was stretched, yanked and snapped.

Constructed during the Victorian era of the early-to-mid 1800’s, although most of the greenery has since been tarmacked and turned into drives, Sussex Gardens is still an affluent area consisting of one long l-shaped street with tall, thin and stunning brown-bricked five and six storey terrace houses on both sides, with tall white windows and white Doric columns on every door.

And although each flat currently sells for roughly £1million a piece owing to its proximity to Hyde Park, being just one street away from Paddington Station – a haven for hookers and bored businessmen with boners – although still beautiful, much of Sussex Gardens has lost its initial value, having been repurposed as flat, offices and modestly-priced hotels full of plumbers, brickies and roofers; who can lay pipe, trowel mortar and repoint tiles (whether you want it done or not), and yet are physically incapable of seeing without ogling, yawning without belching, pissing without dribbling, thinking without farting, talking without saying “facking”, and watching sport without pronouncing it “spawh”.

And yet it was here, in the well-presented ground floor flat of 187 Sussex Gardens that the brutal murder of The Blackout Ripper’s next victim occurred, and her name was Doris Jouanett. (Interstitial)

Wrongly assumed to be French, Doris Jouanett was actually born Doris Elizabeth Robson on either 21st March in the year 1909 (according to her husband), 1906 (according to the national census) or 1907 (according to her birth certificate), and although she may have shaved an odd year off her age, here and there, there was no denying that Doris Robson was ashamed of her impoverished past.

Born amidst the industrial working-class sprawl of Lemington (Northumberland) in the North East of England, although Doris’ birthplace was just four miles from Ryton where (nine years earlier) Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was born, the difference between their upbringings was colossal, as being surrounded by collieries, factories, railways, glassworks and iron foundries, every her family owned (which wasn’t much) was smothered in dirt, dust and a thick blanket of black soot.

Originally from Farlam in Cumbria, Doris’ mother (Elizabeth) was one of nine children born to Thomas and Barbara Robson, and although they survived on a coal-miner’s wage and lived in a cramped lodging house with three other families, their children were well-educated, with four of the siblings becoming school-teachers, including Elizabeth and her younger sisters Isabella and Mary.

Sadly, as an unmarried 41 year old single-parent, shortly after the birth of her only child, Elizabeth died owing to complications, and Doris Elizabeth Robson (who had no mother, no father and no siblings) was raised by her maternal aunties Isabella and Mary, in the gloomy wind-swept headland of Hartlepool, in a small lodging house at 6 Moor Terrace, which overlooked the North Sea.

The next two decades of Doris’ life are a bit of a mystery, as with no school reports, census records and no accurate date of birth, it’s hard to trace where she went, who with, and why. But being a working-class Northern female, who had to live with the shame of being born a bastard, to a dead mother, an absent father and adopted by middle-aged spinsters, life can’t have been easy. But twenty years later, by 1935, Doris had moved to London to make a better life for herself.

Being unskilled, unqualified and having no career to fall back on, Doris didn’t want to work; to slog her guts out, twelve hours a day, seven days a week; an endless slew of filth, drudgery and exhaustion in a joyless job for a thankless boss and all for a pittance. Doris felt she deserved better and dreamed of becoming a kept-women, who lived in a posh house, wore mink furs, fine jewels and never had to lift a finger, having bagged herself a wealthy husband. And in August 1935, her dream had come true.

Believing in love at first sight, within three months of meeting, on 4th November 1935 at Paddington Registry Office, 25 year old Doris Elizabeth Robson married 60 year old Henri Alfred Jouannet, a naturalised French citizen, who managed several hotels in the South East of England. And although their marriage was impulsive, their 35 year age-gap was obvious and whether she actually loved him was debatable; as a wealthy hotelier, with a silver Rolls Royce, a large bank balance and being a kindly man who showered her with expensive gifts, like fine furs, a gold watch and a black fountain pen engraved with her new initials of “DJ”, Mrs Doris Elizabeth Jouanett moved with her husband from Eastbourne, to Farnborough, until eventually they moved to London.

And although Henri was aware of Doris’ desperate days when – being broke and hungry – she worked as a West End sex-worker, she had assured him that those days were long behind her, and (finally) with Henri managing the very prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square in a very affluent area of Kensington, Doris truly was living the dream and life was good, as together they moved into a luxurious ground-floor flat, situated at 187 Sussex Gardens. (Interstitial)

(Clock): Henry & Doris Jouanett moved into flat 1 of 187 Sussex Gardens on Monday 26th January 1942, by which time - although air-raids were regular, looting was rife and rationing was routine – The Blackout Ripper was roughly 98 miles away in the West of England, and was still six days away from being relocated to London. So, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe, Evelyn Hamilton was alive but about to be laid-off, Evelyn Oatley was being comforted by her rather dull but eternally loving husband Harold, and Margaret Florence Lowe was drunk, not realising that the next time her beloved daughter would see her again, Margaret (and three other women) would be dead. (End)

Over those seven years of marriage, Doris had become accustomed to the finer things in life; gorging on good food, quaffing on fine wines and sleeping on silk sheets, as she was waited on hand-and-foot by butlers, maids and chefs, and driven to fancy parties in a chauffeur-driven silver Rolls Royce. And being immaculately dressed in the very latest fashions, with manicured nails, coiffured hair and pristine make-up, the ever stylish Mrs Doris Jouanett looked very much like a real lady.

But following a series of bad business deals, lengthy court trials, escalating gambling debts, and with the war having seriously put the boot-in on tourism; the Rolls Royce was sold, the servants were laid-off and Henri was almost broke. And with no savings to access, a status to upkeep and a trophy wife with expensive tastes to fund, when 67 year old Henri should have been enjoying his retirement, he was working day and night at the prestigious five-star Royal Court Hotel in Sloane Square, but not as the hotel’s owner, now he was simply a manager.

Henri would later describe their marriage as “perfectly happy… we never had a disagreement”, but for Doris this was far from the truth. Before moving back to London; as his funds dried-up and life became a little more drab, being petrified of returning to her impoverished roots, Doris regularly travelled from Farnborough and Eastbourne to the West End, under the guise of a bored housewife heading to Piccadilly to meet some pals, when really, she had returned to prostitution.

Nicknamed “Olga” - as (even though many prostitutes thought she was French owing to her surname) many punters thought she looked Russian, a fact that Doris never denied as being a well-dressed lady with a mysterious and exotic past paid better than being plain old Doris Robson, the Geordie – and as a 32 year old, five foot ten inch tall brunette, with long legs, a slim build and striking features (a mixture of hard, moody and demure), Doris was very different from the usual prostitute.

And being very much an elegant lady who was both alluring and aloof, “Olga” drew in a much wealthier clientele, whether businessmen, diplomats, officials, officers and – hopefully – Doris thought, an older, richer man, maybe a wealthy widower or another hotelier, who could keep her in the life to which she had become accustomed, as with Henri almost broke, Doris needed a new sugar-daddy.

To say that Henri didn’t trust his wife would be an understatement. And although, most nights his job dictated that he had to sleep at The Royal Court Hotel; every evening, having dashed the six tube stops from Sloane Square to Paddington, from 7pm to 9:30pm, for those two and a half hours, Henri & Doris Jouanett would settle down to dinner in their ground-floor flat at 187 Sussex Gardens.

(Clock): By 7pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, as Henri & Doris tucked into what-would-be their last meal together; as the icy cold corpses of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley were lying on a slab at Paddington and Westminster mortuaries, and the mutilated body of Margaret Florence Lowe had lain still, silent and undiscovered for 40 hours, barely one mile away, at The Volunteer Public House on Baker Street, a red-headed Corporal was necking back pints and supping free whiskies with a pleasant, blue-eyed, fair-haired man, who was a charmer with the ladies, whose pockets were flush with cash, and (having already slaughtered three women) tonight he would go in search of his next victim. (End)

The last four hours of Doris Jouanett’s life were unremarkable; having finished their evening meal (of chicken chasseur, root vegetables and a white wine), needing some “fresh air”, Doris donned a stylish black velvet hat, a long black coat with a fur collar, a black leather handbag and a large black umbrella (as the recent snowy blizzard had turned to rain) and having left the dirty crockery on the dinner table, Doris accompanied Henri on the four minute walk to Paddington Station, where – having promised her husband she’d head straight home – as he hopped on the westbound District Line train to Sloane Square, she waved him goodbye for one last time. But Doris had no plans to return home.

At 9:40pm - with The Blackout Ripper still in Piccadilly, having escorted a 30 year old woman called Greta Hayward back to the Universal Brasserie on Jermyn Street - Doris was spotted by local prostitute Patricia Borg standing at the junction of Edgware Road and Sussex Gardens, a busy crossroads just a three minute walk from her home and a ten minute stroll from the air-raid shelter on Montagu Place.

And although Patricia and the lady she knew as “Olga” only spoke briefly, opening with the greeting of “hello stranger” and closing with a “see you”; having met a client, serviced his needs and received her money, all within fifteen minutes, by the time Patricia returned to the same spot, Doris was gone.

Moments later, two call-girls called Ruby Ricketts and Grace chatted to Doris as she strolled south down Edgware Road (towards Marble Arch), where accompanied by her friend Beatrice Lang and needing a stiff drink to keep her strength up for the long night ahead, Doris drank a whiskey and soda at a corner-house tearoom called Maison Lyonese, where just four nights earlier, a shy pharmacist called Evelyn Hamilton had (potentially) met her murderer as she celebrated her 41st birthday alone.

But that night, being in Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper would not frequent Maison Lyonese. So as the two friends chatted over a drink, Doris confided to Beatrice that with money tight, their marriage tense and the couple sleeping in separate beds, Doris had a date tonight with her new sugar-daddy; a wealthy regular client in a military uniform, who she referred to only as ‘The Captain’.

(Clock): At 10:20pm on Thursday 12th February 1942, Doris & Beatrice left Maison Lyonese, walked east along Oxford Street and parted ways outside of Selfridges, and with Doris eager to see her new beau, she headed into Piccadilly, right into the path of The Blackout Ripper. Or she would have done, had fate not taken an unexpected twist… as with his wallet full, his liver pickled and his sexual appetite unsated, having hopped in a taxi with a 34 year old redhead sex-worker called Katharine Mulcahy, as Doris walked east along Oxford Street to Piccadilly, The Blackout Ripper headed west to Paddington. And although, for now, Doris Jouanett was safe… an hour later, she would be dead. (End).

How she knew ‘The Captain’, who he was, or whether she had actually met him that night, we shall never know, as having waved her friend goodbye, Beatrice was the last person to see Doris alive.

For whatever reason, whether ‘The Captain’ was late, early or had cancelled their date, shortly after 11pm, Doris had left the semi-safety of Piccadilly Circus, had returned home to Paddington, and - as the cruel hand of fate took another unexpected twist - with the redheaded sex-worker Katharine Mulcahy, living just one street south-east of 187 Sussex Gardens, a short while later; whether for money, boredom or companionship, Doris Jouanett opened her door to The Blackout Ripper.

At 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, regular as clockwork, Henri hopped off the eastbound District Line train from Sloane Square to Paddington Station, strolled the four minute walk to Sussex Gardens, and – like Pavlov’s dog - the second he saw his home, his stomach started to rumble. But something didn’t seem right, as by the white Doric columns of his front door, on his doorstep, a full twelve hours after they had been delivered, he spotted two bottles of milk.

Feeling confused; as Henri entered his blacked-out flat, calling out his wife’s name “Doris?” but getting no reply, he spotted on the table their dirty dinner dishes where they had left them the night before; the bread stale, the cabbage cold, the white sauce congealed, but there was no sign of Doris anywhere. Not in the front-room, not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, all that remained, was the bedroom.

With the key missing and the lock shut, as much as Henri jiggled the handle and shoved against the panels, the small-framed 67 year old couldn’t budge the heavy wooden door, but spying through the keyhole he saw the dull red glow and the soft warm heat of the electric bar fire, it was clear that someone was inside, but as much as he banged on the door “Doris?”, still nobody answered.

Deeply concerned, Henri fetched the Police, and at 7:50pm, two burly Bobbies from Paddington Police Station – PC Payne & PC Cox – with Henri’s permission, used their considerable bulk to bash down the sturdy wooden door, and found Doris. Sparing Henri from the horror in the bedroom beyond, PC Cox sat him on the sofa, a comporting hand over shoulder as he gave Henri the bad news, but what PC Payne saw that night, would be burned into his eyes forever.

At a little after 8pm, just three hours after the grisly discovery of the mutilated remains of Margaret Florence Lowe one mile away at 9/10 Gosfield Street, Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare, the detective who was heading-up the murder investigation into Evelyn Hamilton four nights prior in Montagu Place, entered flat 1 at 187 Sussex Gardens. Although instantly shocked, as the small dark room hung heavy with the stench of steamy vomit as inexperienced officers struggled to cope with the sight, for Detective Inspector Clare, this was the all-too-familiar calling card of The Blackout Ripper.

As before, there was no sign of a struggle…

Feeling comfortable; reassured by his kind face, his sweet smile, his soft English voice and his twinkling blue eyes, Doris was lulled into a warm sense of security as she led the tall, handsome and fair-haired man into her bedroom. And although, like most of her clients, he had been drinking, he was charming, alluring and wearing the uniform of a military man; a hero, and in his company, she felt safe.

As she welcomed him in, Doris had already hung-up her long black fur-collared coat in the wardrobe, perched her black velvet hat and black leather handbag on the top shelf, and placed her black dress, stockings, brassiere and brown brogue shoes on a small wooden chair by the toasty warmth of the electric fire, and now she was dressed in nothing but a black quilted bathrobe.

With the small back bedroom comprising of a wardrobe, a dressing table, a chair and two twin beds placed a few inches apart, Doris sat on the bed farthest from the door, smoking a cigarette, as the man disrobed; shedding his long military great coat, unbuttoning his blue tunic, kicking off his heavy black rubber-soled boots and flinging-off his jauntily-worn woollen side-cap, which was emblazoned with a military insignia. And even though, his tie was crooked, his knuckles were scuffed, his breath smelled of whiskey and his belt was missing, having done this many times before, Doris didn’t feel threatened at all.

What happened next is unknown. As with her being a prostitute, with him being a punter and several male rubber contraceptives found scattered about the bed and floor, two of which had been unrolled and used, sex may have taken place. But with the bedroom floor littered with spent cigarette butts and neither of the condoms containing any semen, maybe (for whatever reason) sex didn’t take place. And yet, as far as we know, what happened next was unprovoked, unexpected and shocking.

With a swift hard blow across her left cheek, which fractured her jaw, rendered her giddy and knocked her to the bed, before she could scream for help, with his powerful thighs straddling her arms and torso, his full body weight pinning her down, as he reached across to the small wooden chair, he grabbed one of her black stockings, wrapped it around her neck, and with both hands, pulled it tight.

Gasping for air that wouldn’t inhale and screaming words which no-one would hear, as Doris stared up at the grinning maniac sat on top of her; with her face all purple and swollen, her vision fading to black as her pupils dilated and the whites of her eyes ruptured with blood, her left-handed attacker tied the tights in a knot under her left jaw, leaving a depression in her neck half an inch deep, which fractured her larynx, and compressed her tongue, tonsils and windpipe, and as she drifted in and out of consciousness, The Blackout Ripper proceeded to mutilate her body, whether she was dead or alive.

Using a razor-blade from her dressing table and another as-yet unidentified household weapon, with his victim suitably subdued and immobile, he took his time, savouring every moment, as he sliced a five inch slit from her stomach to her privates, slashed a three inch gash through her pubic hair, sunk the razor-blade deep into her genitals inflicting a six and a half inch wound in and across her vagina, and using two converging cuts, he carved a four inch slit around her left breast, which almost severed her nipple. The one saving grace being that – unlike his other victims – no candle, no torch, nor curling tongs were inserted into her vagina, as with the sheer terror of her agonising death causing her to wet herself, with the bed soaked in a pungent mix of blood and urine, he decided against it.

With his blood-lust sated, he calmly dressed; fastening his blue tunic and trousers, buttoning-up his brown shirt and tie, pulling on his large great coat, tying his black heavy boots and fixing (at a jaunty angle) his woollen side-cap. And needing to satisfy his greed, from her black leather handbag he stole roughly £5 worth of untraceable bank-notes and from her lifeless wrist he took a gold watch (given to Doris by her husband). As a crude memento of a delightful night, he pocketed her black fountain pen uniquely etched with her very identifiable initials of “DJ”, and (even more bizarrely), from her dressing table, he took her worthless greeny/blue comb with several teeth missing.

But before he left, he had one final act of humiliation to conduct upon the corpse of Doris Jouanett. Laying her lifeless body diagonally across the bed; with her black quilted bathrobe spread wide, her left arm outstretched, her right hand across her genitals, her swollen purple head hanging over the side of the bed, her tongue protruding and her bloodshot eyes gazing towards the door, he posed her lifeless body, as a grisly sight to greet the poor unfortunate who would come looking for her.

Having tidied his hair, straightened his tie and checked he hadn’t left any personal possessions behind; his wallet, his keys, his hat, his military ID, or anything stupid which would incriminate him, having been cautious not to leave any fingerprints, having wiped down anything he’d touched, and with no screams, no noise and no witnesses of any kind, he locked the bedroom door, disposed of the key, strolled out of 187 Sussex Gardens and onto the dark inky night The Blackout Ripper disappeared.

Across five nights, over four streets in London’s West End, four totally different and entirely unrelated women, for whatever reason, had been ripped, tortured and posed, by an unidentified sadistic maniac.

All had suffered the same fate; strangulation, mutilation and humiliation. All had been sliced, beaten and violated. All had been robbed, but only of untraceable bank notes, never of bank-books nor ration coupons. And although his sexual sadism compelled him to steal such high risk trinkets as a hanky etched with a unique laundry mark, an anniversary gift gold wrist watch, an initialled fountain pen and a monogrammed cigarette case containing a photo of the victim’s mother, none of these had been found. And with no physical sightings, no credible suspects, and no fingerprints which matched anyone on Scotland Yard’s entire Print Index, the Police were at a loss as to who this man was…

…and it’s here that his killing spree would cease.

Four women were dead: 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Margaret Hamilton, 34 year old dancer, wife and sex-worker Evelyn Oatley, 43 year old veteran prostitute and mother Margaret Florence Lowe and 32 year old Doris Elizabeth Jouanett; a woman raised in such poverty, she would do anything to never be poor or hungry ever again, and yet her desperate need drove her to her own death.

And having been discovered at 7pm on Friday 13th February 1942, a full 18 hours later, although Doris Jouanett was the last women found, she wasn’t his fourth victim in his five day killing spree, she was his sixth. As barely an hour before Doris’ death, two unrelated women, on two different streets, in two separate parts of the West End, would become the fourth and fifth victims of The Blackout Ripper.

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

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

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Lustmordia; hosted by Leigh, Derek & Ginny, Lustmordia dives into the deeply macabre true-crime cases from around the world, whether The Chicago Ripper Crew, Robert Durst and the Beasts of Satan to name but a few, with lashing of fun, a solid dose of humour and giggles-a-plenty. Check out Lustmordia. (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 Josie Miller, Alina Ayoshina, Stephani Schwarz, Karin Klooster, and an extra special friend who asked to remain nameless, and all of whom have asked me some personal questions, so here’s your answers: “never on a Sunday”, “occasionally in public”, “only in church”, “pants are optional” and “Vaseline is a must”. There you go, I hope that helps.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Outlines, hosted by Jess, Outlines is an incredibly well-researched, neatly-balanced and truly fascinating true-crime podcast which dives into many of Britain’s untold and unsolved murder cases. So if you’re looking for something different, and to hear about cases you never knew existed, checked out Outlines. Second is the infamous Minds of Madness, basically, if you haven’t heard about it yet? Why not. Tyler and Bek do such an amazing job, with this well-presented, finely-researched and heart felt true-crime podcast, that there’s a reason it’s being turned into a TV series? It’s really amazing. So check out Outlines and Minds of Madness 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 five 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)
• Yes People by Cult With No Name
• John Stockton Slow Drag by Chris Zabriski
• Global Warming by Kai Engel
• True by NCTRNM
• In Every Way by Cult With No Name
• Mercy by Kai Engel
• Not The Streets You Used to Walk – Philipp Weigl
• Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (theme, interstitials and outro)
• Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (credits)

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/sean.townsend/sounds/98371/
• Industrial Ambiance - https://freesound.org/people/Lewente/sounds/393398/
• Traction Engine - https://freesound.org/people/mike_stranks/sounds/407391/
• Steam Whistle - https://freesound.org/people/mike_stranks/sounds/407394/

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 1st September 1939, following the Nazi annexation of Poland, Britain declared war on Germany, and in a brutal conflict which spanned four continents and raged for six years and one day, by the end of the Second World War, over seventy-three million people would be dead.

Being short on soldiers, the Military Training Act reinstated National Service and all healthy men, aged 18 to 41, with few exceptions, were conscripted into the Army, Navy and Air-Force, later extended to men up to 51, and all single women aged 20 to 30.

Although vital, conscription severely depleted Britain’s emergency services, and even though London’s Metropolitan Police force maintained a total of roughly 19500 officers for the duration of the war, their numbers were bolstered by inexperienced reservists, special constables and retired officers.

And with the already overworked Police officers burdened with new war-time duties including chasing deserters, enforcing the blackout and aiding the rescue effort after the Blitz, with crime rate in England having increased from 303,000 offences per year in 1939, to 478,000 in 1945, the depleted Police force struggled to stem a new flow of crimes such as looting, bootlegging and black market trades.

By 1942, at the height of the war, with the city in blackout and a population in fear as Nazi bombers loomed overhead, a new terror stalked the seedy streets of London’s West End, with an insatiable hatred of women, a thirst for blood and a hunger to slash, torture and kill.

No-one knew his name, no-one had heard his voice and no-one had seen his face, but over the last 24 hours, this sadistic maniac had strangled, posed and mutilated two seemingly unrelated women in two different parts of the West End - 41 year old pharmacist Evelyn Hamilton in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place and 34 year old prostitute Evelyn Oatley in her flat on Wardour Street - at the start of what would become a five day killing spree. And tonight he would go in search of his next victim.

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

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Gosfield Street, W1, in an upmarket residential area called Fitzrovia, north of Soho and barely a five minute walk from Wardour Street, Oxford Circus and Regent’s Park.

Being a small one-way side-street, lined with at least six trees, but no bushes, no grass and no flowers, no cats, no dogs and no birds, no stores, no cafes and no pubs, no shoppers, no buskers and no life whatsoever, Gosfield Street is quite possibly one of the most boring places in the West End.

And number 9/10 Gosfield Street is a prime example; as being a red and brown bricked six-storey mansion-house (which is really just a posh way of saying “a block of flats”), most residents must have an allergic reaction to pavements, as the only time they’re seen on the street is to slip into an Uber, scowl at a lost homeless man, shout at a dog-plop dropper, shoe-away an ASDA delivery truck having secretly disguised their cheapo shopping in Waitrose bags, and noisily shushed (whisper) a certain pot-bellied baldy-headed murder podcaster for daring to make a noise within earshot of their £1.1 million flat, having instantly devaluing it, simply because I’m a Brummy. “Y’alroit mayte?”

But back in 1942, 9/10 Gosfield Street truly was in a working class neighbourhood, full of underpaid and undervalued skilled and unskilled workers, whether seamstresses, waitresses, cobblers, tailors, bakers, maids and (of course) prostitutes. And today, as much as the elderly may crow that “the streets were much safer in my day, there was no crime, we all left our doors unlocked and everybody looked out for each other”, this is a story which would greatly dispute that. As flat 4 at 9/10 Gosfield Street was home of the third victim of The Blackout Ripper… and her name was Margaret Lowe. (Interstitial)

The early life of Margaret Lowe is as mysterious as her death. Being born on an unspecified date in 1899, Margaret Florence Campbell Burkett was the twin sister of Sidney, one of four siblings raised in the coastal town of Napier, in the Hawkes Bay region of New Zealand.

Living in a picturesque setting surrounded by clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, although they were not a wealthy family, through hard-work, struggle and dogged persistence, they lived a comfortable life in an idyllic part of the world, and everything was good. But for unfortunate reasons only known to them – whether sickness, bereavement or financial hardship - the entire family uprooted back to England, where life would only get poorer, harder and darker.

Having dramatically downsized from their own beautiful beachside home, to live in a shared lodging house amongst the industrial smog of Hoxton in East London, with an expanding family and an ever decreasing income, life got worse for the family, when their father was killed during the First World War, leaving behind a widowed mother with four young children, with no pension nor savings.

Dreaming of living a better life and shamed by the stench, poverty and squalor she lived in, Margaret left school with a limited education and spent five years toiling away in several unskilled dead-end jobs; for long hours, very little pay and no future. What happened in between is uncertain, but in 1919, 20 year old Margaret (under the alias of “Peggy Campbell”) was charged at Bow Street Magistrates Court, convicted of “living of the immoral earnings of prostitution” and was fined twenty shillings.

Shamed by her conviction, her sentence and the depths to which she had sunk, two years later, fate seemed to finally smile on Margaret, as having fallen in love with 40 year old Frederick George Lowe, a kindly widower who was 18 years her senior, on 11th October 1921, they married in the pretty market town of Rochford (in Essex), gave birth to a beautiful baby girl called Barbara and set-up a fancy dress shop in the nearby coastal town of Southend on Sea. And having returned to an idyllic life full of clear skies, blue seas, sandy beaches and green fields, once again, life was good.

But after 11 years of marital bliss, on the 14th December 1932, 51 year old Frederick George Lowe died, leaving Margaret a widower with a four year old daughter to raise alone. And although (unlike her late father) Frederick had savings and insurance to secure his family’s future; being wracked with grief, depression and alcoholism, with the shop shut-down, her home boarded-up and her daughter Barbara taken into care, Margaret had lost everything.

Within two years, Margaret had gone from being a happily married mother and a prosperous shop keeper to a homeless childless penniless alcoholic, and seeing no other option, she moved back to London, worked in a series of dead-end jobs in sleazy strip-clubs, and later returned to prostitution, where – a just few years later - she would die at the hands of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial).

Between Monday 9th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, on three consecutive days, in three different streets within one mile of the West End, three women were murdered. But if their sadistic deaths was perpetrated by the same man, how does he know these women, and what connects them? 

(Typewriter): Birth place? This we can rule out as Evelyn Hamilton was born and raised near Newcastle in the north-east of England, Evelyn Oatley in Lancashire in the north-west, and Margaret Lowe in Napier in New Zealand and Hoxton in London, so none of them were childhood friends.

(Typewriter): Education? This we can rule out as with Hamilton being degree-educated at Edinburgh University, and Oatley and Lowe having left school with no qualifications, being raised in different counties and countries, almost eight years apart, none of them were school friends.

(Typewriter): Personality? Again, we can rule this out, as with Hamilton being a shy pharmacist, Oatley being a confident socialite and Lowe being a depressed alcoholic, even though they never lived on the same street, frequented the same pubs and (with the exception of occasional stays at the Three Arts Club for lectures) Hamilton never lived in London, so it’s highly unlikely they socialised together.

In fact, as three wildly dissimilar women, from different statuses, outlooks and situations, although they were all within one square mile of each other during those three fateful days, based on the hundreds of witness statements taken by the Police from anyone who knew them, there is no evidence – at all - that Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe ever met or even knew each other, and the only time their names were linked together, was when they were murdered. (End Typing).

By 1942, 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe had been a West End prostitute for eight years, but as familiar as she was to sex-workers and servicemen alike, very little is known about her, as although she went by her alias “Peggy Campbell” and “Peggy Burkett”, she was known locally as “The Lady”.

Physically, Margaret was unremarkable; as being a portly woman of five foot five inches tall, with neck-length brunette hair and a side-parting, neat make-up, a maternal smile and a slightly bulbous nose (brought on by the effects of chronic alcoholism), she easily resembled any other Piccadilly prostitute, but as a person, “The Lady” was very much a woman of many contradictions.
Neatly dressed in polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, although Margaret had been convicted three times for “soliciting for sex” and “behaving in an indecent manner” (each time using a different alias), she always walked with her head held high as if she was a well-to-do lady, off for a night at the theatre.

As a plummy voiced woman with an indeterminately posh accent, who enunciated her h’s, said “whom” instead of “who”, “we” instead of “us” and “one” instead of “I”, although she’d never denigrate herself by swigging back a pint or picking up punters in the local pubs and clubs, she was often found drunk and tottering the kerbs of the West End, singing little ditties and slurring her words.

And as an obviously refined women full of airs-and-graces, who was too busy to stop, too posh to chat and too senior to socialise with anyone below her status, Margaret always walked alone; no friends, no joy, just drink; a sad lonely lady clinging onto the long-lost memory of a life which once was.

Unlike most prostitutes, Margaret didn’t have a patch, instead choosing to walk in a large square, right around Soho, from Shaftesbury Avenue, to Charing Cross Road, Oxford Street, Regent Street and back to Piccadilly Circus. And with her only working after 11pm, it was as if Margaret didn’t want to be seen.

Describing prostitution as a “dirty piece of work”; Margaret hated her job, resented her punters and only did the dirty deed to survive, but as a chronically depressed alcoholic, who had sold her body to earn money, earned money to buy booze and drank booze to dull her senses so she could earn more money by having sex, she was trapped in a vicious circle, of which there was no way out.

And although she was nicknamed “The Lady”; as a feisty, argumentative and belligerent boozer who wouldn’t stand for ill-manners, coarse language or any rough stuff, she was widely known to be a real tough cookie and a scrapper who could easily handle herself. And in an illegal job which involved inviting numerous strangers back to her flat, for sex, during the blackout? Being handy with her fists was a skill which – unfortunately for Margaret Lowe - came in very handy.

In the early hours of Friday 30th January 1942, just two weeks prior to her death, in Flat 4 on the ground floor of 9/10 Gosfield Street, Margaret was physically assaulted in her bed by a punter she had picked up in Piccadilly. Forcibly barging the Canadian soldier out of the door, with fists flailing and feet flying, Margaret screamed at the top of her lungs “Help! Murder! Police!” causing such a ruckus, it awoke her neighbours - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2).

And although the Police were called, statements were taken and the worst of her injuries was a badly bruised chest, with the man having fled and Margaret unwilling to press charges (for fear of implicating herself in the illegal act of prostitution), the case was dropped and her attacker was never caught. One week later, Margaret was assaulted again. Two weeks later, she would be dead. (Interstitial).

Between roughly midnight and just after 1am on Monday 9th, Tuesday 10th and Wednesday 11th February 1942, three wildly different and unrelated women, who witnesses claim had never met, were strangled, posed and brutally murdered on different streets in London’s West End? But if these three women had died at the hands of the same man, why did he pick them? Did he have a type?

(Typewriter): Physically? All three women were between five foot one and five foot five inches in height, aged from their mid-thirties to early forties, and with none of them being either stunning, ugly or memorable in any way, the best way they can be described is “average” and “unremarkable”. And that’s where the physical similarities end; Evelyn Hamilton was an average-sized brunette, Evelyn Oatley was a slim blonde and Margaret Lowe was a portly brunette, although he clearly picked women that a taller/heavier man could overpower, he didn’t seem attracted to one type of woman.

(Typewriter): Geographically? The only similarities being that they were all murdered in the West End; with all three having died on different streets (Montague Place, Wardour Street and Gosfield Street); two having died in private flats, one in a public space; and with no witnesses or suspects of any kind, and only two fingerprints found which didn’t match a single felon on Scotland Yard’s Print Index, the Police had no idea who their killer / or killers were. And in a deeply confusing investigation made all the more impossible as with Evelyn Hamilton being murdered in Marylebone (known as D Division), and Evelyn Oatley and Margaret Lowe murdered in Soho and Fitzrovia (known as C Division), although they didn’t know this yet, two different Police departments were hunting the same murderer.

(Typewriter): And even with a wealth of witness statements from wide variety of reliable sources, the over-worked and understaffed Police force had no idea where any of these women were picked-up, who had approached them or how they had met their murderer? But what follows are the last known sightings of Margaret Florence Lowe.

On the morning of Tuesday 10th February 1942 – at roughly the same time that Police were examining an horrific crime scene (barely a few streets away) at 153 Wardour Street, involving a semi-clad lady, a razor blade, a can-opener and a trail of blood six feet long – Margaret walked into the butcher’s shop at 41 Great Titchfield Street (one street west of her home) and spoke to proprietor Emily Harries.

Unlike her usual grumpy, feisty and frumpy self, on this day Margaret was in a chipper mood, her dark mood lifted, as with the weekend approaching, Margaret’s daughter – no longer a sullen six year old placed into care at St Gabriel’s orphanage in Southend on Sea, but now a vivacious 15 year old who had blossomed into strong young woman – Barbara would be paying her mother a regular visit. The one good thing in Margaret’s miserable life and her last connection to happier times.

Excited at seeing her daughter, Margaret didn’t buy anything at the butchers, instead (using her weekly ration) she asked Emily to put aside some lamb’s livers, kidneys, bones and fat, so she could bake her baby a suet pudding. A real treat during the hardships of war-time England.

Sadly, being so solitary, the next confirmed sighting of Margaret wasn’t until 12:30am, a full thirteen hours later and roughly an hour before her death, it was also her last known sighting.

Kathleen Norah Clarke, a local sex-worker spotted the prostitute she knew only as “The Lady” strolling by Eros News Theatre on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, heading by Monaco’s restaurant; where barely one night before, Evelyn Oatley had waved “goodnight” to Laura Denmark and Molly Desantos-Alves having picked-up a red-headed Corporal and a fair-haired Aircraftman.

As always, Margaret was alone; impeccably dressed in her polished black shoes, shiny black leather gloves, a black leather handbag, an elegant felt hat and a large fur coat, she smoked a cigarette from her silver cigarette case as she shimmied along the kerb-side, slightly tipsy, merrily singing to herself, her spirits high as (although the night was bitterly cold) she had got something to look forward to.

At approximately 1:10am, two independent witnesses living at 9/10 Gosfield Street - Florence Bartolini (in flat 1) and Ralph George Stevens (in flat 2), both basement flats situated below the communal door and Margaret’s ground-floor flat, heard the unmistakable sound of the lady they knew as “Mrs Lowe” unlock the door and quietly enter, accompanied by a man; and although they didn’t see him, his heavy footsteps had the dull thump of men’s boots, and his accent was unmistakably English.

Although their conversation were unintelligible; their voices were low, their tone was cordial and she welcomed the man into her flat, but – unusually for Margaret, who (witnesses state) “wasn’t the best of neighbours” and often kept the whole house awake by playing loud music on her gramophone in the dead of night to deaden the sounds of a sex-worker in action – after a brief chat and the clink of glasses, there was silence. After which, Florence and George fell asleep.

No-one heard any screams, shouts or cries. Nothing was broken, smashed or trashed. And – with the exception of Margaret - no-one saw his face. In fact, the only sound which heard that whole night was at an undetermined hour when bleary-eyed Florence Bartolini was briefly awoken by the heavy thud of a flat door being shut, the communal door being opened and a heavy booted man briskly walking into Gosfield Street and heading right in the direction of Baker Street, Warren Street or Regent’s Park.

And with these being the usual sounds heard nightly from the flat of a 43 year old alcoholic sex-worker, thinking nothing more of it, Florence rolled over and went back to sleep.

So, with very little eye-witness testimony and very few pieces of tangible evidence, what can we say (for certain) about the man who murdered Margaret Florence Lowe, (and possibly Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley), if this was him at all?

(Typewriter): She clearly felt comfortable and unthreatened in his presence, so either she knew him, liked him, or he didn’t look, sound or act like a man who (deep-down) was a sadistic sexual monster. If so, was he driven to kill by drugs, drink or mental illness? Was his hatred of women triggered by a childhood trauma having talked to Margaret? Or was he a maniac with a supreme level of self-control?

(Typewriter): Just like Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley, Margaret was alone when she was picked-up, often felt lonely and depressed, and had been drinking that night. And with all three women last seen in or near infamous West End restaurants – Hamilton in Maison Lyonese and Oatley & Lowe by Monaco’s – was he a regular there, with money to spend, drinks to be drank and girls to be chased?

(Typewriter): Clearly being confident, pleasant and approachable, who all three ladies felt safe with, was he a local man with a good knowledge of the West End streets, was he an experienced man used to chatting-up ladies and picking-up prostitutes, or was he the type of man you would instantly trust, whether a policeman, a fireman, an air-raid warden, a soldier, a sailor or an airman?

(Typewriter): And with Margaret being a feisty lady who was well-known to fend-off any fiends with fists and feet, just as Evelyn Hamilton had (her black scuffed shoes having kicked chunks of brick mortar off the inside of the air-raid shelter), had he learned his lesson, by striking fast and strangling first, giving himself ample time to sadistically mutilate their limp, dying and lifeless bodies?

Of course, with no sightings, no witnesses and no suspects, most of this would have been pure guess-work. And regardless of whether these murders were connected, if they were the work of the same sexual sadist, or if Margaret Florence Lowe was the third victim of The Blackout Ripper; as a lonely widow living alone in a single flat, with no friends and no close family, who spent her time surrounded by strangers, no-one knew she had even been murdered until almost three days later.

The next morning on Wednesday 11th February 1942 at 11am, Florence Bartolini spotted a brown paper parcel at the foot of the door of flat 4, delivered by the postman but (as of yet) uncollected and unopened. And with the large gift being addressed to Mrs Lowe and Florence’s day chockful of chores, she ignored it and left by the communal door, unaware of the unimaginable horror a few feet away.

When she returned, six hours later, the parcel was still there. The next morning it was still there. And the next evening it was still there. And as the residents from nine different flats, all walked by, spied the parcel, stared at it quizzically, commenting about how unusually quiet flat 4 was; with no yelling, no music and heavy-booted men waking them up at all hours of the night, still no-one did anything.

On Friday 13th February at 3:50pm, having caught the train from Southend-on-Sea, eager to stay the weekend, see the sights and tuck into the delicious suet pudding her mum had promised to bake, 15 year old Barbara Joan Lowe, entered 9/10 Gosfield Street and knocked on the door of flat 4…

…but here was no reply. She knocked again. Nothing. Having spotted a brown paper parcel at her feet, post-marked with Monday’s date, Barbara queried with the neighbours who confirmed it was odd that they hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in days, and gripped with a queasy feeling of dread, Barbara called the Police.

At 4:30pm, Detective Sergeant Leonard Blacktop of C Division from West End Central police station on nearby Saville Row arrived at 9/10 Gosfield Street to investigate the possible disappearance of a 43 year old alcoholic, nothing more. Unable to access flat 4 owing to a locked door and Barbara having no key, DS Blacktop deduced that most alcoholics (prone to lapses in memory) would likely keep a spare key nearby, and having found one under her doormat, the detective entered the flat.

On initial inspection, although (with the lights off, the electricity metre money having ran out and the windows covered in blackout curtains) the flat was in total darkness, but as DS Blacktop shone his torch around her tiny congested sitting room, nothing seemed disturbed, out-of-place or damaged.

As he walked along the thin dark passageway towards the cramped kitchenette in the backroom, DS Blacktop noticed what looked like the contents of her handbag, strewn across the kitchen table; a few letters, three ration books, a pink lipstick, two Yale keys and a six-inch metal torch, but no money, no handbag and (unusually for a heavy smoker) no cigarette case. As well as a bottle of stout, which was three quarters full, but no glasses. And with the kitchen cupboards opened, rifled and their contents scattered, spilling all manner of cutlery (including forks, knives and a can-opener) across the work-surfaces, it looked like a burglary, but so far, there was still no sign of Margaret.

The only room left to try was her bedroom. With the door locked, no suitable key found and three days having passed, with Barbara’s permission, DS Blacktop forced her bedroom door. And although the room was dark, in the middle, lying on her bed, he saw the unmistakable sight of the strangled and mutilated body of 43 year old Margaret Florence Lowe.

Having escalated the case up to Chief Inspector Edward Greeno of Scotland Yard, this was now no longer a hunt for a missing person, this was a murder investigation.

In an unnervingly similar crime scene to that of Evelyn Oatley, it didn’t look as if a struggle had taken place; the coal fire had been on, the bedside lamp was off, her clothes were neatly folded and placed on a wooden chair, and on the mantelpiece was a half full glass of stout, which two people had shared. In fact, the only detritus in the room was a used condom and the broken handle of a fire poker.

Just like Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Lowe was semi-clad and lying flat on her back; her lifeless body spread diagonally across her double divan bed, as resting on a blood-soaked pillow was her purple swollen head, as the wide inky black pupils of her bloodshot eyes stared vacantly towards the door.

And as before, his attack was swift, violent and shocking, as having struck Margaret across the left side of her face, head and jaw with a metal fire-poker, he used such force that the poker broke. With his victim suitably subdued, grabbing a black stocking off the chair, he tied the taut nylon so tightly, it left a one inch indentation around her neck, and having securely knotted it, with the blood forcing her swollen purple face to rupture and mucus to seep from her nose and mouth, as she gasped her last few gulps of air, during her last few moments alive, he set about mutilating the rest of her body.

With her nightdress rucked-up around her bare breasts, her legs spread wide and her knees drawn-up to her hips, lying between her thighs (as if he was showing off his trophies) was a white handled bread knife, a black handled table knife, a potato peeler and a broken piece of fire-poker.
Across her abdomen was a five inch wound, so deep it exposed her intestines and sliced her uterus. Along her right thigh was a ten inch slash, so deep it severed her great saphenous vein, bleeding so profusely her bed was soaked with blood. And all of which he did when she was either alive, dying or unconscious. And in a final act of humiliation, with her electric metal torch in the kitchen and nothing else to hand, he inserted a six inch candle deep into her vagina, almost as if it was his birthday.

The autopsy of Margaret Florence Campbell Lowe was conducted at Paddington Mortuary (once again) by Sir Bernard Spilsbury in the presence of Chief Inspector Edward Greeno, and the similarities between all three victims were unnerving. 

They’d all been robbed; as having found Margaret’s handbag hidden behind a paper carrier-bag in the kitchenette, the bank books and anything identifiable remained, but her money was missing.
They all had items stolen; from Evelyn Hamilton he’d taken a handkerchief and a pencil, from Evelyn Oatley an initialled silver cigarette case, and from Margaret Lowe, also a silver cigarette case. And yet, if he truly was a sexual sadist, why didn’t he steal souvenirs like panties, bras and stockings?

Although violated, none of these women had been raped; as with no semen found in any of their vaginas and a discarded condom found on Margaret’s bed, did sex take place, or was he incapable?

They had all been mutilated; both pre-and-post mortem, using a strange selection of knives, razors and kitchen cutlery (including a can opener and a potato peeler), none of which he’d brought with him, instead making-do with whatever was to hand, suggesting their murders weren’t premeditated?

They had all been violated; having inserted various objects into their vaginas, including (possibly) a metal torch with Evelyn Hamilton, a metal torch and (potentially) a set of curling tongs with Evelyn Oatley and a six inch candle and (potentially) a fire-poker with Margaret Lowe, none of which he’d brought with him, instead – once again - making-do with whatever was to hand?

And they had all been strangled; and although he’d changed his MO, having manually strangled Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley with his hand, and garrotted Margaret Lowe with a black stocking, by the way he had left it tied around her neck, once again, the Police knew that the attacker was left-handed.

Margaret Florence Lowe was unmistakably his third victim. And again, he had made a big mistake. As Superintendent Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had dusted the crime-scene and found three sets of his fingerprints; one on the base of the candlestick (having removed the candle to violate her), one on the bottle of spout (which he’d poured in the kitchen) and one on the half full glass of stout he had left on the mantelpiece, featuring both of their fingerprints and suggesting they had shared a final drink. And although they didn’t match any on the Police index files, the fingerprints matched those found on the can-opener and the compact mirror which belonged to Evelyn Oatley.

But by the time of Margaret Lowe’s autopsy, it was too late. As with her mutilated body having lay undiscovered for three days, and the Police only aware of two unrelated murders in two different streets, they had no idea that a sadistic spree-killer was on the loose.

So by Thursday 12th February 1942, four days into his five day killing spree, with three women dead, and three unsuspecting women walking the streets, unaware of the horror which awaited them, he headed back into the West End, and The Blackout Ripper would go in search of his next victim.

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

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

I have some exiting news! The Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast has been nominated in the Best True-Crime Podcast category at this year’s British Podcast Awards, alongside those titans of documentary-making BBC World Service and BBC Radio (yes, the company who made me redundant almost five years ago), as well as two fabulous independent UK true-crime podcasts; They Walk Among Us (who were deservedly last year’s winners) and (this year’s nubies, just like myself) S’laughter True Crime Podcast. Both of whom are hugely deserving of this very prestigious award, owing to their hard work, research, dedication and commitment to the spirit of independent podcasting. And even if Murder Mile doesn’t win the award, I’m honoured to be included amongst this amazing group, and this will truly be a big win for all of us independent podcasters.

The awards are held on Saturday 19th May 2018, and although the true-crime award is voted for by an industry panel, you can vote for your favourite true-crime podcast in the Listener’s Choice Award. To support independent podcasters, click on the link in the show-notes.

A big thank you goes out this week to our brand new Patreon s upporters who – by donating just $3 a month (that £2 in real money) – are ensuring the future of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast and receiving lots of fabulous goodies including crime scene photos, murder location videos and exclusive Extra Mile episodes for the first 20 episodes. So a hearty thank you to Marie Harris, Mike Featherstone and Melanie Gudgel, who (oddly) have messaged me to ask if (in return) I could bump off their bosses. Sadly, that’s not a Patreon service I offer, yet, but I will be sending you all a complimentary spade, bin-bags, a ripsaw and a large bucket of quicklime. Any problems with disposal, give me a call. And with a special donation from a mate from Australia. Gday.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Mens Rea; hosted by Sinead, Mens Rea is a fortnightly true-crime podcast based in Ireland and the UK, many of which you won’t have heard of, and all of which is meticulously researched, wonderfully told and is always fascinating, insightful and gripping. If you love true-crime, which makes you go “wow”, check out Mens Rea (MENS REA). Check out the promo).

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 four of our series into 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)
• Plague by Kai Engel
• The Scent of Cedars by Philipp Weigl
• Night III by Swelling
• Shake Hands With The Devil by Cult With No Name
• True by NCTRNM
• Concern by NCTRNM
• Fly in the Ointment by Cult With No Name
• Oecumene Sleeps by Kai Engel
• Cold War Echo 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:

• Snoring - https://freesound.org/people/poorenglishjuggler/sounds/182758/
• Seaside - https://freesound.org/people/Quistard/sounds/166838/
• Seaside 2 - https://freesound.org/people/Carlvus/sounds/182602/
• Ship & Horn - https://freesound.org/people/hoersturz/sounds/173981/
• Factory - https://freesound.org/people/viertelnachvier/sounds/249637/
• Typewriter - https://freesound.org/people/170134/sounds/407709/
• Bell & Return - https://freesound.org/people/knufds/sounds/345955/

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

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: One year into the Second World War, German chancellor Adolf Hitler and the Nazi high-command sought to deplete, destroy and demoralise Britain with a series of devastating bombing raids, beginning with what the Luftwaffe called ‘Unternahmen Seeschlange’ (or Operation Sea-snake); a terrifying attack from the clouds, so fast and so deadly, that the British people referred to it by the German word for “lightening”, they called it ‘The Blitz’.

Between 7th September 1940 and 11th May 1941, over 57 days and nights, German bombers rained down over 41000 tonnes of high explosives, incendiary devices and parachute mines, as well as deadly V1 (and later V2) rockets onto Britain’s industrial cities, their terrifying tactics designed to frighten the people into submission and bring Britain to its knees. 

By 1942, Britain had suffered its worst defeat, as the allied troops retreated to Dunkirk as Nazi troops had taken France, all that stood between Britain and surrender was the English Channel. The people were hungry, the people were tired, and the people were scared.

But amidst the smoky bombed-out inferno of London’s West End, with a blackout in-force which plunged the soot-covered city into a perpetual darkness, as the petrified populous scoured the skies for German mass-murderers who loomed above… a person of pure evil stalked the city streets.

In the early hours of Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton; a shy and timid pharmacist who had celebrated her 41st birthday alone, was found strangled in an air-raid shelter in Montagu Place. With her handbag and £20 missing, was this a robbery which had gone wrong? With slashes on her breasts and genitals but no semen in her vagina, was this a failed attempted rape? With her corpse looking as if it had been posed, was this the grisly calling-card of a sexual sadist? The Police were perplexed.

And with no fingerprints, no witnesses and no suspects of any kind, and a confusing mix of mismatched evidence including a pack of Master’s safety matches, fragments of brick mortar and a broken metal torch, all the Police knew of her killer was that he was left-handed.

Initially the Police thought this was just a one-off attack, a crime of passion, but little did they know that they had a serial sexual sadist and spree-killer in their midst… and his killings had only just begun.

Over five days, six unrelated women across different parts of London’s West End would be brutally attacked with escalating levels of sadism, torture and violence. It started with Evelyn Hamilton, but with his bloodlust unquenched, just one day later, he would go in search of his next victim.

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

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Wardour Street, back in the heart of Soho; one road east of Broadwick Street, one road west of Old Compton Street, and barely a one minute walk from the murder sites of deadly dentist Isador Zeifert, shadowy sex-worker Margaret Cook, sweet-faced fanny-seller Ginger Rae, crazy cock-chopper William Stoltzer and chronic Canadian willy-fiddler Richard Rhodes Henley.

Sadly, this unsightly side of Wardour Street has been stripped of its soul and replaced by nosh-shops for numpties, takeaways for twits and wanky eateries for the anally retentive; which somehow survive by selling one type of food (whether ham, fish or humus), by avoiding one type of food (whether meat, wheat or milk), by rebranding buffets as street food, salads as main meals, sandwiches as a some kind of luxury, and where cigar-shops flog-off thirty quids worth of old rolled leaves to non-smokers who light-up, lean back and aim to act cool, slick and aloof, but instead look green, sick and queasy.

And although, by the 1940’s, this side of Soho was full of drafty bombed-out hardly habitable terraces, only suitable as homes for the less fortunate, many of which have since been demolished, it was here at 153 Wardour Street, that an ambitious woman called Evelyn Oatley came to London to seek her fame and fortune, but instead found infamy… as the second victim of The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

Born Evelyn Judd on 5th April 1907 in Earby in Lancashire; a small rural town hidden in the barren wilds of the former West Yorkshire dales, its chief occupations being lead-mining and farming, with a population of roughly 70 families and six times as many cows, sheep and pigs. Raised by her beloved mother (Rosina), busy father and one brother, although her childhood was poor but pleasant, for young Evelyn, Earby was an industrial eyesore in dull rural setting where the air hung with soot and the strong stench of manure, a far cry the bright lights of London’s West End.

Desperate to escape, to act, to sing, to dance and blossom into Shaftesbury Avenue’s latest sensation, selling out theatres every night and surrounded by adoring fans, lackeys and lovers, Evelyn’s hopes were dashed early, as with Earby not blessed with a single playhouse, drama school and no theatre producers driving-by eager for a new blonde ingénue to headline his latest West End show, and maybe later Broadway and even Hollywood too, Evelyn left school aged 14, with no skills nor qualifications and drifted into a series of dead-end jobs, trapped by isolation and circumstance.

Still dreaming of being famous and adored, aged 15, unmarried Evelyn gained local notoriety by becoming pregnant by an unknown man, a big scandal in early 1920’s, so unable to support the child alone, Evelyn’s daughter was put up for adoption, later living her life somewhere in Canada.

In 1932, 25 year old Evelyn Judd met Harold Mollinson Oatley; a kind, loving and sweet-natured poultry farmer who could provide her with a good life, full of love, money and a sweet little bungalow on Rover Road in the larger (but equally isolated) town of Thornton, Lancashire. But Evelyn didn’t want to be a chicken-farmer’s wife, she wanted to be an actress, so being too timid to dissuade her of the dangers of big-city life and hoping that she’d eventually see sense, get the acting bug out of her system and come back to marry him, Harold financed Evelyn’s trip to London to fulfil her dreams.

In late 1934, 27 year old Evelyn Judd, moved into a cheap and tiny lodging on Great Portland Street (at the back of Oxford Circus) and having adopted the stage-name of Lita Ward, she eked-out a meagre living as a nightclub hostess, a dancer in disreputable theatres and even at Soho’s infamous Windmill Theatre, where every night topless girls jiggled their tits and swung their tassels to crowds of drunk drooling deadbeats. To most people, Evelyn’s new lifestyle may have seemed cheap, tacky and low-rent, but as a country-girl from a remote northern town whose ambitions had been crushed for 27 long years, now she was embracing every ounce of big city life, and finally, her dream had come true.

But by March 1936, after 16 months in the bright lights of the West End; fame hadn’t come calling (for this almost 30 year old topless dancer), work had dried up (as younger legs and prettier faces scored all the best roles) and with her money having ran-out, Evelyn returned to the poultry-farm, where just a few months later on 25th June 1936, she married Harold, and became Mrs Evelyn Oatley.

As predicted, married-life wasn’t for Evelyn; she found no joy staying-in every night playing Scrabble with her homebody husband, no peace being tucked-up in bed with a book by 9pm and no reward cleaning crap out of the chicken coops, as having tasted the excitement of the big city, she knew she wanted more. Trapped in a dull life of squawking birds, in local hotels under an assumed name, Evelyn started clandestine affairs with married men and continued to live and work in London, all under the nose of Harold who was too ineffectual to stop her and too dull to offer her an alternative.

One year later; with money tight, tensions fraught and his poultry-farm having gone out of business, even though he’d been forced to move into his Aunt’s house in nearby Cleveleys (in Lancashire), as desperate as Harold was to please his wayward wife, although they remained married and stayed in-touch, Evelyn returned to London, knowing she would never be a big star, but loving the nightlife.

By February 1939, with Britain on the brink of World War Two, Evelyn Oatley had moved into a tiny one-roomed flat on the first-floor of 153 Wardour Street; a simple four-storey terrace house with the ground-floor of five houses converted into a motorcar showroom called Shaw & Kilburn.

And although she shared a kitchen and a bathroom with five other flats and her small room was simply furnished with a double-divan bed, a sofa, an armchair, a table, a wash-stand, a wireless radio and a gas fire (with a coin-slot metre), even though she kept some plates and cutlery in her wardrobe, mostly she’d eat out, spending her nights drinking, dancing and attracting the attention of men.

With her dancing roles having dried-up, and the adulation and applause of audiences over, Evelyn wanted a gentleman admirer to sweep her off her feet; a moneyed man who would lavish her with gifts, flowers, love and trinkets. And having a lust for “real men”, who were tall and toned, with easy smiles, kind blue eyes and neatly dressed in a military uniforms - whilst still married - Evelyn had several boyfriends, all of whom Harold knew about, and none of whom looked like him.

As World War Two broke, a blackout was enforced and British and Canadian servicemen flooded the West End with money to spend, drinks to be drunk and girls to be chased, Evelyn should have had the pick of the crop, but too often, having got her heart broken by these heartless heroes, every time this would happen Harold would always be there as a shoulder to cry on and to pick up the pieces.

And as much as they remained close, with Harold travelling the 12 hour round-trip from Lancashire to London, every few weeks, he naively believed that his beloved wife worked as a nightclub hostess and a dancer in the West End theatres, but for the last six years, ever since they had been married, Evelyn Oatley (known locally as Lita Ward) had earned herself a living as a Soho prostitute.

Being 5 foot 1 inches tall, 7 stone in weight, with dark blonde curly hair, blue eyes and a cheeky smile; Evelyn was well regarded amongst Soho’s sex-workers as fun, honest and generous. And as a confident woman, Evelyn had no qualms about picking-up punters and bringing them back to her flat for drinks and sex, but being flirtatious and charming, she was also adept at luring any potential sugar-daddies to not just spend the night, but also the day after, with free meals, expensive gifts and shopping trips.

And as much as Evelyn was a woman of morals; who never stole from a customer, never worked on Sundays and only picked-up punters on her patch; she was also a heavy drinker of Scotch, not picky about which men she picked up, and (according to a close-friend) she was a desperately lonely lady who craved attention, feared solitude and longed to be loved.

The last time Harold saw Evelyn was on Tuesday 3rd February 1942 at Euston Station, as from the train which took him back to Lancashire he waved his beloved wife “goodbye”; hoping one day that she would come back to him and never realising that the next time he would see her… she would be dead.

Six days later, on the morning of Monday 9th February 1942, in an air-raid shelter on Montagu Place (barely one mile from Wardour Street), the strangled and mutilated body of Evelyn Hamilton would be found. Police thought it was a one-off, but with his sadism still unsated, that evening, The Blackout Ripper would stalk the West End looking for his next victim… her name was Evelyn Oatley. (Interstitial)

The evening of Monday 9th February 1942 was bitterly cold as an icy wind blew from the east, swirling the freshly settled snow down the half empty streets of the West End. On her regular patch - a stretch of pavement from Lawley’s fine-bone china shop on Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus – Evelyn paced back-and-forth to keep herself warm, the piping hot bowl of vegetable stew and a quick shot of Scotch that she’d just polished off in The Leicester Arms pub, straining to keep out the cold.

Dressed fashionably in a bright red jumper, a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt, black boots, a black leather handbag and a black woollen hat, her top decorated with three brooches; one yellow, one red and one in white metal, her style was impossible to see as with the night being so infernally cold, Evelyn had her knee-length black coat buttoned-up to her neck.

And with business being bad and boredom creeping in, amidst the miserable darkness of the blackout (as switched-off for the full duration of the war were the famous lights of Piccadilly Circus), Evelyn stood in the doorway of Lawley’s, illuminated by the red-hot tip of her cigarette, which was taken from her stylish white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ (short for Lita Ward, a sole reminder of her lost acting ambition) and inside, a photo of her beloved mother “Rosina”.

Feeling cold and lonely, Evelyn wouldn’t be choosey about who she picked-up, as all money was good and she just wanted to head home, pop on the fire and hop into bed. But soon she would be cold for a very different reason, and what follows would be the last known sightings of Evelyn Oatley.

At 10:15pm, on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus; two Soho prostitutes and close pals of Evelyn - one a blonde called Laura Denmark and a brunette called Molly Desantos Alves - waved to their friend as she stood outside of Lawley’s smoking. With both Laura and Molly having been chatted-up by two tall, slim and handsome (if slightly sozzled) RAF servicemen from the Royal Air Force Reception Centre in Regent’s Park, they took the men back to their flats; Molly headed to Denham Street with the red-headed Corporal and Laura headed to Frith Street with the fair-haired Aircraftman.

At 11:00pm, outside by Monico’s (a reputable late-night restaurant once used as a pick-up place for sex-workers and servicemen) on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus; a part-time waitress and prostitute called Ann Carew saw Evelyn, who she knew as Lita Ward, chatting to a Canadian soldier dressed in a khaki battledress. Although cold, she seemed chatty and only a little bit tipsy, and seeing Ann, she waved, wished her a “goodnight” and guided the military man towards her flat through the dark-lit streets of Soho, guided solely by the dim light of her six inch metal torch.

At a little after 11:20pm, Icy Cecilia Poole, a fun-fair attendant and Evelyn’s neighbour who lived in the adjoining flat on the first floor of 153 Wardour Street saw Evelyn escorting a man up the wooden staircase. But he wasn’t Canadian or in khaki battledress, but a young tall and pasty civilian in a brown suit with horn-rimmed glasses. And although he wasn’t Evelyn’s type; as the night was cold, money was money, and – with most men’s sexual prowess being less like a stud-muffin and more like a “two pumps and squirt merchant” – she knew he’d only need a few minutes until he was done, before she would head-out again and pick-up another punter.

As Evelyn closed the wooden door marked with a metal plate which read “Lita Ward”, Ivy heard Evelyn and the young man chat, as with their penny-pinching landlord having split one large room in half with two folding doors to create two small flats, the walls were wafer-thin and Ivy could hear everything.

Sharing such a small space, Evelyn was always so considerate of noise, but that night she wasn’t. Instead, switching her bedside radio from news to music, she turned up the volume until the recognisable sounds of the couple’s mumbling, fumbling and groaning was drowned-out, and eager to sleep, Ivy popped in her earplugs, placed her pillow over her head and nodded off around midnight

That was the last time that 34 year old Evelyn Oatley was heard, or seen alive, ever again.

The next morning, on Tuesday 10th February 1942 at 8:20am, with her room all dark and silent, Ivy had slept so soundly over the last eight hours that she barely heard a loud banging on her door. Alerted to the noise by her startled cat, Ivy groggily unlocked the door to see the familiar face of Charles Victor Fleming of the Central London Electricity Company, who – along with his assistant George Kenny Carter - were here to read each flat’s electricity metres and collect this month’s shillings from the coin-slot. It was just an ordinary day, for three ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives.

As with Ivy (who was still sporting her bathrobe and slippers), George knocked loudly on Evelyn’s door, but with it barely being an hour after dusk, he got no reply. Knocking louder, George noticed the door was ajar, but as a timid young man who was too polite to simply barge into a strange lady’s boudoir uninvited and risk seeing things a young man should never see like frilly things and her ladies monthly unmentionables, George continued to knock.

Sensing the shy youth’s frustration and sporting some awful bed-hair, Ivy tapped loudly enquiring “are you there, dear?” as she pushed open the door. With the windows blacked-out, the lights off, the fire out and the last shilling in the electricity metre having been spent, as much as Ivy flicked the light switches, the flat remained in pitch black. But as they entered the flat and their eyes adjusted to the dark, it was clear that they weren’t alone; someone was there, lying on the bed, all silent and still. And as George Carter flicked on his torch to see who it was, as the dull light illuminated the shape on the bed, he stopped, blinked and gasped, having seen a sight which no-one should ever see.

First on the scene at 8:35am was Inspector John Hennessey of West End Central Police Station, having spent the night at the Police section house on Broadwick Street (one street behind), who secured the scene to ensure nothing was touched, followed by Detective Inspector Clarence Jeffrey and Divisional Surgeon Dr Alexander Baldie at 8:50am, and Divisional Detective Inspector Charles Gray at 9:15am.

With no windows open, no fire on and the female victim – a five foot one inch mid-thirties blonde – in the early stages of rigour-mortis, Dr Baldie recorded that she’d been dead for at least 4 hours. And although the name on the door read ‘Lita Ward’, she was quickly identified as Evelyn Oatley,
What startled the Police (beyond the sickening extent of her horrific injuries) was how tidy the room was; nothing was tipped over, very little was broken and there didn’t seem to have been a struggle. In fact, almost everything seemed to be just as Evelyn had left it just a few hours before. It was almost as if she had welcomed her attacker in; had known him, liked him, or simply felt comfortable with him, and yet this shocking attack had come out of the blue.

On the mantelpiece, where she always kept them, Evelyn had placed the keys to her flat. On the sofa were her clothes, neatly placed and ready to be re-worn; a bright red jumper, a black hat and a tweet two-piece jacket and skirt. On an armchair she’d placed her black boots, a slip, a brassiere and a pair of black stockings by the fire, drying after a long cold night. And in the right-hand side of her wardrobe (where she always put it) was her black knee-length coat, along with her black leather handbag.

Oddly, the only damage in the whole room was the wardrobe’s lock, which (although the key was still in it) had been violently broken off; Evelyn’s handbag had been removed, the zip fastener opened and the contents strewn over the sofa. And whoever her attacker was, he’d ignored her bank books and ration coupons, and only stole two items; roughly £20 (£600 today) from her brown leather purse and her white metal cigarette case, etched with her initials ‘LW’ and a photo of her mother inside.

Was this a robbery? Was this a burglary? Was this a rape? The Police were perplexed. But whoever it was who had attacked her, had a deep-rooted hatred for either prostitutes, women or Evelyn Oatley, as not only was her attack brutal and sickening, but her torture was prolonged and humiliating.

In the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall, between two blacked-out windows, was her double divan bed. Lying face-up and sprawled diagonally across her freshly made sheets was the cold corpse of Evelyn Oatley, her body splayed and posed, with her thin cotton vest and a silk nightdress rolled up, exposing her legs, genitals, lower torso and breasts.

With no-one having heard her scream and the bruised outlines of a thumb and four fingers across her throat and neck, Evelyn was initially strangled by hand in an unprovoked attack, which trapped her windpipe, crushed her vocal chords and made her more pliable, as although she drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes, what happened next, was done whilst she was still alive.

With her head slumped backward, hanging over the side of the bed, using the 2 inch blade of an Ever-Ready razor, a five and a half inch wound was cut, from her right ear to her voice-box, so deep it exposed her throat, split open her jugular vein and left a six foot trail of blood to the door.

As Evelyn clutched onto her last few moments alive, being immobile as her body was drained of blood, her bare legs were splayed wide. And (as with Evelyn Hamilton) although there was no semen found in her vagina, in and around her genitals were a series of twelve unusual wounds; some less than half an inch long, one more than three and a half inches long, but all were rough jagged tears, made using an old-style kitchen can-opener with a sharp hooked claw.

But his sadism hadn’t stopped there, as having placed the metal can-opener next to her left knee, and posed the blood-soaked razorblade next to Evelyn’s ghostly white face, as well as an ominous set of blood-stained curling tongs, her sadistic killer – not content with her torture and humiliation – had inserted, four inches deep, her six inch metal torch into her open and exposed vagina.

The autopsy of Evelyn Oatley was conducted that day by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, home office pathologist (and father of forensic science), who just 24 hours earlier had examined the body of Evelyn Hamilton and although there were differences between both attacks; their ages, hair colour, occupations and the location of their deaths (with one in public and the other at home), the similarities were striking.

Both women were lonely and alone. Both women were in the West End. Both women had been robbed of roughly £20. Neither woman had been raped. Both had been posed, both had been exposed, both had unusual cuts to their genitals, and non-specific internal injuries to their vaginas, one made using a six inch metal torch, and the other within sight of an eight inch metal torch. And although both women were called Evelyn, the Police put this down as possibly just a coincidence. But in each case, although the Police wouldn’t know this yet, their murderer had taken a souvenir.
Was this the same man, or merely chance? Was this a spree-killer, or a strikingly similar attack? With Evelyn Oatley’s long fingernails being unbroken, they knew her attacker was swift. With bruise marks on their necks, Police knew they’d both been strangled by a left-hander. And although, Superintendant Frederick Cherrill of Scotland Yard’s Print Bureau had found a left thumb print on Evelyn Oatley’s compact mirror (touched as her killer rifled her handbag for money) and a left little finger print on the metal can-opener he had used to mutilate his latest victim, none of his prints were on file.

If the same man had murdered both women, the Police wouldn’t have time to even contemplate the horror of a spree-killer in their midst; as with his violence escalating, his bloodlust pumping and his sadism unsated, he was only two days into his five day killing spree, and as darkness fell over London, once again, he headed into Soho, as The Blackout Ripper went in search of his next victim.

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

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

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is True-Crime Enthusiast, hosted by Paul, True-Crime Enthusiast is a fantastic dive into the UK’s most twisted, deranged and disturbing murderers, presented with a disarmingly charming style, Paul lures you in with his jovial friendly banter, only to bludgeon you over the head with truly disturbing and utterly baffling true-crime tales from the lesser known annals of UK murder, all of which will make you gasp, grin, guffaw and maybe even gag. Check out True-Crime Enthusiast. (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. What lucky people! They are the fabulous Hannah Mirza (who has been a dream on social media, so thank you Hannah), the wonderful Elizabeth Nazaralli (who loves murder so much, she’s willing to pay $3 a month to see more) and someone called Helene Buchanan-Dunne (who loves Murder Mile so much, she’s stolen my surname and some of my DNA – I think – either that or she’s my sister). To join the Murder Mile Patreon group, click the link in the show-notes.

And a quick shout-out to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Asian Madness Podcast, hosted by Melissa, the Asian Madness Podcast unearths some truly unsettling mysteries, madness, weirdness and worrying weirdos from right across Asia. And second is Southern Fried True-Crime, hosted by Erika, Southern Fried True-Crime explores some truly fascinating true-crime tales from America’s Deep South; the states where banjos play, whiskey flows and the homespun charm is alluring, but underneath it all, murderers lurk. Check them both 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 three of our series into 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)
• The Way You’re Looking At Me by Cult With No Name
• Acid Jazz by Kevin MacLeod
• Operation Failed by Cult With No Name
• Remedy for Melancholy by Kai Engel
  
• Faster Does It by Kevin MacLeod
• True by NCTRNM
  
• July by Kai Engel

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

• Cockerill - https://freesound.org/people/cclaretc/sounds/164064/
• Bed springs - https://freesound.org/people/StinkhornAdrian/sounds/390515/

• Steam train - https://freesound.org/people/keithpeter/sounds/125211/

• Old car - https://freesound.org/people/juskiddink/sounds/77096/
• Old car horn - https://freesound.org/people/daveincamas/sounds/43801/

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

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: Ripper; noun, the origins of the word “Ripper” are uncertain, as although its first recorded use was in the year 1615 to describe a primitive cutting tool used by tanners, curriers and leather workers to rip and tear apart cow-hide, as well as later termed by slate-workers, corn threshers and to define the hook-like drill which breaks-up rock and ore as used to extract oil and gas, by the early 1800’s, when having gas-lighting in your home was a sign of affluence, “Ripper” had entered the public vocabulary as a slang term to describe anything which is “good, excellent or splendid”

But by the late 1880’s, in London’s East End, the word “Ripper” had re-entered the modern parlance with a much darker and deadlier meaning, denoting a murderer who takes great pleasure in the slashing and tearing of his victim’s flesh, whether pre-or-post mortem to satisfy their sexual sadism, as around the impoverished streets of Whitechapel, a maniac stalked the city’s sex-workers.

And as gripping as the story of Jack the Ripper is; even today, no-one knows his name, his face, his age, his address, his description, his motivation, his method, the exact span of his killings, which victims he killed, which of the current 106 suspects he really is, or even, if he actually existed at all.

Since then, the term “Ripper” has only been adopted by the press to describe three British serial killers and spree-killers during their reign of terror; they were Jack the Ripper, the Yorkshire Ripper and a maniac so terrifying, so fascinating and yet so unassuming, that during the dark of the blitz of World War Two, across London’s West End, and over just five days, he would brutally attack six women, with escalating levels of sadism and violence… and yet his killing spree had only just begun. 

With much of the evidence supressed by the government and the press for fear of unsettling a weak morale in London during the fear of the early 1940’s, the true story of the West End’s very own ripper has long been lost, rehashed, fudged and retold in a rambling mix of confusingly short fragments.

But after eight months of intensive research, experimentation and investigation, using all the original declassified police investigation files, military records and court transcripts of the case, the puzzle is complete and what follows over the next few weeks is a definitive history of one of Britain’s deadliest, strangest and long-forgotten spree-killers. And as always, these episodes will contain graphic details which may offend, realistic sounds which may startle, and is not suitable for the easily flustered.

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

SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Montagu Place in Marylebone, W1; a picturesque upper-class enclave hidden from the hustle and bustle of city-life; just three streets north of Oxford Street, four streets south of Baker Street, one street east of Edgware Road, and with Soho two tube-stops to the west.

Surrounded by a rich mix of four to six storey townhouses from the Regency period to the Georgian, Edwardian and Victorian era; being calm, quiet and clean, Montagu Place (which borders the ultra-affluent Montagu Square, whose perfectly manicured private garden is alarmed, patrolled and protected by ornate wrought iron gates, with a key you can only acquire if were schooled at Eton, holidayed at Monty, bunked with a boy called Jolyon, or your uncle’s a QC don’t you know) this area aims to keep the hoity-toity in and the hoi polloi out.

And with no beggars, no buskers and no boozers pebble-dashing its pristine paths with steamy great clumps of working-class puke; what you’re left with are rows of half-empty houses full of cocks with cooks, burkes with butlers, drips with drivers, fannies with nannies and posh-pricks protected by private security who are less likely to be robbed and more likely to be slapped, as they’re manhandled back to man-child mansions; being too posh to scream, too British to cry, and incapable of cacking their pants having been born with a fine selection of silver cutlery poking out of their poo-pipes.

And even though, during the sixties, they actually let some scousers (called John Lennon and Ringo Starr) move in; being brightly-lit, super-clean and regularly patrolled by the Police, here in Montagu Place, under the shade of the Swiss and the Swedish Embassies, you will always feel safe and secure.

But appearances can be deceptive. As it was here, in calm of Montagu Place, on the cold winter night of Sunday 8th February 1942 that a lone woman called Evelyn Hamilton was murdered. No-one heard her scream, no-one saw her struggle and no-one came to help. London’s West End was about to be gripped by five nights of absolute terror, where no woman was safe, as a serial sexual sadist stalked the city streets with murderous intent… and he was known as The Blackout Ripper. (Interstitial)

Born on 8th February 1901, Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was one of four sisters born to Lucy, a recent widow whose deceased husband’s insurance had ensured his family’s finances after his untimely death, giving them stability and security as the economic depression of World War One loomed large.

Raised in the idyllic tranquillity of the semi-rural village of Ryton in Tyne & Wear in the North East of England, far from the industrial sprawl and smog of the Newcastle mills and the Sunderland shipyards, Evelyn’s upbringing was the epitome of picture perfect; surrounded by fresh fruit, clean air, long walks and no crime. And being a progressive woman in an era where the best a young girl could aspire to be was as a machinist, a maid or married-off, Lucy enrolled her four daughters in the best schools.

Having studied at Skerry’s College in Newcastle and the prestigious medical school at the University of Edinburgh, by 1923, 22 year old Evelyn graduated with a diploma in chemistry and pharmacology. Having qualified as a chemist and a druggist, over the next 18 years, she focussed on sharpening her skills, climbing the career ladder and seeing more of the country, as she moved from job-to-job in Loughborough, Leicestershire, Surrey, London and later in Essex.

By November 1941, with the economic ravages of World War Two having started to bite and rationing in full-swing, Evelyn had secured herself a position as manager and pharmacist in the respected high-street store of Yardley’s Chemists at 9 Market Parade in the market town on Romford (Essex). And as qualified as she was for the job, three months later, she would be gone.
On the surface, Evelyn Hamilton seemed unremarkable and easily forgettable; as being just five foot 3 ½ inches in height and a slender seven stone in weight, who wore very little make-up nor perfume, never smiled nor spoke-up, and always dressed-down and looked dour, as exceptionally bright as she was, she never wanted to be noticed and blended into the background.

Being fastidiously neat, unfashionably dressed and wrapped in a thick excess of shapeless woollen layers (being thin-skinned, shivery and prone to goose-bumps) even on the warmest of days; with short brown hair, a furrowed brow and droopy brown eyes which hung with the air of sadness of a lonely woman who never felt loved, was never told she was beautiful, and never once had a best-friend nor boyfriend in her 41 years, she had become a shadow of her former self.

Evelyn was a very private person, who was quiet, uptight and troubled. Described by her employer – Mr Bernard Gray - as agitated, eccentric and that she often looked as if she was frightened, being prone to bouts of insomnia and depression, she never found peace within herself and regularly returned to her mother’s home in Ryton for long periods of rest and recuperation. But Romford was not for Evelyn, and as a book-worm surrounded by sheep-farmers, here she felt mentally, physically and emotionally starved, and what she needed was some fun, love and excitement.

Friday 6th February 1942 started like any other day. Being a creature of habit, Evelyn rose at 7:30 sharp; washed in the hand-basin, nibbled at a breakfast apple and dressed in her practical clothes she’d laid-out the night before (a thick woollen jumper, a thick woollen skirt, stockings, a bra, a white vest and two pairs of under-garments to keep out the cold). With the February snow being thick under foot and the icy winter wind howling, she wrapped-up warm in her full-length camel hair coat, an orange and pea-green woollen scarf, a green woollen “turban style” hat and black leather gloves.

And having applied a thin coat of pink lipstick (hardly a shade darker than her own lips), draped over her shoulder a beige canvas gas-mask (standard issue during World War Two) and clutching her dark brown leather handbag (which looked less like a fashion accessory and more like a wrapped parcel), she gave a polite smile to Mrs Eva Lever, her landlady of her middle-class lodging called The Haven on Link Way in Hornchurch, and headed towards the bus stop.

As always, she walked to the bus stop alone, stood at the bus stop alone and opened the shop alone, not realising that (as much as she hated her new routine) that she would never do it, ever again.

Being a tall four-storey brick and sandstone building right in the heart of Romford’s busiest market, Yardley’s Chemist shop at 9 Market Place should have been a profitable business, but with times hard, tensions high and the economy in disarray as Britain entered its third year in a six year war, 16 months after the Dunkirk evacuation and 16 months before the D-Day Landings, as the invading forces took France and loomed nearer the English coast, it began to look like Germany would win.

So sadly, both Evelyn Hamilton and her 14 year old assistant Miss Bettina Grace Gray were given their notice, and being paid a wage of £5 per week (roughly £250 today), Evelyn was given one month’s pay and the doors of Yardley’s Chemist’s closed forever. Two days later, she would be dead. (Interstitial)

On the morning of Sunday 8th February 1942, Evelyn rose at 7:30 sharp, lying alone in a single bed in a drab little rented room, another heavy cloud of depression hung over her. And although she hated where she lived, where she worked and being unemployed, being so qualified, she quickly found work as a pharmacist in the port-town of Grimsby in Lincolnshire; a place where she had no family, no friends and would (once again) be a single woman, in a lonely bed, in an empty room.

Having written a letter to her mother (Lucy), which she did every week without fail, using the green and black pencil she’d loaned of her assistant Bettina and forgot to give back, Evelyn added a few pounds of her £20 severance pay to help her doting mother in her old age, and proceeded to pack.

Into a large brown trunk, wrapped in protective newspaper, she placed her treasured possessions; family photos of her mother and her three sisters, a stack of books (mostly chemistry textbooks, a history of women’s suffrage and political literature as she was an ardent socialist), and her practical clothes, all of which were neatly washed, ironed and etched with the laundry mark - E2474.

Into a medium-sized overnight case, she placed a toothbrush, hairbrush, book and a change of clothes. Perched next to that sat her dark brown leather handbag, containing a white metal lighter, a veneer cigarette case, a metal compact, a pink lipstick, a set of handkerchiefs etched with an E2474 laundry mark, her purse containing what remained of her £20 severance pay (roughly £1000 today), next to which she’d laid out her coat, hat, scarf, gloves and gas-mask. And having settled her account in full with Mrs Eva Lever, landlady of ‘The Haven’, politely declined a spot of tea and left instructions for a railway man to arrive on Monday morning, collect her trunk and send it to Grimsby, Evelyn sat alone on her single bed, smoked a cigarette and opened four brightly coloured cards from her family.

As not only was this her 41st birthday, it was also her last day alive.

What follows are the last known movements of 41 year old Evelyn Margaret Hamilton: On Sunday 8th February 1942 at 7:20pm, dressed in her camel-hair coat, brown velvet under jacket, white vest, green jumper, brown skirt, brown stockings, black shoes and her usual two pairs of under-garments, with a pea green and orange scarf and a green woollen hat, Evelyn arrived at Hornchurch station clutching her medium sized suitcase, a brown leather handbag and purchased a one-way ticket to London.

Arriving at Aldgate East at 9:40pm, four hours after dusk, the city was in pitch-black as the wartime blackout was inforce; and with all street-lamps dimmed, doors closed, curtains shut and vehicle headlights reduced to mere slits to obscure the urban sprawl from the German bombers above, using her trusty 8 inch metal torch, Evelyn joined a sea of people with dull bobbing lights as she took a Hammersmith & City line train nine stops west to Baker Street station.

With heavy winter snow crunching under foot and an icy wind blowing in from Siberia, although she had barely a 1/5 mile further to go, Evelyn hailed a black-cab and was driven by Abraham Israel Ash to The Three Arts Club at 76 Gloucester Place; a hotel she had stayed many times before, and always felt safe, warm and comfortable, before catching the early train to Grimsby and her new life up north.

The time was 10:15pm, and so far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened; her trains were on time, her cab-driver was pleasant; she hadn’t been short-changed, swindled, followed, accosted or abused, and like any other ordinary people living in a sprawling metropolis like London, with no debts, drink or drug issues, and no enemies what-so-ever, she was an entirely unlikely person to ever be murdered. Evelyn was just a shy nervous lady going about her business and not being a bother to anyone,

With half a crown covering the taxi-fare and Abraham’s tip for carrying her suitcase up The Three Arts Club’s stairs, Evelyn checked into a single room for one night and didn’t unpack, instead – feeling a little peckish having politely declined her former landlady’s kind offer of a spot of tea – Evelyn asked Ms Kathleen Rosser Jones (manageress of The Three Arts Club) if food was still being served, but with the kitchens now closed, Evelyn set out into the dark streets of Marylebone in search of sustenance.

The time was 10:50pm. And with the street being cold, her stomach having rumbled too many times and the batteries of her torch slowly dying as the dim bulb began to fade; Evelyn hopped in a black-cab and headed half a mile south to the one place that was always open and never stopped serving. This was her last taxi-ride, to her final meal, which passed a little side-street behind her hotel called Montagu Place, where just a few hours later, Evelyn Hamilton would be found dead.

The cab ride should have taken little more than five minutes, but Evelyn’s whereabouts over the next hour are unknown. Where she went? Nobody knows. Who she saw? Nobody knows. What she did? Nobody knows. But it’s unlikely that anything suspicious or untoward happened, it’s just an odd gap in the last known movements of a shy quiet lady with very few friends, a fondness for solitude, and a deep desire to be anonymous, blend into the crowd and never be noticed.

Just before of midnight, at the junction of Oxford Street and Great Cumberland Place (now the site of the Cumberland Hotel which overlooks the prestigious addresses of Marble Arch, Park Lane and Hyde Park), Evelyn entered Maison Lyonese; a well-respected five-storey corner-house tearoom, one of five in London, which was famed for its speedy service, 24 hour restaurants, live entertainment and food-hall packed full of delicatessens, chocolatiers, florists and hair-salons.

Witnessed by waitress Betty Witcover walking into the brasserie, although she was neither seated nor served by Betty, she felt a sympathetic pang for Evelyn, a lonely women sitting by herself amongst a sea of raucous friends, kissing couples and boozy servicemen, as she raised a single solitary toast to herself, on this her 41st birthday.

According to her autopsy, her final meal was one small glass of white wine, two slices of wholemeal bread and a main-course mostly consisting of beetroot. After that, Evelyn Hamilton disappeared; no-one saw her talk to anyone, no-one saw her leave, and she was never seen alive again.

On the following morning of Monday 9th February 1942, at 8:40am, local Paddington plumber Harold Batchelor and his mate William Baldwin were walking to their first job of the day; the cold air caused their cheeks to flush, the biting wind made their noses sniffle and under their boots they crunched a fresh layer of pristine white snow, as they crossed over Gloucester Place and into Montagu Place.

On the left hand side of Montagu Place; positioned half on the pavement, half on the road and built in a neat little line, were three surface air-raid shelters, one of thousands which dotted the city. Being 7 ½ foot high, 7 ½ foot wide, with a 23 foot middle shelter and two half its size either side; although these three oblong blocks made of 14 inch brick, 1 foot thick reinforced concrete roofs and covered with 20 kilo sandbags wouldn’t protect its terrified occupants from a direct-hit; one year earlier, it had saved 100 residents from certain death, having shielded them from the blast-wave, shrapnel and falling debris of a Nazi bomb, so in Montagu Place, these air-raid shelters were a place of safety.

Last night though, there wasn’t an air-raid, no German bombers had flown by and no bombs were dropped, so apart from an occasional homeless man or kissing couple, the shelters would be empty.

But as Harold and William walked by the larger middle shelter, on the snow speckled pavement they spotted the broken top of an 8 inch metal torch, a lady’s green woollen “turban style” hat, and poking out of the brick entrance was a woman’s left leg lying prostrate on the floor, wearing brown stockings and practical black shoes. Reeling from the shock, Harold barked “Will? Fetch the Police”.

The crime-scene was promptly secured by PC John Mills, ready for the arrival of Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare at 8:55am and the Divisional Surgeon Alexander Baldie at 9:10am.

With her handbag missing, Police were uncertain who this woman was; all they knew was that she was in her early forties, 5 foot 3 ½ inches tall, 7 stone in weight, wearing a full-length camel coat, a pea green and orange woollen scarf, a pale shade of pink lipstick and that she had been murdered.

Being a fastidiously neat women whose unfashionable clothes were professionally cleaned, pressed and etched with the laundry mark – E2474 – now she lay dumped in the wet gutter of the road which ran through the centre of damp dark shelter; her clothes all dirty, torn and in disarray.

With her left leg poking out of the entrance, her right leg remained within, raised and resting on the shelter’s brickwork, her practical black shoes badly scraped and scuffed. Under her brown stockings lay fragments of brick mortar which had broken away from the wall, as in a desperate fight for her life, she had fought back, as a violent struggle took place. Denying her any hint of modesty, her calf-length brown skirt had been pulled up to her hips, her torn bloomers and ripped knickers pulled down to her knees, her legs spread wide, and the genitals of a deeply private woman exposed for all to see.

What hatred he’d had for this small timid woman, to humiliate her in such a way, nobody would know. But with her camel-hair coat splayed open under her cold corpse, her white vest torn, deliberately exposing her right breast, Police felt that not only had she been posed, but that her punishment wasn’t just a violent and sickening death, but also her humiliation. And although her pea green and orange woollen scarf slightly masked her bruised cheeks and bloodied lips, peeping out from above, her eyes were etched with terror.

Three days later, 41 year old Evelyn Margaret Hamilton was identified at Paddington Mortuary by Ms Kathleen Rosser Jones (manageress of The Three Arts Club), her former employer Mr Bernard Grey of Yardley’s Chemists in Romford, and her sister Kathleen Hamilton.

At 3pm that afternoon, an autopsy was held at Paddington Mortuary by the Home Office pathologist (and father of forensic science) Sir Bernard Spilsbury in the presence of Divisional Detective Inspector Leonard Clare, but the evidence presented before them was perplexing. .

With her handbag, purse, money and all forms of ID missing, Police considered a possible motive of robbery, but were confused as to why her attacker had left an expensive gold watch on her left wrist. With no sperm found in her vagina, Police ruled out rape as sexual intercourse had not taken place, but they couldn’t account for the a small amount of blood found in and around her vagina. And with abrasions to her legs, scalp and back, with a 1 inch cut on her left eyebrow, a 2 inch bruise on her right cheek, a 3 inch abrasion on the back of her neck, and an odd series of small cuts on her right breast, was this a physical assault, or the work of a sexual sadist?

What they knew for certain was that (owing to her body’s temperature and state of decomposition) Evelyn Hamilton’s time of death was roughly 1am, barely one hour after waitress Betty Witcover had seen her in Maison Lyonese, a time which was corroborate by her broken gold watch. And that, with her bloodshot eyes, her dilated pupils, her flushed swollen face, her fractured larynx, her engorged lips, fingers and swollen tongue which jutted from the white froth of her open mouth, with a clear bruised outline of a thumb over her throat and four fingers pressed into the mottled flesh at the back of her neck, Police were certain that she had been throttled to death by a left-handed strangler.

But sadly, that’s where the investigation into the murder of Evelyn Hamilton stalled; as with no motive, no witnesses and no fingerprints what-so-ever; very little physical evidence beyond her torn clothes, her broken torch, some scuffed shoes, a few fragments of brick mortar, and a tin of Ovaltine tablets and a pack of Masters safety matches (which no-one knew who they belonged to); as well as the fresh snow having masked any footprints and the last hour of Evelyn’s life being a complete mystery.

Her shocking murder on Montagu Place asked more questions than it answered, such as; if she took a cab from the hotel to the restaurant, why didn’t she take one back? If she walked back, why would she do so, alone, in the cold, with a broken torch? And with Montagu Place barely a 10 second walk from her hotel, why would she go inside of an air-raid shelter on a night when there were no air-raids?

Was Evelyn followed? Did Evelyn have a dark-side? Had Evelyn a secret enemy? Or was 41 year old Evelyn Hamilton; a bookish women who was too shy to talk, too timid to dress-up and too reticent for red lipstick, who hide in the background of life and had no experience of love, was this painfully lonely women approached by a man, flattered by his attention, brought a birthday drink and then lured to her death by the first man ever to tell her she was beautiful? That, we shall never know.

Her murder would have remained unsolved… but during that terrifying week in February 1942, across the dark-lit bombed-out streets of London’s West End, as the petrified people scurried in the darkness for fear of being murdered by the German bombers which loomed above, a sexual sadist stalked the streets. Evelyn Hamilton was the first, but she wouldn’t be the last victim of The Blackout Ripper.

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

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Murder Was The Case; presented criminologist Lee Mellor and host Vanessa Vanelli, Murder Was The Case is a fascinating in-depth analysis of murder, by an expert, explain the difference between homicide and murder; serial-killer and mass-murderers, genocide, patricide, matricide, infanticide and every detail about murder that you’ve ever wanted to know. So if you’ve got a curious mind eager for facts, check out Murder Was The Case. (Play Promo)

Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook, or even better, for extra exclusive content, subscribe to the Murder Mile Patreon group. .

A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Dennaz Broacha-Jones, Rhomany, Summer Sabateur, Poor Little Nell, Janine Madden and English Expat.

And a big thank you to my very first Patreon supporter, so eager was this man to get access to exclusive Murder Mile content, that he signed up to our Patreon account before I’d even launched it, so a huge thank you goes out to Terrence Scannel, Patreon #1. And just before I started recorded Cam Roberts pledged $3 too, a big thank you to Cam Roberts.

And a quick shout-out goes to two truly excellent true-crime podcasts that I heartily recommend; first is Canadian True-Crime; hosted by Kristi, Canadian True-Crime is a well-researched and well-presented deep-dive into the twisted lives of some truly warped Canadians, such as Robert Pickton, Tori Stafford, the Ken & Barbie Killers. And second is Killafornia Dreaming, hosted by Rosanna, Killafornia Dreaming brings you terrifying true-crime stories from the Golden State of California, which statistically has the highest proportion of serial killers in America. Both are excellent podcasts and will truly put you off going to Canada or California.

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 two of our series into 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)
  
• When You Leave by Sergey Chereminisnov
• Heir of the Dog by Cult With No Name
• Your Mother’s Daughter by Chris Zabriski
  
• Fly in the Ointment by Cult With No Name
• Piano Piece 2 by Cult With No Name
• Delirium by kai Engel
• Sopor by kai Engel
• Imminence by Kai Engel

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Love true-crime podcasts? Subscribe to Murder Mile on iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Pocketcast, Stitcher, Acast, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Libsyn

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• A weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
• 300+ infamous, untold or often forgotten true murders
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there. ​​​

EPISODE TWENTY-FOUR

Episode Twenty-Four: PART 2 OF 2: On 19th February 2001, ten dismembered body-parts of an unidentified woman were found submerged in the Regent's Canal, in a sickening attacked which matched that of a headless torso found in a Rotterdam Canal a decade earlier. But who were they? And what connected them?

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

If you’re new to Murder Mile, please note that  this episode is the concluding part of a two-part special into canal-killer John Patrick Sweeney, so I would strongly advise you  download any other episode. For regular listeners, thank you for listening, for sharing, for reviewing, for spotting the secret thing (that only a select few have found, one of whom did so whilst picking up dog-poo) and to those who’ve signed up to the exclusive content on the Murder Mile Patreon account, I thank you.Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the murderously good Wining about Crime.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 of three square miles. Ooh.Today’s episode is the conclusion to the story of John Sweeney; an abusive, violent and dangerously disturbed man whose drug-fuelled paranoia and insane jealousy of his girlfriends, led to a bloody trail of body-parts across Europe, the full-extent of his brutality remains a mystery even today.Murder Mile contains graphic details of abuse, torture and death which may offend, 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 24: Canal Killers – John Sweeney Part 2 (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead)

Today I’m not within one square mile of Soho, Paddington, King’s Cross, or even the Regent’s Canal; I’m 256 miles away in Holland’s beautiful capital city of Amsterdam; a coastal city crammed full of architectural marvels from the medieval times to the modern age; cross-crossed by laid-back cycle-ways, stunning bridges, and interconnected by an intricate canal system… which isn’t full of moany stoners in hi-viz vests, who’ve draped their leaky plastic cruiser in a huge blue tarpaulin, as if looking like an Ikea bag is the height of chic. (out of shot) “Ah get shagged!”

Unlike stuffy old London, Amsterdam is so liberal; not only is it chock-full of history and high-art, but it also has three museums dedicated to prostitution, procreation and penises, and also (I’m guessing) a kid’s cannabis crèche, a dildo recycling service, six streets named after syphilitic sailors, a free orgasm vending-machine; a shop which sell willy-warmers woven from old pubes, and an publically funded institute promoting the complete history of the anus.

And as I sit outside of a snowy café; chomping on pancakes, supping on wheat-beers and toking on an entirely legal spliff; although I’m nowhere near Battlebridge Basin - where on 19th February 2001, ten dismembered body parts of John Sweeney’s ex-girlfriend were found submerged in the Regent’s Canal - this is where the last episode ended and where this new episode begins.

On Monday 27th March 1989, having served just half of a twelve month sentence for violently attacking his girlfriend with a half-kilo foot-long claw-hammer on the stairwell of her Austrian flat - an horrific attack which left her riddled with pain, plagued by flashbacks and crippled with anxiety – 34 year old John Patrick Sweeney walked free from JustIzastalt-Wien-erdberg prison in Vienna.

Having spent two weeks in hospital, his terrified victim – Melissa Halstead; whose bruises had heeled but whose skull was still fractured and required a daily dose of pain-killers to dull her constant headaches – was safe from his anger, jealously and violence. And to protect her from any further danger, the judge had also issued Sweeney with a 10 year deportation order, which not only ensured he stayed away from Melissa, but also banned him from returning to Austria for the next decade.

And as Sweeney breathed in that fresh Austrian air, the cool mountain wind tickling his bright red beard, a stunningly beautiful blonde lady kissed him on the lips. Quite what she saw in him, nobody knows? But this bright, bubbly, American ex-fashion model who had believed his cries and his lies that he was a changed man, and had personally pleaded the judge for her boyfriend’s early release, Melissa Halstead picked Sweeney up from prison, her car packed with their bags, and (outside of the protection of the deportation order) they headed off to Holland, ready to begin a new life together.

But those six months of incarceration and solitude had done nothing to cure him of his addiction to drink, his hunger for drugs, his jealous streak, his paranoia and his obsession with torture and violence.

Sweeney was a sick man. And as much as Melissa believed that he loved her, really he was controlling her. As much as she insisted that he was protecting her, really he was assaulting her. And as laidback as their new home-city was; with its late-night bars, legalised drugs and liberal attitudes to sex, Amsterdam was the worst place for a jealous, paranoid, sex-obsessed alcoholic and heavy cannabis user, who also dabbled in LSD and was hopelessly addicted to heroin.

Although he did a few odd-jobs as a carpenter, most of which funded his habit, Melissa’s career as a photographer and make-up artist paid for the rent, the food, everything. And as the months went on, so did the beatings, all of which Melissa covered over with weak excuses and heavy mascara.

As a minor blessing, Melissa’s occupation was perfectly suited to her free-spirited nature, which gave her ample opportunity to see the world and meet new people, in an unpredictable and unscheduled routine which meant she would often be away and out-of-contact for days, weeks and even months. But the longer she was gone; the more Sweeney drank, the blacker his moods got, and the more his jealousy festered.

During the last week of April 1990 - with Europe still in a state of celebration, five months after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War – Melissa Halstead returned home to Kromme Waal in the centre of Amsterdam, and the basement flat she shared with violent and controlling boyfriend; her plan (once again) to try and leave Sweeney forever.

On Thursday 3rd May 1990, 50 miles from Amsterdam, in the Dutch coastal city of Rotterdam, a green army surplus kit-bag was found partially submerged and floating down the Westersingel canal. Seeing the thirty inch canvas bag bobbing up-and-down, two keen-eyed Police constables assumed it was either stolen luggage or dumped rubbish, but as both men huffed and heaved the heavy hessian sack onto the stony towpath, as gallons of canal water drained out, still the bag was a dead-weight.

In an unnervingly similar incident to one which would take place at Battlebridge Basin on the Regent’s Canal, almost a decade later, as the Police unzipped the bag, they witnessed what would become the grisly calling-card of a maniac.

Inside, the naked torso of a mid-thirties female had been hacked-up, folded in half and forced into the tight duffle-bag; across her ankles and neck were rough jagged tears where (using what carpenter’s refer to as a Rip Carcass Saw), he had sawn through the tibia and fibula of both lower legs and the cervical curve of her neck, severing her spine and decapitating her hands and head. And although her body had been bound with a tough braided sisal rope (the kind used on building sites), having been submerged in water for a little over a week, with decomposition in an advanced state, already her pale discoloured skin had slipped free of its binds.

The Police were at a loss as who this woman was, as whoever had murdered her, had made a conscious effort to destroy any evidence of who she was. And with no clothes, no bag, no ID, no hands, no head, and almost all of the DNA evidence having washed away into the canal, all Police had was a torso with no name, no face, no eyes, no teeth, no birth-marks, no operation scars and no fingerprints. And having no head, Police couldn’t even identify her by that tell-tale skull fracture, having recently been attacked by her boyfriend using a carpenter’s claw-hammer. With no missing person’s report fitting her limited description, and her hands and head having never been found, Melissa Halstead was marked as a Jane Doe and buried in an unmarked grave in a Rotterdam cemetery.

Exactly how and where Melissa died, we shall never know, as being so hard-working and free-spirited, her family in Ohio only realised she was missing when on 2nd November 1990 she failed to call her mother to wish her a happy birthday, and hired a local lawyer to investigate her disappearance. But by then, it was too late; her basement flat was totally empty, meticulously clean and its former occupants were gone. Melissa had vanished, Sweeney had returned to England and (once again) he went looking for love, and her name was Delia Balmer. (INTERSTITIAL)

Having met Sweeney in a kooky Camden pub in early 1991, although Delia was instantly smitten with this cheeky-faced Liverpudlian who was artistic, well-travelled and lived an almost idyllic bohemian lifestyle, together they truly seemed like an odd-couple; as she was a petite timid blonde who worked as a nurse saving lives but had an irrational fear of all electronic devices, and he was a tall red bearded psychopath with one murder and one attempted murder in his past, and one murder still to come.

Being honest, sweet and trusting, it wasn’t long before Delia let Sweeney move into her home; a ground-floor flat in Leighton Grove (Camden), which was situated just one mile from Regent’s Canal, and barely one and a half miles from Battlebridge Basin where the body-parts would later be found. 

And as bizarre as their flat was; with Delia having covered every phone, radio and television in cushions for fear that they caused cancer, the epitome of disturbing was how Sweeney decorated the flat; not only with beer cans, spent spliffs and crack-pipes, but also a pet tarantula, a large stash of horror magazines and a wall packed full of morbid self-drawn art-work depicting axes, blood, torture, body-parts and headless female corpses.

As with Melissa and Anne, it wasn’t long before her life was being dominated by his paranoid deluded jealousy, as Sweeney controlled every aspect of Delia’s life, whether she was there or not, and what started with a never-ending succession of emotional blackmail, mental abuse and physical assaults over a four year period, soon descended into an incident of unimaginable horror. 

In November 1994, with Delia having attempted to leave her psychopathic partner after a series of violent beatings which left her bruised, bloodied and fearing for her life - as punishment - Sweeney tied the tiny helpless woman to the frame of her bed, using the same kind of tough braided sisal rope he had bound Melissa’s lifeless body with, and in a sickening ordeal which lasted 48 hours, Delia was repeatedly raped, strangled, beaten and tortured, as Sweeney held a gun to her head, threatening to cut out her tongue with a kitchen knife if she screamed.

Delia later stated, “I could see the dark, empty, evil look coming into his eyes and his hands started to shake”. And with the cold steel of the handgun pressed firmly against her head, Sweeney pulled the trigger till the hammer went click, his empty threat made all-the-more real as he loaded the gun before her eyes and boasted about how the last ex-girlfriend who tried to leave him was found floating in a Rotterdam canal, her head and hands hacked-off using the Rip Carcass saw he kept in his bag.

But just like his ex-wife Anne Bramley, he didn’t kill Delia Balmer; he couldn’t, he wouldn’t and no-one knows why except Sweeney. Instead, having left her bruised, bloodied, terrified and tied to the bed, Sweeney fled to Germany. But with the Police now aware of his details, description and aliases, he was arrested a few days later, deported back to the UK and held on remand at Pentonville Prison. A Category B prison on the Caledonian Road, just a ten minute walk from Battlebridge Basin.

Traumatised by her horrific ordeal, Delia confided her fears to a friend. And in an odd premonition of what was to come, she said “He will do something. He will cut me to bits. Just like he had Melissa”.

On Thursday 22nd December 1994, three days before Christmas, John Patrick Sweeney was released on bail from Pentonville Prison, just one mile from Delia’s home in Leighton Grove, and “The moment I discovered he was out, I was on edge. I knew he would be coming for me”.

A few hours later, with the winter sun having set, a cold wind blowing and the first few flakes of snow settling, having finished her shift as a nurse, Delia cautiously cycled into Leighton Grove; lined on both sides with three-storey townhouses, the dark-lit street was empty, only illuminated by the flicker of TV sets, the twinkle of Christmas lights and the dull orange glow of a handful of street-lights.

Swinging open the iron-gate, Delia pushed her bicycle along the cold stone path, up to the concrete step at the foot of the front door to her ground-floor flat; everything was quiet, calm and safe. Or so it seemed. As Delia nervously fumbled her keys into the lock, from the shadows, Sweeney pounced.

With his arms flailing, his eyes wild and his teeth gritted; Sweeney began slashing and hacking at the tiny helpless woman, her trembling hands held defensively up to her screaming face, as gripped in both fists he held a kitchen knife and a two kilo axe. Delia later recalled “I saw my finger fly through the air, and I thought: ‘That’s it. I don’t want to live anymore”.

In a sustained, sickening and frenzied attack, on the doorstep of her own home, Delia Balmer (the five foot three inch nurse, who was as timid as she was tiny) suffered multiple lacerations to her hands, arms, legs, face and chest; as well as two broken arms, deep stab wounds to her thighs and breast, an axe-wound to the head, a punctured lung, and the little finger of her left hand entirely severed. And lying in a puddle of her own blood, struggling to breathe as Sweeney stood over her, hacking away at the petrified woman, Delia could have died, but didn’t.

Hearing her screams, her neighbour Jiles Allen dashed out of his house and armed with a baseball bat, Jiles chased Delia’s attacker down the street, as the five-foot ten-inch frame of Sweeney vanished into the shadows, being the kind of coward who’s too scared to pick on someone his own size.

Believing she had breathed her last breath, Delia later said “I died that day” and thought that she had finally escaped her violent boyfriend forever, but when she awoke in the intensive care unit of the Royal Free Hospital (where she worked), Delia’s first thought was “Oh no, I am alive. Now what, hell?”

Although physically, emotionally and psychologically scarred, for the six years that Sweeney was on the run from the Police, friends would caution her to watch her back, knowing that the demented red-head had unfinished business and would come looking for her. But for Delia, she didn’t care, her life was over, she’d reply “it’s too late. I am not scared anymore because I am not me anymore”.

When interviewed by the Police, Delia told them everything; about the abuse, the torture, the rapes, about Sweeney and his confession that he’d murdered Melissa Halstead in Holland. And as the Police examined Sweeney’s belongings in Delia’s Leighton Grove flat, they saw not only his deeply disturbing collection of self-drawn art-work of footless, handless and headless women, drenched in a pool of blood, whose limbs had been hacked off, but also a green army surplus duffle-bag which contained a groundsheet, bin-bags, sisal ropes, gaffer tape, a claw-hammer and a rip carcass saw – a psychopath’s tool-kit to dispose of a human body and ensure that no-one would ever identify it.

By Christmas 1994, four and a half years after the grisly discovery of an unidentified woman’s torso which was found floating in Holland’s Westersingel canal, even though the family of Melissa Halstead had hired an investigator and reported her missing; no-one knew where she was, what had happened to her, or that the headless body buried in an unmarked grave in a Rotterdam cemetery was her.

And although, six years later, the ten dismembered body-parts found wrapped in six separate bags at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal bore an uncanny similarity to the disposal of Melissa Halstead; the body in the canal was not Delia Balmer. That woman was still alive, for now, as she was yet to become a future ex-girlfriend of John Sweeney.

On the run and desperate to keep his head down, Sweeney bunked in the Kentish Town flat of his old friend, Kevin Pratt, during which he bragged about his horrific attack on Delia, he confessed that he’d killed Melissa Halstead, and lied that there was a £10,000 reward for his capture.

Needing to move on, he headed north to Northampton to pay an uninvited visit to his ex-wife Anne and his kids Michael and Tracey in their new home. Staying the night, Sweeney proceeded to drink and get stoned, as he told Anne that he had “done something really bad, which would make your hair stand on end”, but this time he confessed to the murder of Melissa Halstead and two others.

Hitching a lift to his home-city of Liverpool to visit his mum, Sweeney used this downtime to taunt the detectives who were desperately searching for him. And on Monday 2nd January 1995, just eleven days after the terrifying attack on Delia Balmer in which he left her for dead, Sweeney sent a letter to the Police at Scotland Yard; bragging about his crimes, boasting how they’d never catch him and (in a cruel play-on-words) describing his assault on Delia as “an AXEident”, spelling the first part of the word AXE.

Having run out of options, and being an easy-to-spot red-headed Liverpudlian carpenter, Sweeney fled the UK and headed into Europe where he’d spent the bulk of his life, learning to stay under the radar by living in hostels, working cash-in-hand jobs, and using an assumed name like Joe Johnson, Joe Carol and Michael Fawcett. And even though he needed to stay near drug-dealers to feed his habit of LSD, cannabis and heroin, in the circles he moved in, this wasn’t difficult. And so, for the next six years, John Patrick Sweeney disappeared.

What happened during these years; where he went, what he did, and who he saw? Nobody knows. But by the turn of the last Millennium, in early 2000, John Sweeney had returned to England and (once again) he went looking for love, and her name was Paula Fields. (INTERSTITIAL)

As the youngest of eleven children, born into a lower working-class family, in one of the most deprived areas of Liverpool, at the end of the 1970’s, life for Paula Fields and her siblings was tough. After the closure of the shipyards; mass unemployment and poverty followed as a badly underfunded council struggled to provide even the most basic of necessities such as heat, warmth, food and housing for thousands of struggling families, and yet her troubles had only begun.

Aged just nine years old, Paula’s mother died, leaving herself and her ten older siblings to be split-up, with some farmed off to different relatives and others were placed into care. And growing up in an era dominated by demolition, tension, closures and the Toxteth race-riots, with no education or qualifications, Paula was desperate to become a good mum, so after the birth of her three children, in 1998 Paula made the brave step and moved to London, to seek a better life for her boys. But life down south wasn’t any better, and it would only get worse.

As a single mum, who struggled to look after two of her three boys (both under five), she worked shifts in a local laundrette to scrape together enough money to fund a single-room in a local flea-pit hotel and half-way house called the Highbury Hotel, but within just two years; being broke, hungry and desperate, Paula had turned to prostitution, was hopelessly addicted to crack cocaine, and both of her boys had been taken into care.

So, by the autumn of 2000, as a homeless penniless sex-worker and drug-addict with a chaotic lifestyle, a criminal record and absolutely zero chance of ever getting her kids back, Paula truly was at her lowest ebb when – in the Kilburn flat of his brother Tony - she first met and fell in love with a bushy bearded, red-headed carpenter who went by the nickname of “Scouse Joe”.

And being instantly smitten with this cheeky-faced Liverpudlian who had a semi-regular income, easy access to drugs and a rented flat in Digby Crescent in Holloway, Paula moved into her new boyfriend’s flat; spending her days and nights off-her-face, surrounded by his pet tarantula, a bizarre collection of violent art, and his green canvas duffle-bag full of ropes, hammers and saws. 

As with Anne, Melissa and Delia; it wasn’t long before her life was being dominated by his paranoid deluded jealousy, as Sweeney controlled every aspect of her life, and what started with a never-ending succession of emotional blackmail, mental abuse and physical assaults, soon descended into death.

At 9:30am, on Friday 15th December 2000, with the walls of the cramped one-bedroomed flat echoing to the regular sounds of shouting, swearing and domestic assaults, Paula Fields was last seen walking into Sweeney’s flat at Digby Road in Holloway; just two days after (it is believed) she had discovered his true identity, and two days before Sweeney moved out. Paula was never seen alive again.

On the morning of Monday 19th February 2001, during the half-term holidays, two schoolboys were fishing along the banks of Battlebridge Basin at the back of King’s Cross when their hook snagged on something partially submerged and reeled in a heavy black bin-bag, which reeked of rotting flesh.

Only this time, with Sweeney having cut up his victim into ten separate chunks, hacked through her wrists, elbows, knees, ankles and neck with the jagged tearing of his rip carcass saw, wrapped each piece in bin-bags and weighing them down with bricks, to stop her body-parts from bobbing on the surface of the canal as Melissa had, Sweeney meticulously cleaned the bath in his Digby Crescent flat, burned all Paula’s belongings and moved out.

And with no clothes, no bag, no ID, no hands, no feet, no head, and almost all of the DNA evidence having washed away over the two months they’d spent festering in the water, all the Police had was a torso with no name, no face, no eyes, no teeth, no birth-marks, no operation scars, no fingerprints and no missing person’s report matching her description. Just like Melissa, Paula would be just another unclaimed body buried in an unmarked grave, as once again, Sweeney had got away with murder.

Or he would have done, if he hadn’t made a big mistake… he left one victim alive.

Following recent sightings of John Sweeney in London, Police issued all constables with the description of a red-headed Liverpudlian carpenter, who lived under various aliases, and was wanted for the rape, imprisonment, assault and the attempted murder of an Australian nurse called Delia Balmer.

On Friday 23rd March 2001, a red-headed carpenter who went by the name of Joe Johnson was spotted working on a building site in Shoe Lane, Holborn. Knowing Sweeney’s history of violence and being wanted for firearms offenses, the Police took no chances, armed officers were called in and Sweeney was arrested. He had a seven-inch knife in his waistband and a loaded 9mm Luger pistol in his locker.

Searching his new flat at Charteris Road in Finsbury Park, Police found two loaded sawn-off shotguns, a makeshift machete, a homemade garrotte wire, a large stash of bullets, a baseball bat, an axe, bin-bags, cable-ties, a groundsheet, a green canvas duffle-bag full of ropes, hammers and saws, and over two hundred deeply disturbing self-drawn paintings and poems depicting the violent rape, torture, dismemberment and death of various women.

On one painting, Sweeney had written a poem which read “Poor old Melissa, chopped her up in bits, food to feed the fish, Amsterdam was the pits". Another was a drawing of a gravestone, which read “RIP Melissa Halstead, born 12th December 1956”. But many made reference to Delia and Anne; their bodies naked, their limbs bound and their heads hacked-off.

For the attempted murder of Delia Balmer, John Patrick Sweeney was sentenced to a ten year term behind bars at Gartree Prison in Leicestershire. And as much as Sweeney had bragged to the Police about the many murders he had committed over the last twenty years, including; a devoted mid-30’s church-goer called Sue who Sweeney pursued to Switzerland, a mid-40’s Brazilian called Irani who lived in North London, and a late 30’s Columbian called Maria, all of whom were his ex-girlfriends and have never been seen since, as well as supposedly two German men who he had caught having sex with Melissa, with very little evidence, Police couldn’t arrest him.

But then, another victim of John Sweeney would provide a vital clue, which would put Sweeney away forever, and she would do so, from beyond the grave.

On 12th June 2007, following advances in genetic technology and coinciding with a review of unsolved murder cases, Dutch Police uploaded the DNA profile of an unidentified female whose decapitated body had been found, eighteen years earlier, floating in a Rotterdam canal… and they got a match. In a joint task force between Scotland Yard and the Dutch authorities, Police not only identified the bodies of Melissa Halstead and Paula Fields, but were able to connect their method of deaths, disposals and identify their killer.

Of his known victims; Anne Bramley died of cancer in 2001 and Delia Balmer has since retired from nursing and released a book about her experiences entitled ‘Living with a Serial Killer’. And although the remains of Paula Field and Melissa Halstead were returned to their families (with Melissa’s ashes interned in her hometown of Dayton, Ohio), neither their hands, feet nor heads were ever found.

On Monday 4th April 2011, 54 year old John Patrick Sweeney was found guilty of the murders of Melissa Halstead, Paula Fields and the attempted murder of Delia Balmer, and was given a whole-life-sentence, meaning that he will never be released.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.As mentioned before, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, or you have inflicted violence against a loved one, n ever be afraid to speak out, as professional help is only a phone-call away.

This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Wining about Crime, hosted by Bonnie, Wining About Crime dives into the lives, habits and the disturbing psychology of some truly baffling serial-killers, spree-killers and murderers, always asking the big question; who they are, where they come from, and why they kill. Check out the promo for Wining About Crime. (Play Promo)

Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook.

A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Des O’Connor, Natalie Prince Sanders, Carylynn Flannery, Simon Lupton, Robomanjay997, Terri Revvis Swann, Angizoink (I agree, more podcasts should have the word “arse” in it), Neil Marjorum and Alvaro Scorza.

And of course a quick shout-out goes to two very different and equally excellent podcasts that I heartily recommend you check out; first is True-Crime Island, hosted by Cambo, who – like a hard-boiled Aussie news anchor – unearths the latest murder stories from around the world, so you don’t have to. Fuckalunga. And second is The Cleaning of John Doe; hosted by Vanessa, who each week takes you into the grisly, bloody and shocking world of her day=job as a crime-scene cleaner. Yes, you heard that correctly.

Murder Mile was researched, written & p erformed by myself, with the main musica l themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.Next week’s episode… is the first of a four part series on The Blackout Ripper.Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources: 

• http://courtnewsuk.co.uk/john-sweeney/
• https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/i-lived-serial-killer-3-11327042
• https://www.springfieldnewssun.com/news/crime--law/model-from-oakwood-killed-dismembered-carpenter-police-say/kwwp14YnSuUUV8CIogJtaM/
• http://murderpedia.org/male.S/s/sweeney-john.htm
• http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-12636449
• https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2011/apr/05/canal-murderer-john-sweeney-life-sentence
• https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/1113780/living-with-a-serial-killer/

Sadly, the National Archive files on the case are locked away for the next 100 years, so I probably won't get a chance to read them... unless I live a very long time. 

Sounds: 

• Breakfast in Ghent - https://freesound.org/people/klankschap/sounds/54506/
• Amsterdam - https://freesound.org/people/zeshoog/sounds/60404/
• Bike bell - https://freesound.org/people/pallen33/sounds/405627/
• Bike Bell 2 - https://freesound.org/people/plivesey/sounds/78957/
• Bike Bell 3 - https://freesound.org/people/Yin_Yang_Jake007/sounds/415298/

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...

Music:

• Walter & Wally & Cult With No Name
• Day by Swelling
• Monkey & Moulage by Rozkol
• Untitled by Seclorance
• Piano Blue by Cult With No Name
• True by NCTRM
• Seeker by Kai Engel
• Tumult by Kai Engel
• Sopor by Kai Engel
• Now You Are Here by Sergey Cherimisonov
• July by Kai Engel
• Not Stranger by Cult With No Name
  

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

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

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 #23 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 twenty three of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.

If you enjoy Murder Mile? You’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve set-up a secret hidey-hole where I shall stash some truly fantastic treats relating to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast; including behind-the-scene videos, crime-scene photos, biographies, case-notes, transcripts and exclusive monthly episodes which delve deep into the lives of Soho’s most colourful criminal characters as featured in the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. And with a tiny donation of just $3 per month (or £2 in real money), you will also ensure the future of Murder Mile for years to come. To check out our Patron page, please go to www.patreon.com/murdermile or click on the link in the show-notes.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the fabulous Based on a True-Crime.
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 John Sweeney; a deeply deranged, dangerous and violent alcoholic, whose jealousy, rage and hatred of women left to a bloody trail of body-parts across Europe. Murder Mile contains graphic descriptions of death which may offend, 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 23: Canal Killers – John Sweeney Part 1 (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead)

Today I’m chugging along the Regent’s Canal, passing a recently renovated part of King’s Cross called Battlebridge Basin; a former Victorian wharf in which vast blocks of arctic ice were once stored in stone cellars providing the city with a steady supply of cold drinks, fresh fruit and ice-cream, back in the days before fridges. Ooh, a historical tit-bit, how fascinating.

Now, Battlebridge Basin is perched in the typical kind of former crack-hovel and whore-haven which property developers cram full of empty art-galleries, wanky wine-bars, offices for arseholes and hardly used shag-pads, having conned a couple of hipster half-wits to stump-up a big wodge of cash for a drafty shithole in an “up and coming area”, which (we all know) is code for “rough as fuck”.

And perched opposite that is an uneven stony tow-path, lined with a cavalcade of canal-boaters, all batting away an endless barrage of baffling questions from nosey nincompoops such as “do you live on a boat?”, “yes I live on a boat”, “oh, well where do you sleep?”, “I sleep in my bed”, “oh, and how do you wash?”, “in my shower”, “and you cook?”, “in my kitchen”, “drink?”, “from a glass”, “stay warm?”, “by the fire”, all which is topped-off by a bonkers pile of dribbly mouth-plop such as “so, what do you eat”, only for the frustrated boater to want to reply ““food, I eat food”, only to realise that Dipshit McThickTwit won’t piddle off until he’s received the answer he’d hoped you’d say like “I catch fish with my teeth, I forage in bins, I blow otters for tobacco cash and I grow my own mung-beans using an old mix of ear-wax, toe-chud and belly-button fluff”. It’s sad because it’s true.

And if this area sounds slightly familiar to you, that’s because it’s just one hundred metres from the flat of drug-dealer Michael Walsh, three hundred metres from Caledonian Road and six hundred metres from the West Portal of the Islington Tunnel where devoted father, Italian tour-guide and heroin-addict Sebastiano Magnanini was found hog-tied to a shopping trolley and dumped in the Regent’s Canal. And it was here, at Battlebridge Basin, on Monday 19th February 2001, that in six separate bags, weighed down with various house-bricks, that ten dismembered body-parts of a woman were fished out of the canal; these hastily hacked-up remains having belonged to the ex-girlfriend of a jealous, drunk and vengeful sadist, whose name was John Sweeney. (INTERSTITIAL).

Born John Patrick Sweeney on Saturday 13th October 1956; Sweeney was raised in Kirkdale, a working-class district of Liverpool that borders the towns of Bootle, Walton and Everton, in an era when this prosperous city had shifted from being one of Britain’s busiest shipping ports, only to slide into economic decline and endemic poverty, and end up full of crumbling Victorian terraces, pockmarked with the bomb craters of the World War Two blitz.

Sweeney’s upbringing was unremarkable and uneventful, as although the family were poor, Jack and Catherine (his parents) instilled into their son an Irish Catholic sense of morality, pride, hard-work and family values. And although life was tough, money was tight and the future looked bleak, in 1950’s Liverpool; a city packed full of working-class Irish families, Sweeney’s childhood was normal. And as a bright boy, from a good family, with no qualifications, although he spoke with a stutter for which the young boy was mercilessly bullied, Sweeney set about learning a trade, earning a wage, and seeing the world as a jobbing carpenter.

For five years, Sweeney crossed the Continent, working on various construction sites in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Austria and Holland; with a kitbag full of tools; a wallet full of cash and an eye for the ladies. But it was here, during this blank spot in his history, that Sweeney’s personality changed forever; something had shifted, something had snapped and something had broken, and what returned to England a few years later, was a bitter, angry and jealous man whose life was consumed by a passion for drink, a hunger for drugs and a thirst for extreme violence.

Aged twenty, having returned to Liverpool, John Sweeney still looked like the boy who’d left a few years earlier, with his curly red hair, dark blue eyes, a cheeky grin and arched (clown-like) eyebrows, but now his hair was thinning, his eyes were bloodshot, his nose was bulbous, his cheeks were rosy like those of a rampant alcoholic, and his almost angelic face which always seemed to be smiling, cheery and kind, belied a vicious temper and sadistic rage which bubbled beneath. Sweeney had come home, to see his family, to settle down and to find himself a wife. But this road to love would ultimately lead Sweeney down the path of violence, torture, dismemberment and death. (INTERSTITIAL)

Having found himself a good woman with a warm heart, a kind smile and strong family values, in 1976 John Patrick Sweeney married Anne Bramley and moved into their matrimonial home in Skelmersdale in Lancashire (14 miles from his home-town of Kirkdale), which was quickly followed by the births of their two children, Michael and Tracey. But this was not the home of a happy family.

With Sweeney’s binge-drinking and excessive use of cannabis; two very different drugs, known to cause and also exacerbate a user’s sense of aggression, hostility, depression, anxiety and paranoia; not only had Sweeney started using aliases – like Joe Johnson, Joe Carole and often being referred to as “Scouse Joe” - to cover his increasing criminal convictions for drunkenness, drug-possession, theft and assault, but as a father and a husband he was often absent, distant and violent.

In 1979, three years into their turbulent marriage, with the safety of her two toddlers to consider, as well as her own life, and having reported Sweeney to the Police on numerous occasions for assault and battery, Anne made a brave decision and divorced her violent and abusive husband. 
But just two years later; having apologised and promised Anne that he was a changed man, with the drink and drugs behind him and a bright future ahead, Anne gave Sweeney one last chance, and in 1981, they remarried. But Sweeney hadn’t changed; he was still drunk, drugged and dangerous, and with Anne having left him once before, her rejection had lit a fire in Sweeney’s belly, and there was no way that she was ever going to leave him again. Their second marriage would last barely a year.

Becoming more paranoid, hostile and violent; having thrown bricks at her window, bashed in the family turtles and repeatedly threatened Anne’s life; verbally, physically and artistically - with Sweeney having handed his son a gruesome pencil sketch depicting his mother, dead and lying in a coffin, scrawled on the gravestone the words “Rest in Peace Anne” - once again, fearing for her family’s life, Anne made a midnight run to the safety of her family home in Northampton. But no matter how far she ran or how well she hid, Sweeney would always find her.

In November 1982, having moved herself and her two young children into a small cottage in Ormskirk; a small market town in West Lancashire, just 14 miles north of Liverpool, Anne thought she had found sanctuary, but her peace was shattered, as she had been followed here by Sweeney.

That evening, as a cold wintery wind whipped over the hills, the moon shadowed by thick clouds and a cold sharp frost crunching under foot, Sweeney crept towards the family home. Through a crack in the curtains, he spied a single light on inside, but hearing no voices, no sounds and no movement, he broke the lock on the backdoor, knowing no-one was home.

Inside lay the detritus of the family life he felt had been denied by Anne; with food in the cupboards, toys on the floor and photos on the mantelpiece, Sweeney slunk into the darkness of Anne’s bedroom,  opened the wardrobe, crept inside and hid. And as he stood there, surrounded by the familiar sight of her clothes and the scent of her perfume, all of which reminded him of how she had rejected him, Sweeney lay in wait for his wife to return, a pick-axe in one hand, a claw-hammer in the other.

But he didn’t have to wait long, as just a few minutes later, from inside his wife’s wardrobe, Sweeney heard the jangle of her house-keys, her front-door unlock and her house-lights slowly illuminate each room as footsteps calmly walked into her bedroom. With his knuckles white with anticipation as he tightly gripped the pick-axe and claw-hammer in both fists, having readied himself for a vicious and frenzied attack on his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sweeney burst out of the wardrobe, his wild eyes fixed…
…on two policemen; both big, ready and packing handcuffs; as Sweeney dropped his weapons, his stutter went into overdrive as he unleashed a volley of excuses about who he was, why he was there and what on earth he was doing in the wardrobe with a pick-axe and a claw-hammer.
Thankfully, Anne and the kids, having spent a pleasant evening at their neighbour’s house, and heard the sounds of an intruder breaking in, assumed it was a burglar, called the Police and John Sweeney was arrested. But he wasn’t charged with attempted murder or attempted manslaughter. As with no assault committed, malicious intent being hard to prove and the incident having occurred in what was (technically) his own house, so the law was at a loss with what to do with him, but owing to his long-history of threats and violence against Anne, John Sweeney was “bound-over to keep the peace” by Ormskirk Magistrates Court, meaning that – as a condition of his bail – he had to stay away from Anne.

That same year, Sweeney started afresh and moved to London, where he remained for decades, only returning to Liverpool to see his mum. And although he and Anne crossed paths, for the sake of the kids they remained on civil terms, until her death in 2001, when she lost a long battle with cancer.

The same year that ten dismembered body-parts (consisting of two arms, two legs and a woman’s torso), wrapped in six separate bags and weighted down with house-bricks were found submerged at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal. But the body in the canal was not Anne.
Sweeney never made an attempt on Anne’s life again. Maybe he never had the chance? Maybe he still loved her? Or maybe he knew it was wrong to deprive his kids of a loving mother? But with so much jealousy in his eyes, so much hatred in his heart and so much anger in his bones, Sweeney (once again) went looking for love, and her name was Melissa Halstead.

Born in Oakwood (Ohio), the middle child to Margaret & Jack Halstead, a middle-class couple with a dentist’s surgery in Dayton; Melissa Halstead was bright, bubbly and bold, whose free-spirited nature was matched only by her kindness, warmth and compassion. And being a beautiful woman, with sparkling eyes, excellent pose and a stunning bone structure, Melissa was quickly scooped up by New York’s famous Ford Modelling Agency, where he career as a fashion model began, touring across America, Europe and Asia.

Described by her brother Jack Junior as “egocentric” and “magnanimous”, Melissa always saw the best in people, never the worst, and although she was slow to trust a stranger “once you were her friend, you were her friend for life”. By 1986, having retrained as a fashion photographer and make-up artist, Melissa had settled down in London and a new chapter in her life was about to begin... and end.

Melissa told her family very little about her new boyfriend, who was known as “Scouse Joe”, and quite what she saw in this ruddy-cheeked, red-headed, moody, drunken, twice-divorced handyman with a lengthy criminal past and a long history of violence, was anybody’s guess? Nut whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it.

Described by Sweeney as a “love-hate” relationship, with Melissa being hopelessly besotted by her drunken abusive beau and him being a short-fused and quick-fisted alcoholic, often he’d explode in a jealous rage, as he pummelled and scarred her strikingly beautiful face with a never-ending series of black eyes, bloody lips and swollen cheeks.

The warning signs were there. And on three separate occasions, having tried to leave him, Sweeney was arrested and charged with (ABH) Actual Bodily Harm for having violently assaulted Mellissa during their brief and tempestuous liaison. In September 1987, he smashed her in the face with a stool. In December 1987, he beat her so badly (as she lay cowering on the floor) that he fractured her legs. On one occasion he was heard to scream “Who do you think you are? I’m the one who says what you can and can’t do”, and yet, for both offences, he served no prison time and was fined just £5. And in April 1988, having threatened Melissa with a knife, scaring her so badly that – in a haunting premonition of her grisly death, she remarked to her sister that “if I go missing, it’s John Sweeney who would have killed me” - this time, Sweeney was “bound over” by the courts, as had happened with his ex-wife Anne, the condition being that he had to stay away from Melissa forever.

In October 1988, in a mixed blessing by the British Government, with Melissa living having worked using an expired permit, she was deported from the United Kingdom and restarted her life again in Austria, France, Germany, Belgium and Holland, hundreds of miles away from Sweeney.
But no matter how far she travelled, how well she hid and how carefully she covered her tracks, each time she moved, Sweeney would find her; his anger fuelled by drink, his paranoia stoked by spliffs, his jealousy fired-up by her rejection, and the court’s bail conditions invalid outside of the UK.  

Having stalked his supposedly deceitful girlfriend across six different European countries, on Tuesday 1st November 1988, Sweeney tracked Melissa to her new flat in the Austrian city of Vienna. Being drunk, drugged and deluded; having found it impossible to believe that the relationship’s failure was his fault and obsessed with the idea that Melissa had cheated on him, Sweeney broke in via the back-door, bound and gagged her friend and ransacked her flat, as he trashed every cupboard, drawer and box-file for any evidence of her obvious infidelity.

Experience of his violent jealous rages had taught Melissa well; she knew not to rile him, confront him or even answer back, instead sensing that he needed to cool off, she purchased him a ticket to Amsterdam where he could smoke weed, drink beer and chill. Whether this was a kind gesture to quell his agitated mental state, a cunning ploy to distract this dangerous man long enough to escape, or an honest promise to rekindle their relationship in the next city on her itinerary, is unknown? Regardless, the ruse worked, Sweeney took the ticket and left.

But a few days of getting boozed-up and stoned-out had done little to quell the fiery Scouser’s temper, and sensing that this ticket was a simply scam, to either pacify him, bribe him, or shrug him off, just as every bloody woman had done in his shitty little life; having rejected his love, his kindness and his loyalty. Oh yes, those lying cheating bitches had conspired against him, and he would make them pay.

Melissa was to blame; she had rejected, just like Anne; she had abandoned him, just like Anne; and she had destroyed him, just like Anne. Sweeney’s anger had come full-circle and now it was time to complete what he had begun, and to get his revenge.

On Friday 4th November 1988, just four days later, and almost exactly six years after his failed attack on Anne from inside her bedroom wardrobe, Sweeney approached Melissa’s flat.

Unlike that night at Anne’s cottage, Melissa was home. Unlike that night, he didn’t break-in, he knocked. Unlike that night, as Melissa saw her stalker return and a heated argument ensued. But just like that night, six years earlier at Anne’s cottage, Sweeney was ready, as grasped in his right hand, his knuckles white with anticipation, he clutched a claw-hammer.

As Melissa led Sweeney up the stairs to her first-floor flat, facing forward with her back turned, she felt a heavy thud, heard a dull crack and her vision went black, as straddling her – his teeth gritted, his eyes wild, his arm swung high - Sweeney struck the soft skull of a petite woman who was half his weight, his foot-long hammer raining blows down upon her with over half a kilo of steel.

Somehow, Melissa survived. From her hospital bed, having escaped with her life and suffered nothing more than severe bruising and a fractured skull, Melissa later stated “I only ever wanted to help him, but now I know he must have really hated me”. Later that day, John Sweeney was arrested

For the unprovoked attack on Melissa Halstead, which left the ex-model traumatised, in pain and disfigured; after four months in custody, having claimed that it wasn’t a premeditated attack, but an emotional act between two lovers in the heat of a passionate debate, Austrian authorities were unable to charge Sweeney with attempted murder or even attempted manslaughter, and (once again) Sweeney was found guilty of the lesser charge of aggravated assault, he was sentenced to a 10 year deportation order and just 12 months in prison. His short sentence and early release having been assured after an impassioned plea to the judge by the one person that he had almost killed - Melissa.

Incredulous at her sister’s forgiveness from her hospital bed of the man who had attempted to murder her, Chance O’Hara asked her sister if she had lost her frigging mind, but – being a kind, warm and caring soul, who only saw only the good, even in those who were bad through and through – Melissa had believed his cries, tears, begging and his promise to leave her alone, if she would get him out.

In March 1989, having accepted his apology and his promise that he was a changed man, with the drink and drugs behind him and a bright future ahead, and (just like Anne), Melissa gave Sweeney one last chance, and – having served just six months in prison – they rekindled their relationship.

Barely a few months later; the footless, handless and headless corpse of 33 year old Melissa Halstead would be found, hidden in a duffle bag, floating in a canal having brutally died at the hands of her evil sadistic and jealous boyfriend. But Melissa was not the body which had been found at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal. That woman was still alive, for now, as she was yet to become a future ex-girlfriend of John Sweeney. To be continued.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. And don’t forget, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, or you have inflicted violence against a loved one, never be afraid to speak out, as professional help is only a phone-call away.

As a treat to you all, this week’s recommended podcast of the week is called ‘Based on a True-Crime’, and if (like me) you’re both a film-buff and a true-crime nut, Chelsea & David who host this awesome podcast, not only do they dive into some truly classic films (such Amityville Horror, The Exorcist and my personal favourite 10 Rillington Place) but they also analyse the crime which inspired the film, debunking any myths, mistakes and narrative additions for dramatic licence. Check out their promo.

Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook. A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Suzie Brace, Mandi Collins, Ian Flintham, Kazzerlicious, Ferris the Frog, Nala Llabnrut, Janine Maddon, Clairelet, Stuart who left a fabulous comment on the Murder Mile blog about the Denmark Place Fire and to Gearoid Curley, who h=not only listens to the Murder Mile podcast, but came all the way for Cork to come on the Murder Mile Walk, I thank you. And Kaz Every.

And of course a quick shout-out goes to my good friend, Barry at the Extraordinary Stories Podcast; if you fancy shaking up your true-crime playlist, and adding in a big dose of myths, murders, theories and conspiracies, all of which is well-told and truly mind-bending stuff, wrap your head around the Extraordinary Stories Podcast. Available on 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 the concluding part of Canal Killer – John Sweeney. Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Sources:https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/i-lived-serial-killer-3-11327042
https://www.springfieldnewssun.com/news/crime--law/model-from-oakwood-killed-dismembered-carpenter-police-say/kwwp14YnSuUUV8CIogJtaM/
http://murderpedia.org/male.S/s/sweeney-john.htm
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-12636449
https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2011/apr/05/canal-murderer-john-sweeney-life-sentence

Sadly, as the Police investigation is still fresh, the original file won't be declassified for at least the next 50, 75 or 100 years, so this episode was based on news articles, local knowledge, first hand accounts and my own particular style of investigation, like dragging a loaded shopping trolley from Wharfdale Road to the Islington Tunnel to replicated Walsh & William's journey, pushing the trolley loaded with Sebastiano's body (I used bricks I had found), to see how long it would take and how difficult it was. And yes, it was bloody difficult.

Sounds: 
* House Keys - https://freesound.org/people/sijam11/sounds/204851/
* Unlocking Door - https://freesound.org/people/Lightnessko/sounds/390328/
* Door Open / Close - https://freesound.org/people/amholma/sounds/344360/
* Light Buzz - https://freesound.org/people/ST303/sounds/201788/
* Florescent Light On - https://freesound.org/people/duckboy80/sounds/42141/
* Sliding Doors - https://freesound.org/people/ondrosik/sounds/182722/
* Walking on Snow - https://freesound.org/people/uiti/sounds/380299/
* Window Breaking - https://freesound.org/people/m1a2t3z4/sounds/112213/
* Quiet Forrest - https://freesound.org/people/erpe/sounds/127317/
* Scream - https://freesound.org/people/esmayorga/sounds/356313/
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.

* Night II by Swelling
* A Vital Piece of Music for All by Steve Combs
* Found by NCTRNM
* Comatose by Kai Engel
* Dark Waves by Xenojam

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