Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
New Compton Street @LondonPIctureArchive
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN: On the 8th or 9th of December 1913, William & Eliza, now in their late 60s or early 70s were curled up in front of the fire in their small lodging on New Compton Street in St Giles in Holborn, London. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, and yet, one more punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. This a story about grief and how we all cope with it in our own way
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Can a broken heart ever be cured? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on New Compton Street in St Giles, WC2; one street north of the body of Norah Upchurch in the empty shop, one street west of the killing of Diego Pineiro-Villar by a Satan-loving paedophile, the same street as where Georgia Antoniou was given some ‘deadly soap’ for a backstreet abortion, and just shy of the rabid Nazi who could never fight back - coming soon to Murder Mile. New Compton Street currently connects St Giles High Street on the western side of Holborn, and now nothing, as whereas once it was a logical extension of Old Compton Street in Soho, just after Charing Cross Road, some council plonker put a massive pointless office building in its place, and that was that. Forgotten by tourists and locals alike, New Compton Street is a joyless chasm devoid of any sun, being full of council flats and the backs of office buildings, it’s where workers nip out for a crafty ciggie, the binmen divvy up their half-inched haul and where the drunks have a widdle, but no-one willingly goes. Back in the early 1900s, the same was said. Littered with factories which swathed this unlit street in a caustic blanket of choking fumes, in a basement room in an unrecorded flat, an elderly couple shared a last moment. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, but a punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 337: Everything is broken. It is said that “life is there to test you”, but whoever set the rules was clearly flawed, as some people seem to breeze through life with barely a wrinkle on their brow and their worries hardly worth a second thought, yet others like the Smith’s were undeservedly punished to live in pain and purgatory. William Smith was born on an undocumented date in the late 1840s in and around Clement St Danes, where Covent Garden sits. As the second or third son of several siblings to William James, a grocer, with his mother dying in his teens, he was never allowed to wallow in grief, as with his father having remarried a good woman, William was raised to feel loved and protected within this solid family unit. They weren’t well off, far from it. In fact, as a small market-stall holder whose seasonal products were often blighted by mites, storms, frosts, thefts, lost stock, bad handling, high seas and con merchants, when something bad blocked their way, they didn’t grumble and gripe, they adapted and coped. With William educated before the Elementary Education Act 1870 which made school compulsory for the under 10s, everything he knew he had learned from his parents who were exemplary role models. Every day, except Sunday worship, they worked from dawn till dusk, breaking their backs and never taking hand-outs. When times got tough, they didn’t steal, they diversified; the bruised stock became stews, pickles and jams; sometimes they sold loaves, knitted scarves and hats; if they had to, mum made cat meat and dad did repairs, as working together, they knew that love would see them through. William Jnr was like his dad; tall, strong, bushy bearded and barrel chested with a big heart, so when something tickled his fancy, his garrulous laugh could be heard on the next street, and when he cried, he wept buckets. Like his family, William had done everything right and he deserved to live a good life. The woman he would marry and love for the rest of his life was Elizabeth Kelly, known as Eliza. It is said, they had known each other since their earliest days being nearly neighbours, but with William being at least six or seven years her senior, they barely even acknowledged each other being children of very different ages, but in their late teens and early twenties, a romance had begun to blossom. From the start, Eliza’s life was always hard, being one of at least three daughters born into a festering family or drunks and deadbeats, pickpockets and petty criminals. For them; jail time was a way of life, everything was there to be nicked and they spent the best (and worst) part of their lives fighting. They had a reputation for dishonesty, and although they were only small-fry, they had no shame or morals. Eliza’s life could have been short and miserable, but it was her hard start which made her the woman she was; a strong-willed and formidable woman, who with ‘that’ walk and ‘that’ look, that was what William loved about her, as rejecting her old life and embracing the new, she was the family glue. William & Eliza married as soon as they could, a solid bond made by two lovers who made each other happy, who kept each other straight, and when one of them was down, they picked the other one up. Like his parents, William & Eliza ran a small market stall, side by side, always with a sense of pride in a daily grind which was barely enough to cover their costs, but it was theirs, it was hard, but it was legal. As happens to all of us, they experienced the same struggle and strife we all do, dealing with disease and death, poverty and plight, and like so many others, their desire to be a family was sadly hindered. Of those we know, their first babies never made it to full term. The first that did, a boy named William Jnr died as his lungs were too weak to breathe his first breath. The second, a girl called Eliza, made it to be a toddler until she was taken by a hacking bout of influenza. Showing their persistence, love and resilience, a third and fourth survived with these also called William Jnr and Eliza, and growing up to be healthy and strong, they were swiftly followed by another, a blossom-cheeked cherub named Jane. They never forgot their babies who never made it, and knowing they were blessed to have three who had survived, they bestowed upon them every ounce of love to ensure they lived good, happy lives… …yet, William & Eliza were about to confront of one of life’s most harrowing tests. The winter of 1878 was interminably bleak, as hours before the dawn, the Smith family left their tiny two-roomed lodging and trudged the icy cobblestoned streets to market, their woollen clothes made even heavier by the wet sludge which in turn froze, as their ladened hands burned red with chilblains. Together, William & Eliza pushed their battered old hand cart of produce while wrangling a trifecta of brats which scurried around them; William Jnr, aged about 10, had been awoken from a warm bed so was grumbling and scuffing his feet; Eliza Jnr, about 5, was naughtiness personified as she tested the boundaries of her parent’s patience; whereas Jane, who was barely 3, was asleep on her mother’s hip. It had been a hard start to the day, as with the coal wet, the kindling damp and the logs sodden, their lodging’s fire had gone out hours earlier, so no-one was in the mood to spend the next twelve hours selling their wares on a poorly populated market to earn a pittance just to survive, but they had to. That year had seen a series bad harvests owing to early frosts, soggy summers and a pinprick of sun. The usually reliable winter vegetables like carrots, turnips and potatoes looked as bruised as a boxer’s nose, many of the summer fruits like plums and gooseberries which were turned into jams had soured, with the wheat harvest bad bread was too pricey to produce except at scale, a higher sheep mortality meant less wool, and by the winter, with onions and chestnuts in excess supply, everyone was selling the same goods at a discount. Only those with overseas fruits like oranges made any actual money. Their market stall looked pitiful, hardly a radiance of nature’s bloom, so sales were sluggish. With most customers milling around the roast chestnut stall simply to keep warm, William & Eliza worked harder than usual to drum up trade, and with no money for a baby-sitter, they only had one eye on their kids. A few hours in, 5-year-old Eliza was having a tantrum, as with her brother William having slipped on a patch of ice, with a microscopic graze, he was wailing and getting the attention that his sister wanted. Father saw to son while serving a miser who was prodding the potatoes with displeasure, mother saw to daughter while reassembling the stock that the mardy little tyke had knocked over out of petulance, and as their eyes were distracted for a split second, this gave way to every parent’s worst nightmare. Eliza noticed first, seeing the little dot was missing from her side. She asked “where’s Jane?”, but she wasn’t there. William barked “Jane?!” across a sea of mingling adults, it impossible to spot their two-foot-tall daughter who could have gone in any direction. It was then that panic set in, “Jane?”, replaced by terror, “Jane?”, and as they grabbed and pulled at every child of the right height only to have their hopes dashed, “Jane?”, every second gone was another she would vanish further into the distance. A constable was called for, but what could one man do in a cross-crossing crowd of hundreds. Sobbing and frantic, by the time this family of now four were taken to Vine Street police station to make a report, valuable hours had passed, and no-one had seen three-year-old Jane, and they never would… …at least not alive. Three days later, washed-up on the half frozen shoreline of the River Thames, not far from the recently erected Cleopatra’s Needle, a tiny body was dragged from the water. It was limp and lifeless. Laid on the pavement; her once rosy skin was now a pale and sickly blue, her eyes were open but motionless, and although her doll-like frame was caked in a thick mud, it was unmistakeably her, as the sweater she was wearing had been knitted by her mother and, still attached to it, was one of the mittens. William & Eliza howled when they identified her, as with her missing there was hope, but with her body found, there was none. As an unnatural death, an autopsy was performed, and although a verdict of “accidental drowning” was listed at the inquest, several details were never explained; her clothes were torn (possibly in the fall), she had bruises and scratch marks (possibly having been rolled against the river bed as ships passed over), and what was said to be “a faint ligature mark” around her neck, it couldn’t be ruled out that the body had got caught in river’s detritus like old ropes and fishing nets. The case was closed and in a small grave paid for by the heartbroken locals, her body was buried. As the small plain box was lowered, Eliza wept as a very literal piece of herself had died, and her children clung to her hips having blamed themselves for the family tragedy, but William was unusually quiet. The death of their youngest posed so many questions, but it left so few answers. Always a fighter and the family glue, Eliza gave herself a gap to grieve, but with two youngsters who needed her more than ever, she brought their lives back to the familiar warmth of normality as fast as she could to ensure they lived the life that Jane never would - she had to live, so they could live. But William was broken, in his heart, in his mind, and in his soul. The big-hearted barrel-chested bellow laughing man was gone, replaced by a lolloping lump who couldn’t function. When he laid in bed, all he did was cry. When they sat at the dinner table, all he did was stare at her empty seat. And unable to return to the market stall, Eliza tried to run their business alone, as all he did was sit and wallow. Everyone deals with grief in different ways; some cry, some shout, some lash-out, some like Eliza use their pain to rebuild the shattered fragments of their lives, and whereas others, like William, collapse. He was going through what we know to be the seven stages of grief; shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. The numbness had hit them both hard, an intolerable pain which left her with an empty void, but him frozen like every ounce of his being had been ripped out whole. Next came the blame. He blamed himself, cursing himself for being a bad parent and scolding his total failure for not keeping an eye on his child every second of every day that she was alive, especially then. Then he blamed Eliza his wife, as Jane was barely a foot from her side when she vanished, so why didn’t she grab her, why didn’t she stop her, and why didn’t she see whoever had taken their baby? Then he blamed the children, uncharacteristically chastising them both for their innocent acts, such as William Jnr slipping on the ice and Eliza’s tantrum which distracted both parents for a brief second. And as he shouted, they cried, but the moment he saw sense, he wept a heartfelt apology as they all knew it wasn’t true. Then, he blamed everything else; the market, the street, the weather, the harvest, the fruit, the icy cobbles, the wet coal on the fire, the bad sleep they’d had the night before, and then God. As a devout Christian, how could God be benevolent yet let his daughter die? If he had been so faithful, why was God punishing them? And if – as his priest pleaded – if everything was part of God’s big plan, why did he decide to test of his faith by letting his baby possibly be murdered by bad men? What kind of a God would do that? William was angry, and he needed someone to blame, as this didn’t just happen by accident. With the case closed, the Police wouldn’t be investigating further, but something didn’t sit right. They said there was no hint of any foul play, no suspicion that she had been taken, and no suspects to lay the blame on, but how did this three-year-old girl make it two miles south to the river by herself? Jane hadn’t wondered away by herself, she never would, as wherever they went, she either held his hand tight, clung to her mother’s hip or was carried. She never ran away, was never out of their sight, and would happily play by their sides, rarely distracted by the sights and sounds of the bustling city. No-one was arrested, no-one was suspected, and having heard that several children had gone missing recently, why wasn’t Jane’s disappearance being linked to those, as surely they were connected? William’s decline began simply enough, as whenever William (who Eliza had lured back to the market to work) served a man whether he knew him or not, William always seemed to be eyeing them up as if this was the filthy beast who – he believed – had kidnapped Jane, all those weeks before. It wasn’t, but for as long as he didn’t sleep or breathe, he believed someone had done this, and they would pay. Everyone in his eyes was a suspect; whether a friend, a neighbour, a customer or a stranger. Although many knew he was struggling, he said too many unpleasant things and lost some of his closest pals. He accused random men of being responsible, many of whom wouldn’t and couldn’t have done it. He would scour the newspapers looking for any cases or suspects who were (even fleetingly) similar. And having begun to drink heavily, several pubs he was barred from and he often returned home bruised. He couldn’t let go, he wouldn’t let go, for Jane’s sake, as someone had to be blamed for her murder, even though it was never proven to be a murder, and the only person who thought it was, was William. With no suspects, as often happens, when the locals gossiped, William listened. One name which kept cropping up was ‘Odd Fred’; a sinister weirdo and a dirty vagrant who was blamed for everything just because he didn’t fit in; he was homeless, disfigured, he limped, he never blinked, and if he did speak, he left unnaturally long gaps after every other word. He had been blamed for every theft or assault since the dawn of time; whether stolen washing, a dead cat, or off milk, but never proven to be guilty. The Police refused to arrest ‘Odd Fred’ with no evidence except William’s suspicions, so having plucked up enough courage to confront this former war-veteran who was struggling himself, after too many pints, William (a usually placid man with no ill will against anyone) landed his fist in ‘Odd Fred’s face. Arrested on the charge of assault, it was only then that William realised how far he had sunk, a good and moral man having descended to the gutter as an angry paranoid drunk with a criminal conviction. That should have been his wake up call, but months later, he was still gripped by grief’s seven stages… …and next was depression. Over these months and years, the tall, strong, bushy bearded and barrel chested man with a big heart was gone. He spoke rarely and smiled never, as he was ashamed at his failure; as a father (whose own children, now in their teens, had become distant), as a husband (unable to provide, as he should, for his wife), and as a businessman (as lacking drive, Eliza, as the backbone and the glue, stopped the total collapse of this family which risked them all being sent to the workhouse, where they would be split). In the late 1880s, a decade after Jane’s death, William, now in late 40s or early 50s, had ploughed on with the vagaries of a working class life guided by Eliza who never left his side. Like an automaton, he worked, he washed, he lived and existed, but becoming ever sicker and weaker, shedding weight and with his skin hanging off his bones like the soggy woollen sweater which sagged from Jane’s corpse, it was clear that his body was going through the motions, but his mind was elsewhere, and far away. One bitter winter’s evening, with William & Eliza now greying and wrinkled, their children long having since left, as Eliza made dinner, William wheeled their hand cart into their cellar, and a while later, that’s where she found him, slumped on the floor by a box of mouldy potatoes; in one hand, a rope, in the other, Jane’s mitten, in his eyes a bursting levy of tears, and even though his failed attempt was a travesty against his God, his morals and would have made Eliza a widow, with an unbearable pain in his heart, he cried out “everything is broken”. All he wanted to do was die, but for wife, he couldn’t. From the late 1880s to the mid-1890s, William was a frequent visitor, voluntary, at the local asylums. They gave him a chance to breathe, to speak and be listened to, but it was Eliza who repaired his heart. Nearing the end of the century, with an aged (and equally grief stricken) Queen Victoria in her final years, this couple who had been married for thirty-plus years learned to live again, love again, and to grieve together. They rebuilt their stall, a smaller version, just a few yards from where their whole life had collapsed, every day as they passed the wall where Jane was last seen, they would both plant a little kiss, and on the anniversary of her disappearance, they’d lay a flower and say a player, together. The man he once was would never return, but the man he was now was okay for Eliza. Neither could repair the pain they would feel, but together, they learned to live again. Occasionally he smiled a little, and once he even laughed, well almost. But it was no longer about his personal pain, it was their pain and their sorrow, so together they cried and commiserated, but for the rest of their days, they lived. As familiar faces in this part of town, as they approached their sixties, William & Eliza Smith would be seen together, walking the same streets, seeing the same people, and holding each other’s hand. It was sweet, but perhaps still traumatised by Jane’s disappearance, were they too afraid to let go? It had been a tragedy which had broken them, but slowly, they were on the mend… …only their tragedy was far from over. In 1903, William Jnr, a bearded, barrel-chested doppelganger of the man his dad once was, was struck by an omnibus as he crossed the street, and he died of his injuries several days later. He never spoke of his sister, or how he had blamed himself for her disappearance, and being described as ‘distracted’, his death was ruled as an ‘accident’, but local gossips wondered if it was a suicide, or a coincidence. Eliza Jnr, hadn’t found a career as her brother had, instead she found solace in drunk, drugs, and some said prostitution. Where she ended up is uncertain, as having fallen in with a bad crowd, once in every blue moon William & Eliza thought they recognised a ragged and huddled mass begging for change on the street, but as they approached her, she fled into the night, never seen or heard from again. (End) By the winter of 1913, now in their mid-to-late 60s, William & Eliza were seeing out their final days in a basement room in a cheap but unrecorded lodging house on New Compton Street, the air thick with the caustic whiff of tanneries, and their sleep often sullied by the nightly thrum of hard machinery. As a small, basic room, they had a horsehair bed, two armchairs, a washstand, a log fire for warmth, and on the mantlepiece were reminders of their children, at least four or possibly five who had died. On maybe the 8th or 9th of December 1913, William & Eliza were sat in front of a fire in their armchairs, side-by-side, their hands touching as always. For long hours they sat, as with William’s body ravaged by chronic arthritis, he was too weak to totter to their bed and struggled to breathe when he lay down, and with Eliza unsteady on her feet, and just getting over the flu, the two spent their nights there. Their life had been an unbearable tragedy which had tested every ounce of their love and strength, and yet, one more punishment was yet to come for this couple who deserved to die a dignified death. Their last moment came as William slept. With Eliza still coughing, but not wanting to wake him, it was said, as she got up to fetch a jug of water, her legs buckled, she stumbled, she fell, she hit her head on the mantlepiece, and knocked out cold, she fell into the fire, and began to burn; everything was alight, her nightdress, her hair, her skin, and without her to help him up, all William could do was sit and see. Later alerted to the smoke, also the smell, when the door was broken down and the fire extinguished, both William & Eliza were found dead. Eliza was barely recognisable, a half-burned and blackened shadow of the strong woman she once was, it unlikely she knew she was on fire as he skull was been broken by the impact. As for William, somehow he had found the strength to get up, unaided, he had fallen to his feet, and having crawled across the cold floor to reach the woman he loved, he knew he couldn’t save her, but he knew where he had to be, by her side - it was said he died holding her hand. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
0 Comments
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EP336: STRANGE LAST DAYS: Wednesday 10th of April 1940 at 10.15am, Alfred Scott, a surveyor for Bates & Co, an estate agents in Kilburn entered 21 Brondesbury Villas, to check that the premises was empty. Inside, he found that the first floor flat had been ransacked, two bags (a Gladstone and an attache case) had been searched for a specific item, and the tenant, 60-year-old Karoline Jones had been murdered. But what were they looking for?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Did the killer of Karoline Jones leave a clue to their identity by her body? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Brondesbury Villas in Kilburn, NW6; three roads south of Jemma Mitchell and the grisly suitcase of death, four roads north-west of Michael Dowdall the sadistic little drummer boy, four streets west of the ill-fated first assassination of the so-called professional terrorist ‘Carlos the Jackal’, and two street east of the fat dog who ate all the diamonds - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just off the busy Kilburn High Road sits 21 Brondesbury Villas, a white flat-fronted semi-detached late Victorian townhouse on a quiet residential street dotted with an occasional tree, but no signs of life. Unlike the other houses, its door isn’t bedecked with pretentious doric columns, but all built identical, every floor is slightly off; as with a set of steps taking you up to the ground floor, the bottom floor isn’t below the earth but half-way up, giving its occupants a brief hint of light once a day, a stunning view of dog plops on the pavement, but mostly the right to call their grotty basement flat ‘lower ground’ rather than the dungeon, the hell hole, the damp bit, the closet, or where dad stashed his jazz mags. Back in 1940, this house was subdivided into four flats; a couple in the basement, a family above them, a lodger on the top floor, and in the first floor maisonette, a woman whose life (as a refugee, a widow, a mother, a loner, a recently released prisoner and a career criminal) was as mysterious as her death. Little is known about the motive for her murder, but with her last days alive well-recorded and a crime scene littered with evidence, the question we must ask is ‘did her killer leave a clue to his identity’? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 336: Strange Last Days. The date was Wednesday 10th of April 1940, seven months after the start of World War Two and five months before the dreaded Blitz bombings which decimated the city causing two mass evacuations. As the Nazi hoards crept ever closer to our borders, with trepidation, life in the city moved on for now. The time was 10.15am, when Alfred Scott, a surveyor for Bates & Co, an estate agents in Kilburn, rang the bell to the communal door at 21 Brondesbury Villas, but no-one was in, as everyone was at work. On behalf of the landlord, three flats had been rented out; James & Saskia Gouldsborough lived in the basement, his father Henry, mother Jane and sister Jane Jnr on the ground, and with a maisonette on the first and second, the attic had been sublet to Dutch national John van Geersdaele, but he had moved out a month prior, and with 60-year-old German widow Karoline Jones believed to have left with £20 rent owing, about £1500 today, as was her habit, Alfred was here to check that she had gone. Unlocking the communal door, he rose up the stairs, and on the first floor, he unlocked the maisonette door. There were four keys; one which John van Geersdaele had returned to the estate agent when he left, the spare key which Alfred was using, and two still held by Karoline and her son, Frederick. Upon entry, nothing aroused his suspicion, as all except for the fan-light above the door, every window was fastened, but there was clear evidence that she hadn’t been there for a while, but she hadn’t left. The flat had four rooms; a lavatory which was empty, a kitchenette which had a slice of stale bread on the side and a stack of dirty dishes as the mains water had been off for a month, and two bedrooms. The front bedroom was empty; the bedsheets were messy but it hadn’t been slept in for months; in the wardrobe was a man’s Fedora hat, an ash walking stick and a broken tennis racket, later confirmed to belong to Frederick, Karoline’s son whose room this was, and on the dressing table, a wireless radio, a penknife and a set of keys which fitted the maisonette’s Yale lock, as previously owned by Frederick. At that point, Alfred, the surveyor for Bates & Co had just one thought on his mind, how to evict them, as with no hint of foul play, yes the flat was messy, but what did he expect from a tenant like Karoline? It was then, with a shiver down his spine, that he stopped just shy of her bedroom door. It was open. Having inspected the premises before, he knew it was never open, as being a cautious and paranoid woman given her past, a key had been inserted into the padlock from the outside, but before it was turned, the door had been forced, the wood had splintered and the padlock scattered. As an ex-copper and coroner’s officer, Alfred knew to touch nothing, so he let his eyes scan the room before he ventured further. With the room made dark as the windows were covered in blackout paper, he could see that the drawers of the dressing table were open and empty, but around it, women’s clothes were scattered; a blue and white jumper, a blue nightdress and three cotton handkerchiefs. When the room was searched, not a note or coin was found, but given how broke Karoline said she was, it was uncertain how much she had. As for her jewellery - two 18 carat gold wedding bands, one with a diamond and one with a ruby, a gold watch, a four-pearl brooch and a gold slave bangle – all were missing but as she was living off benefits and sleeping in hostels, it’s uncertain if she’d sold them. Further in, it was clear that a certain someone who had broken in was looking for something specific. Perched on an armchair, her brown attaché case containing her bills, letters and court summons had been searched, but not finding what they sought, they had grabbed her black Gladstone bag. With it locked, they frantically cut away the clasps using a small penknife and desperate to find that one thing, they scattered its contents across the floor, sweeping everything aside which wasn’t that one thing. Inside was toiletries, calling cards, her diary (mostly lists of lodging houses, estate agents and rooms to let), and scraps of paper on which she had scrawled the names and addresses of those she had met, but they had left behind items of significant value; her passport, a national war savings certificate, her ration books and three savings books for the Post Office, Abbey Road Building Society and Lloyds Bank. Whatever they were looking for, it’s unlikely they found it, as Karoline had paid the ultimate price. The first thing that hit Alfred was the smell, a sulphurous stench of a body in active decay. Flies buzzed as the skin slipped and maggots squirmed among the soft dark flesh, as with the body having bloated and then ruptured, it leaked a vile dribble of foul fluids out of each orifice, off the bed and on the floor. And although her putrefied corpse was too horrific to look at, her death was cruel and unnatural. She was lying on her back, diagonally across the bed, her legs hanging limply over the side. Except for her flowerpot hat which lay by the door, her black leather shoes which had fallen off in the attack, and her gas mask case and string shopping bag which was still attached to her wrist having just come in, she was dressed in the clothes she was wearing 21 days before, yet her only injury was a bloody nose. With no defensive wounds and no sign of a struggle, to restrain her, her assailant had ripped up her table cloth into strips, her wrists and ankles had been bound to the iron frame of the bed, her mouth had been gagged with a red woollen scarf, and with her unconscious having been punched in the face, her overcoat and her skirt had been raised up to the height of her hips leaving her underwear exposed. But why? Examined at Kilburn mortuary, the Home Office pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury confirmed that she had no other injuries, that her cause of death was suffocation caused by the pillow found by her head, that this was a wilful murder, and although it looked as if she had been raped or molested, she hadn’t. So, who had murdered Karoline Jones, and why? Karoline Getta Jones was born Karoline Ledermann on the 4th of March 1880 in Kleinwallstadt, a small town in Bavaria, Germany. Little is known of her early life; except she first married aged 20 in 1900 to an unnamed German Jew, in 1908 they had a son called Frederick, separating in 1909, she bigamously married again but was widowed by 1918, and then marrying Corporal John Howell Jones of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps in 1920, by 1930, the same year she became a British Citizen, she was widowed. Her life could have been worse, as being a German Jew, by 1933 when the Nazi’s had come to power, she was living freely in London far from the horrors of the holocaust, but her life wouldn’t be without hardship, hence she was infamously known to be gruff, foul-mouthed, unpleasant, and a habitual liar. Across her final decade, she amassed five criminal convictions which sum up her life’s sad decline. In 1935, at Clerkenwell, with her flat being raided by the Police, she was fined £20 for running a brothel in Bloomsbury, and was described as “quarrelsome and disgusting”. By 1937, having been evicted by her landlady for living in a squalid filthy lodging in Stoke Newington, she was convicted twice in Soho and Marylebone for stealing a brooch, a tin of fruit and a box of face powder, and clearly struggling. By 1938, living in King’s Cross, she fled her lodging leaving £6 in back rent, which she often did, and it led to the landlord sending in the bailiffs to track her down to issue a county court writ against her. Three months later, she was sentenced to six months in prison for assault, a familiar trait for Karoline. With no friends and very little family as she persistently rubbed others up the wrong way, she lived by her wits on the bread line of poverty, and with very little to call her own, wherever she went, she hid her most precious items in specially sewn pockets she had stitched into her knickers and stockings. With her son, Frederick married but a Jew who was stuck in Nazi Germany, soaking her crumpled and worn clothes with a river of tears, she told anyone who would listen that she had £2600 (£168,000 today) to smuggle him out of the country, yet as a refugee, he arrived thanks to a charity in September. On the 10th of October 1938, at Bates & Co, the estate agents on Kilburn High Road, she rented a two-roomed maisonette at 21 Brondesbury Villas for herself and her son. It was cheap, squalid, as always she repeatedly reneged on her rent leaving a litany of excuses, and she was not liked by the tenants. In the basement, James & Saskia Gouldsborough said she was rude, abusive, stole their milk, letters and deliberately banged the doors at night keeping the children awake. Henry & Jane on the ground floor told Police that Karoline regularly fought with her son, he was seen with a black eye, she punched her sister and broke her brother-in-law’s nose as the two stayed with her before these refugees fled to Palestine. And John van Geersdaele, her lodger left, as he suspected that her flat was now a brothel. On the 14th of October 1939 at Marlborough Street Police Court, Karoline was sentenced to six months hard labour for stealing a hat from Selfridges department store on Oxford Street. Serving her time at HMP Holloway before being transferred to HMP Aylesbury, she was disliked by prisoners and officers alike; she was described as filthy, surly and obnoxious, she was repeatedly beaten up by fellow inmates and continually bragged about how she had a beautiful home in Kilburn, and was wealthy with £2600. And that’s what made her murder impossible to solve, as she lied, and she wasn’t liked. So, who had murdered her; a friend, a relative, a potential rapist, a spectre from her past, or a complete stranger? The strange last days of Karoline Jones began on Friday 15th of March 1940, 15 days before her death. 11 days before, she had spent her 60th birthday in prison, and by the time she was released, there was no-one there to greet her as her son had left having enlisted in the Auxiliary Military Pioneer Corps. That day, Karoline caught a train from Aylesbury to Baker Street, and unwilling or unable to return to her flat at Brondesbury Villas, she met an adjutant of the Salvation Army and she asked to be housed in a homeless hostel. She went home, she packed her bags, but for whatever reason, she never arrived. She did the same over the next two weeks; she pleaded for a free bed at the Salvation Army hostel, but failed to show up, she instead she paid 22 shillings (£40) to kip for a week at the YMCA; she claimed to be destitute and seeking a hand-out from the British Legion appearing “distressed, hysterical” and some said mentally “unbalanced”, but was she afraid of the streets, her flat, or someone she knew? With her lodger and son having moved out, she couldn’t afford her flat, not that it stopped her before. From her ripped open Gladstone bag, scattered across the floor beside her body, Police found business cards and scraps of paper bearing the names and addresses of places she had applied for jobs to; The School of Cookery in Maida Vale, Kosie-Knitwear in Soho and the Women's Voluntary Services for Civil Defence, and pleading that she was a refugee (which she wasn’t), a widow (which she was, thrice over) and homeless (which technically she wasn’t), many employers pitied her, and gave her a hot meal. In her possession, she had both sets of keys to the flat having refused to give them back, and with a bucket of hutzpah, even though she owed £20 back rent, on the 21st of March, 9 days before her death, she went to Bates & Co, the estate agents on Kilburn High Road and insisted they reconnect her water. But she wasn’t exactly broke. Three days prior, at Abbey Road Building Society, she claimed that while in prison someone had withdrawn £10, 7s and 3d from her account (which couldn’t be proven), that same day she made some small withdrawals totalling about £13, and at the Unemployment Assistance Board in Park Royal, her benefits were denied as she had “too much money”; she had 1s at the Co-op, £2 at Lloyds, £19 at the Post Office, £400 in National Savings Certificates, and with shares from her three dead husbands, she was sitting on a fortune of £2833 (£202,000) - more than she had lied about. She never wore her wealth and she never spent it, but some kind of plan was clearly brewing. Of the many names and diary entries found at the crime scene, one was to rent a room at 54 Shirland Road in Paddington. After much back-and-forth, on 22nd of March, Karoline agreed to move in, she paid 15 shillings deposit, then said it would only be used for storage and instead she slept at the hostel. Of the houses she looked at on Cleveland Gardens, Connaught Street, Sussex Gardens, Star Street and Princes Terrace, all had previously been brothels, all required a £2000 deposit to rent, and she even went as far as find a disreputable man to go into business with her, but that opportunity collapsed. It’s uncertain if this 60-year-old widow - described as filthy, uncouth and foul - was working as a sex worker as her lodger claimed, but although she had remained single since she was widowed, she often received two constant visitors to 21 Brondesbury Villas; one aged 40 to 45, 5 foot 10, slim and wearing a taxi driver's cap, and another, 30-ish, 5 foot 6, stout with greasy hair. But none were ever identified. And, as was typical of Karoline Jones, she also randomly assaulted strangers with no rhyme nor reason. On Saturday 23rd of March 1940, one week before her death, outside of 19 Brondesbury Villas next door, she asked a furniture removals man for his card and requested a quote, but she never called him. And across the next five days, nothing is known about where she went or what she did, until this. On Friday the 29th of March, the day before her death, she applied to be a maid at house in Kensington. Unable to stand for long or move quickly owing to a recent knee operation, she didn’t get the job, but claiming to be destitute, she made a big impression on the housekeeper who noticed her jewellery; two 18 carat gold bands with a diamond and a ruby, a gold watch, a pearl brooch and a gold bangle. Hearing of Karoline’s plight, the housekeeper suggested that maybe she should sell her jewellery, but Karoline said she couldn’t as they were “of great sentimental value”. Descriptions of every piece was circulated to every pawnbroker and jeweller across London, but not a single item was ever found… …which brings us to Saturday 30th of March 1940, her last day alive. There were only two sightings of her; at 1:30pm when she left 21 Brondesbury Villas carrying her black Gladstone bag and wearing the clothes she would die in, and at 5pm, when the housekeeper from the day before spotted her looking in a window of an antique dealers in Kensington. Where she went after that, who she met, what she did, and who she returned back to her flat with remains unknown. Alerted by Alfred Scott, the surveyor for Bates & Co, on Wednesday 10th of April 1940, officers arrived at 10:35am, and Police Surgeon Dr John Tweddle determined she had been dead for 21 days. On the bed, her body lay with no defensive wounds or struggle, just a single punch to the face and she was suffocated using a pillow. She had been restrained by her ankles and wrists using ripped strips of tablecloth so her legs and arms were splayed, and gagged with her scarf, she was silent and immobile, as her killer had pulled her skirt up to her hips, her knickers exposed, but there was no sexual assault. Clearly, the killer had a deep hatred for her, but what was his motive; a rape, a robbery, or a murder? With no witnesses to anyone entering or exiting the premises during the time of her death, detectives theorised she had either invited back someone she knew, or if she was still a sex worker, a customer. But given the fact that she had little family and almost no friends being abrasive and foul, we know it wasn’t her sister or brother-in-law as they were in Palestine, or her son as he was serving in France. There were four sets of keys to the flat; Karoline’s which was found in the padlock, her son Frederick’s on his dressing table, two with the estate agent, one of which was used by Alfred Scott, and no others. Every current tenant and prior resident of the house was questioned and with a recurring theme that nobody liked her, none of them disliked her enough to kill her and they all had a solid alibi to prove it. With no scuff marks, cuts or abrasions, she had willingly ascended the stairs with her killer, although what her intention was is unknown, as (desperate to move out) the flat was empty, except for a few clothes (which weren’t hers), a radio, a penknife, and some slices of stale bread. But it was as she bent over to unlock her bedroom door that they struck, splintering the door before the lock was removed. Based on the marks, she was dragged to the bed, likely punched in the face as she screamed, but the blood found on the sheets and underneath the restraints show she had lain unconscious as her killer ransacked her room. First was the drawers, but what was in it we don’t know, as having been in prison for six months, many of her few belongings were at the hostel, or in the Gladstone bag she carried in. The brown attaché case was only lightly searched and given up just as quick. Next was the Gladstone bag, whose contents (business cards, letters, bank books, a diary, and scraps of paper with the details of those she’d met) scattered far and wide, so was the killer searching for a something which identified them? If so, why risk being seen on the tube, in the street, or entering the house with her, when all day she was carrying the Gladstone bag. Why do it unless their motive was something more sinister? Coming to, it’s likely that she was then bound and gagged before she struggled and screamed, giving her assailant time to search the flat. It’s likely but unprovable that they took every note or coin found, and with her jewellery being too precious to sell, it was stripped from her. And although police found two sets of fingerprints inside the flat, they both belonged to Karoline and her son, and no-one else. It was clear that a certain someone who had broken in was looking for something specific. But what did they want from her? Her wealth? Unlikely, as her jewellery had more of a personal value than a monetary one. A hostel warden recalled she had £10 in cash in her purse, about £300 today. And with only £20 in her bank account, her fortune of £2833 (or £202,000) was in National Savings Certificates and shares, which could only be accessed with a will, a next of kin and a solicitor. But had they heard she had £2600 and assumed it was in cash? If not that, what did they want from her? Sex? She was a prostitute and brothel keeper. Detectives thought not. It had the hallmarks of a rape as she was physically assaulted, knocked cold, tied by her hands and feet to the bed, and with her coat and skirt rucked up around her hips, someone wanted to see around her genitals, but with no semen, no penetration, and her underwear having not been removed, there was only one possible thing they were looking for – something she valued most. Karoline Jones had lived through hardship, poverty, homelessness, abandonment and grief. Across her 60-years of life, she had fled wars and persecution, and every time she moved from place to place, she always carried with her everything she held dear; her jewellery on her fingers, her business affairs in an attaché case and her daily essentials in a Gladstone bag, but the most precious thing in her whole life, she had hid in a series of specially sewn pockets she had stitched inside her knickers and stockings. She told many about the £2600 she had, but being a filthy, foul and poorly dressed woman who lived off handouts and slept in homeless hostels, as a inveterate liar, it’s unlikely anyone believed her. But this was the thing she cherish so much that at all times she kept it close to her skin, this was her secret. So, did she tell someone, did they find out, and if so, who were they? (End) It wasn’t a friend or family member, it wasn’t a punter or prozzie in the sex trade, it wasn’t someone she had stiffed on a business deal or an opportunist thief who thought this frail lady was an easy mark. In fact, it was someone who had hated her since the day they met, and most likely, it wasn’t a man. On the 14th of October 1939, having stolen a hat from Selfridges, Karoline was sentenced to six months which she served at female-only prisons, HMP Holloway and then HMP Aylesbury. Inside, Karoline was hated by prisoners and staff alike, she was rude, obnoxious, surly, and on several occasions in the yard, she was attacked by a specific prisoner who truly hated her, a 27-year-old woman (her name redacted) with a rap-sheet for drunkenness, larceny and procuring an abortion, as well as violence and assault. Karoline was the target of her venom for months, and then it stopped, and she became Karoline’s pal. She later denied this, but other prisoners said she was. She denied knowing where Karoline lived, but the other women said they too had been invited to stay. She denied being told about the £2600 that Karoline often blabbed about to anyone who would listen, and others said many didn’t believe it. But what of her secret, the one thing, so precious that it was stitched into secret pockets in her knickers? She told no-one about that ever. But upon her reception at HMP Aylesbury, as was standard, she was stripped of her own clothes, given prison overalls, and her personal affects were searched and listed. Every pocket was checked for weapons and contraband, especially any covert pouches in her pants. She had no reason to tell anyone, but one of the wardens will have known, and they all hated her. When interviewed, the unnamed prisoner denied being in Kilburn, hating her or meeting Karoline after her release, and when she was told of her murder, detectives said “she seemed genuinely surprised”. With no evidence against her, she wasn’t charged or questioned further. But is this what happened? The Strange Last Days of Karoline Jones remains unsolved, but of the scattered clues in her room, did her killer find the one detail which may have convicted them, and was this robbery worth her murder? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
Paizan's shipping container on Everett Road, NW10 @Googlemaps2026 Aug2016
EP335: PAIZAN: THE JIGSAW KILLER: On Sunday 9th of May 2021 at 11:47am, 20-year-old Agnes Akom entered a shipping container on Everett Road in Powergate Business Park with 64-year-old Neculai Paizan, a cement mixer driver she had known for 18 months. CCTV cameras caught her walking in. but she never came out. So where did her body go? This episode explores the investigation by the Police which began as a missing persons, and ended in a brutal homicide.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How do you prove a murder when the body is missing, and in pieces? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on North Acton Road in Park Royal, NW10; five roads west of Patrick MacKay’s birth place, four roads south of the Grey Man’s final victim, a short walk from the suitcase of Marta Ligman’s body, and three streets north of the last gasp of the big teaser - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 63 North Acton Road is Lennox Autos, a car showroom on the Powergate Business Park. On the forecourt stands a line of gleaming cars waxed to a mirror shine, valeted so not a dust speck exists and with stickers hailing their great prices and low milage, its mostly male customers pretend they know what they’re doing by kicking the tyres, tutting at the exhaust and revving the engine and exclaiming “that’s fine” as if they’re sampling a fine wine, when all they want to know is “will it get me laid?”. Just to the side sits an alley, well it’s more of a dead-end, and lined with second hand cars, industrial units, piles of scrap metal, and a battered old shipping container converted into a makeshift flat which the defendant, Neculai Paizan called home. On Sunday the 9th of May 2021, just shy of noon, his friend, Agnes Akom arrived with him, she willingly walked into the shipping container, and never walked out. It was a disappearance without a witness, a killing without a motive, and a murder initially without a body. Agnes could have vanished forever, never to be found. Yet, in what began as a missing person’s case, the investigation would unravel a spider’s web of deceit and lies until the killer was caught. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 335: Paizan: The Jigsaw Killer. On Wednesday 6th of July 2022 in Court 8 of the Old Bailey, 64-year-old Neculai Paizan pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murdering 20-year-old Agnes Akom, but admitted to the lesser charge of moving her body. Before the jury and Judge Richard Marks QC, his words were translated by a Romanian interpreter. Paizan stated that as Agnes sat on his bed: "she was doing something on her phone. I started to feel a bit unwell, my mouth was dry, and I was not feeling right. I realised that I had been poisoned, drugged. I believe it was from the iced coffee, she drank some of it and then she handed it to me and said 'you drink it, I've had enough'". Feeling ‘a wave of darkness’ sweep over him, and plagued by amnesia, he collapsed, and when he regained consciousness, he said “Agnes was pushing something into my mouth, and because of the pain, instinctively I pushed her away and two of my front teeth broke". He would claim that Agnes had drugged him, that she had tried to kill him, that the violence he used against her was in self-defence, and that her attack on him had caused his memory loss so he couldn’t recall her death. Admitting to her unlawful burial, he stated "I realised there was no life left in her, the poor little thing. I was in such a state of panic. I didn’t know what to do ", so rather than call the Police because “they would not believe me… I tried to take her to the park, and put her in a good place”. Agnes was dead, Paizan said he had Amnesia, and with no-one to independently verify what happened inside of the shipping container, the only witness to Agnes Akom’s murder was the evidence itself. But how could a murder be proven? Agnes Akom, who her friends knew as ‘Dora’ was born in 2001 in Hungary, being raised by her mother, Agnes, who she was named after. Little was reported of her early life; her family, her education, her hopes and dreams, but with Hungary having joined the European Union in 2004, as many of her fellow countrymen and women did, in 2018 when she was just 17, she came to Britain seeking “a better life”. It was the last time she saw her mother, as well as almost everyone she had ever loved or cared for. Like many, she imagined that the streets of London would be paved with golden opportunities, but as she and her partner, Peter Lenart would learn, life in this new world would be a real struggle, as being teenagers themselves in one of Europe’s most expensive cities; it was hard to earn a good wage and impossible to pay for the basics, especially as they were still youngsters who together had baby son. Facing so many hardships, even though Agnes earned a living as a coffin-maker, a valuable trade she had learned in her homeland, being barely able to stay afloat, Social Services had taken their son into foster care, and that at the time she would disappear, Peter & Agnes were half way through writing a letter to their son, so that when he was old enough to read it, he could understand that he hadn’t been abandoned. But as Peter would state, "how am I supposed to finish that letter without her?". With many friends who tried to help her, she stayed within the safety of other Eastern Europeans; one of whom she was close to, was a man she had known for just 18 months having met in Christmas 2020. They seemed like an odd pairing. Agnes was a 20-year-old woman with girlish ways, and typical of many ‘Gen Z’ or ‘Zoomers’, being obsessed with social media, she posted selfies of herself living a fake version of “her best life” for a wealth of strangers to ‘like’, her clothes were deliberately stylish (last seen wearing a white fake fur coat, blue ripped jeans and pink trainers), and being petite, 5 foot 5 and 8 and a ½ stone with bleached platinum blonde hair, she stood out next to 64-year-old Neculai Paizan. Paizan was large, fat and bald, like Uncle Fester in the Addam’s Family. After decades working in the construction trade, he always dressed practically, he lived cheaply being a father-of-four, and although his crown of white hair and short white beard gave him a grandfatherly quality, he had the rough callused hands of a manual labourer, and the hard scowl of someone who may have had a dark past, yet, the only crimes he was convicted of in the UK was benefit fraud, speeding and carrying a knife. One notably odd detail about Paizan’s life was where he lived. As a qualified cement mixer driver who was known on almost every industrial estate in West London, he earned around £30,000 a year, and owned a £700,000 former mansion flat at Campden House on Peel Street in Holland Park, a well-to-do area. But he didn’t live there, instead he rented it out, and since at least 2008, he had lived off-grid. Back then, his ‘home’ was The Cabin, a storage facility on the Harp View Business Park, surrounded by skips, industrial units and waste disposal sights, just off the busy A406 North Circular Road and the Brent Reservoir. It’s a place where no-one would willingly live, unless they were homeless, yet he did. 13 years later, in 2021, he was living in a battered old shipping container on the Powergate Business Park next door to Lennox Autos. Surrounded by a scrap metal and second hand cars, anyone passing would assume it was a place to store tools, not a home, as made of a durable weathering steel, this gloomy grey box was just 20 foot long by 8 foot wide and 8 and a 1/2 foot high but modified to live in. It had a small bed with dirty pink sheets, an oil-filled radiator for warmth, a gas powered hob, and a sink, but with no running water he used the tap at the showroom. It was cramped, grimy, the shelves were held up by wooden joists, bare electrics hung from the ceiling with some secured by electrical tape, and with no window, the only fresh air was provided when the padlocked steel door was opened. So, why did Paizan invite Agnes there, and why did she willingly enter? Their relationship was odd, and one that only they know the truth of. In court, Paizan claimed he met her having found her begging for change in a supermarket car park, but this cannot be proven. He said she regularly harassed him for money for drugs in return for sex, which Peter refuted: “Paizan said Agnes slept with 15 or 20 people a day… she did not do these things. He preyed on her vulnerabilities and knew it”, but having met 54 times over the last 12 months, photos taken by Paizan proved that she regularly danced semi-naked for him, in a relationship he said was ‘intimate’. He said he called her "princess”, “little angel” and “sparrow", and loving her “like a daughter, she also called him "grandpa". That was their secret world which occurred in the private confines of the shipping container. Sunday 9th of May 2021 was Agnes’ last day alive, and like many, it seemed unremarkable. At 10:40am, her partner, Peter confirmed she left their Cricklewood bedsit, she kissed him goodbye and said she was heading to her job as a coffin maker. Only she didn’t. Across this 8 minute walk, being easy to spot in her white fake fur coat, blue jeans and pink shoes, she entered Costa Coffee at 173 Cricklewood Broadway and used her bank card to order an iced latte - the one he claimed was used to poison him. CCTV captured this at 10:48am, and as she sat by the window, she waited and messaged two men; one was Attila Molna-Feri, her boss who (the Daily Record states) was an in an "intimate relationship” with and she ordered an Uber to go to his home in Wembley. The other was Paizan, who she messaged between 10:18am and 10:52am, and with him owing her £20, she fatefully cancelled the Uber when Paizan arrived in his silver Dacia Sandero. There they sat, chatted, and at 11:30am, she left with him. They didn’t argue or fight, they drove the 3.8 miles to Park Royal, and as Prosecutor Jacob Hallam told the jury “at 11:47am, the defendant (Neculai Paizan) and Miss Akom got out of the car, and walked around to the service yard at the side of Lennox Autos”. As seen on several CCTV cameras, she was chatting, drinking her iced latte, and as Paizan unlocked the steel door to the shipping container, “they both went in and closed the door. That was at 11.49am. This was the last sighting of Agnes Akom”. Only they know what happened within, and one of them is dead. Not being home by 7pm, Peter grew concerned as her phone was off, she wasn’t answering any texts or posts, and spending the next day calling her friends, her boss confirmed she hadn’t been to work. On Tuesday 11th of May, she was reported missing, and with the CID unable to trace her, on Saturday 16th, Agnes was elevated to a ‘high-risk missing person’ under the Met's Specialist Crime Command. Detective Chief Inspector Neil John who led the investigation stated “there does come a point when a decision needs to be made as to whether or not a murder investigation team takes primacy. Selecting missing persons where there may be a homicide is very difficult, particularly in this case, where there was no body found and no early evidence or indication of foul play”. 100s of people go missing in the UK every day, most run away for personal reasons and many are found, but very few are murdered. An appeal was made, but it drew no confirmed sightings. As DCI John stated “we start with proof of life enquiries… social media, family, friends, bank details. In this case, there were none… we were increasingly concerned for the safety of Agnes”, as with her phone having been switched off at about noon on the day she vanished, “this was completely out of character”. But a tiny clue shined through. The last transaction she made was at Costa Coffee at 10:48am. CCTV showed her getting onto a silver Dacia Sandero, and using ANPR and traffic cameras, they tracked it to an address it was registered at; an old battered shipping container beside Lennox Autos on the Powergate Business Park in Park Royal. Tuesday 18th of May 2021, 9 days after her disappearance, officers arrived at the shipping container. It was a start, an introduction to Neculai Paizan, Agnes’ friend who was possibly the last person to see her alive, and with nothing suspicious in his past, the detectives were only there to question him. They knocked on the steel door, but he wasn’t there as neither was his car. With heavy duty padlocks securing it, the Fire Brigade forcibly gained entry. Inside… was nothing; no Agnes, no Paizan, no body, no obvious blood, and none of her clothes. It was a mess, but there was no hint that she’d been here. With this still a serious missing persons case and not a murder investigation, fortuitously for the Police, seeing the fire trucks surrounding the shipping container and believing it was on fire, Paizan arrived. That day, yet to be a suspect, he was questioned at Wembley Police Station aided by an interpreter. He claimed that she went with him to the container for sex, they stayed a short while, he then dropped her off at a cash machine at the ASDA in Park Royal, and he hadn’t seen or heard from her since. But as Detective Constable Mike Davidson said “he gave an account, but we knew it was untruthful”, and worse still, he kept referring to her in the past tense even though no-one had suggested she was dead. While he was interviewed over the next three days, detectives corroborated his account with the facts. Several CCTV cameras confirmed that on Sunday 9th of May 2021 at 11:47am, Paizan & Agnes entered the shipping container. Watching every angle of the footage, 24-hours a day across the 9 days until detectives gained entry, they confirmed that Agnes went in, but never came out. So, where was she? His alibi in court was that she had poisoned him with an iced latte, but CCTV showed no signs of him collapsing, staggering, or looking drugged. He was asked about this discrepancy, but he had no reply. At 12:22pm, 35 minutes later, cameras showed Paizan, and only Paizan, leaving the shipping container alone, he was holding his left arm awkwardly, on his forearm were several red marks which detectives believed to be her blood, and at the showroom’s tap, he washed his hands and his face. DCI John also recalled "there is a chilling image of him looking up at the camera. It will remain with me forever”. When questioned further, Paizan replied “maybe she’s still alive?”, but by then, as the detectives told him “she’s not alive”, as even without a body, the evidence against him was mounting up. DCI John recalled "we took the container apart; the floors came up, the walls came out, the ceiling came down". The inside was filthy, yet forensics confirmed that with the bed stained with bleach "vigorous attempts had been made to clean it up”, and with faint traces of blood proven to be Agnes’, with her having been attacked violently, a speck of blood was found on the spine of a Bible on one of Paizan’s shelves. She had died here, they knew it, but how did she die, and why? Changing his story, Paizan, who when interviewed had both forearms in plaster-of-Paris casts, claimed that having washed his face and hands and suffering an attack of amnesia, he returned to find Agnes dead, “curled up in a ball… I got scared ". In his second alibi, he would claim that either her injuries were self-inflicted, or someone had attacked her when his back was turned, unseen by any camera. Knowing the Police wouldn’t believe this fanciful tale about a mystery man who can walk through steel walls, he didn’t call an ambulance, instead “I tried to take her to the park, put her in a good place”. And although he said he loved her “like a daughter”, his actions were proven to be selfish and callous. At just after 3:30pm, he dragged several items from the container and reversing his car up to the door, he loaded them into his boot; her white fur coat, her blue jeans and her pink trainers, anything which could identify her, and save her loved one’s from the pain and grief of never knowing where she was. Cameras also spotted him loading into the boot a rolled-up carpet and heavy object in a stained pillow case. So why did no-one see this as suspicious? It’s an industrial estate, he was one of hundred of men that day, wearing orange hi-viz overalls and loading bulky items into a car, and being known at every waste disposal site in West London, no-one batted at eye when he dumped them into several skips. An hour prior, he dragged a large white builder’s merchant’s bag, likely containing her body, to an unit he had rented next door. The space was empty, only he had access to it, and on a sheet of plastic, he cut up her body into pieces using an electric jigsaw; severing both legs, arms, the torso and her head. Anywhere else it would have drawn attention, but with every unit on the estate filled with the sound of hammers and angle grinders, the dismembering of her body was passed off as something innocent. At around 5:30pm, unmanned cameras caught Paizan dragging the bag from the unit, loading it into his car, and again nobody noticed, as why would they? And even as he dispersed every piece of proof in the killing of Agnes Akom into several skips across the city, it looked as if he was renovating a house, and as he parked his car up outside of his flat on Peel Street, nobody knew that inside lay a dead body. Paizan had committed an unseen murder and disposed of the body in plain sight… …but, as we know, one witness was always watching him - the cameras. DCI John recalled “there was one part in the timeline where we had no sightings of (Paizan’s) car”, so slowly and methodically, “the suspect's car was tracked across north-west London by officers moving from road to road and watching at each junction”. It took weeks of trawling these grainy images with many blind spots, but eventually, traffic cameras spotted the car entering a familiar industrial estate. At about 8am on Monday the 10th of May 2021, the day after the murder, Paizan’s car pulled into the Harp View Business Park, just off the A406 North Circular Road, and a few doors down from The Cabin, the old storage facility at the back of Neasden Recreational Ground, where he’d lived a decade before. As before, he had bagged up in a black plastic bag and callously tossed Agnes’ fake white fur coat into a skip. No-one would have known it was key to a murder, as to the casual observer, it was just junk. Next, he dumped something heavy, and although it was wrapped in a bloodstained pillow case, no-one suspected it was blood as almost everything in the skip was spattered with red paint and creosote. And even if they had opened it up and spotted the bloodied electric jigsaw inside, as he had tried and failed to wash it, it took forensic specialists to identify the blood and hair attached the blade as Agnes’. Police had found bloodstains in the shipping container, his car and his unit, with proof of him disposing of her clothes, lying to the police, and the jigsaw he had used to dismember her body. With so many inconsistencies in his statement, on the 24th of May 2021 at Wembley Police Station, just six days after he was questioned, Paizan was arrested on suspicion of false imprisonment and murder. Detectives could prove that Agnes had come to harm at the hands of Paizan, yet without a body, as he shifted his alibi from finding her dead to self-defence having been poisoned and attacked by a woman half his size, this gap in the evidence could mean that he may get away with the lesser charge of manslaughter. Again, it was a faint and distant image on an unmanned camera which provided a hint of a clue. At just after 8am, wearing his non-descript orange hi-vis overalls, Paizan was spotted exiting the Harp View Business Park and carrying a spade. At 9:13am, the same camera caught him pushing a big blue wheelie-bin in the same direction, and clearly being heavy, he struggled to lift it up a kerb. Heading right, there is nothing but a stretch of the A406, Brent Reservoir and Neasden Recreational Ground. Teams of specialists swarmed the waste transfer site sifting 60 tonnes of rubbish, divers plumbed the depths of the reservoir, and ground penetrating radar examined every patch of grass, but nothing was found… until Monday 14th June 2021, 36 days after she had disappeared, a cadaver dog caught a scent. At the north-eastern end of Neasden Rec’, near the jagged fence which borders the industrial estate, the severely decomposed body of Agnes Akom was found. Buried in a shallow grave and covered by logs and branches, she was lying in a foetal position, a cord round her neck, and her decapitated head wrapped in a black plastic bag. DNA proved it was her, and for DCI John, her discovery proved to be poignant: “Each day, I would drive into work along the North Circular Road thinking about where she could be… her resting place was less than 100 metres from where I was driving twice a day every day”. In court, Judge Richard Marks QC stated: “what truly happened there and why you did what you did is something that we can only surmise. Tragically, she never lived to tell the tale, so the court and the jury only had your account, which I am certain was demonstrably untrue and which the jury rejected”. That morning, Agnes willingly walked into Paizan’s shipping container, a place she had been to many times before, to receive a £20 note that he owed her. The Judge continued: “for reasons only known to yourself, you launched into a vicious attack, hitting her over the head at least 20 times with an electric jigsaw”, it was a sustained attack on a vulnerable lone woman which came out of no where. The pathologist said “she had no defensive wounds, and having caught her unaware, she was rendered incapable of even raising her arms in an attempt to defend herself”, as he bludgeoned her, again and again. But why? Nothing caught on any camera gave a hint at the brutal violence he would unleash? Agnes was the girl he said he loved “like a daughter”, and he was the man she called “Grandpa”, but when he finally stopped lying about her poisoning him with a drugged latte, he admitted “she said don't touch me, she didn't feel like it, she wasn't in a mood, she told me to leave her alone", and as a man who had preyed on her vulnerabilities to abuse her, her rejection would lead him to murder her. It was an odd sexual relationship for no clear reason, except he says, she pestered him for money. But there was no remorse in this man, no regret for the life he had ended for entirely selfish reasons. As DCI John recalled “the level of violence Paizan used in his attack on Agnes is truly horrific. What she suffered inside the container does not bear thinking about… and his attempts to hide his crime show a calculated effort to ensure that not only was Agnes never found, but that he would not be caught”. Especially as, in the days after the murder, Paizan had visited Neasden Rec’ five times. (End) On the 19th of July 2022, in Court 8 of the Old Bailey, the jury retired to deliberate. Having admitted to moving the body but denying murdering her, Paizan rejected his initial alibis, and “in an attempt to paint Agnes in a bad light" he falsely claimed that she was a sex worker, which prosecutor Jake Hallam QC said was a pack of lies. Having deliberated the evidence, the jury returned after just one hour. Found guilty of all charges, 64-year-old Neculai Paizan was given a life sentence with a minimum term of 22 years, and given his age and alleged ill-health, it’s unlikely he will ever see freedom ever again. Outside court, DCI Neil John said “what we know about Agnes tells us that whilst she was vulnerable, he has clearly lied about her background and personal situation in an attempt to sway the jury”. In her own statement, Agnes’ mother said “he dragged her through the mud in life, and her name through the mud after her death… he presented himself as a victim… but he is the one who is a liar”. And with her partner, Peter traumatised, stating “she was my love, the mother of my son, partner, and best friend, and took her away from me in the worst way possible”, there is one more victim in this tragedy. Her baby son, who - while currently in foster care – will one day learn about how his mother died. After Paizan’s arrest, Agnes was cremated and her ashes were flown back to Hungary. Not that Paizan cared. After his conviction, he appealed; he stated that the sentence was excessive, that the judge had failed to consider his age and health, that Agnes’ prior convictions were not taken into account, and he even complained that one of the jurors smelled of cannabis. But with it clear he was a liar, as it was proven that he didn’t need a Romanian interpreter, and this was just a tactic to delay the investigation, his appeal was rejected. Paizan remains behind bars, and so far, he’s been beaten up three times. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #334: The Beast of Belvedere - Part Two of Two (Allan Pearey)4/2/2026 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week. 
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOUR:
This is Part Two of Two of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by Murder Mile UK True Crime. From April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks were perpetrated on women and young girls on trains or near train stations on three routes from Central London to the South-East of England and Kent, they were the Bexleyheath Line, the North Kent Line and the Dartford Loop. This prolific serial rapist never disguised his face, he attacked in broad daylight, and he stuck to the areas he knew so well. But who was he?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: The Police were closing in, but how was ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ caught? Find out on Murder Mile. Situated to the side of Bursted Woods, just shy of Barnehurst station and overlooking a roundabout at the junctions of Erith Road and Barnehurst Road sat a tiny flat perched above a car showroom. It was not the kind of place anyone would choose to live, as there was no bed, sofa, telly, or personal items, just a kettle, a cup, an overflowing ash tray, a bin full of empty takeaways and an electric heater. With the bare bulb off, the room was ominously dark so no-one could see the occupant sat at a desk by a window, silent and still, their binoculars spying as streams of women and young girls walked by unaware. Into a log book, the following was written: “Friday 10th of August 1984, 2pm, second shift”. For months, 21-year-old WPC Julie Edwards had been on observation duty; a dull job split into 8-hours, as one of a team of officers keeping surveillance on 18 locations where ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ had struck, including Abbey Wood, Mottingham, Lee, Hither Green, Birch Walk and Falconwood. For many long hours; she would patiently sit and wait and watch, biding her time until a certain someone caught her eye, and oddly, being 2 miles south-east of Lesnes Abbey Woods, this was not unlike his hideout. It had been a year since PC Clifford Thomas had stood on a thick brush of holly leaves, heard a metal clink and moving aside a sheet of corrugated iron, unearthed a 15 foot by 3 foot tunnel full of rapist’s apparel. Being situated between the Bexleyheath and North Kent lines, in the dead centre of the four square miles where he hunted his prey, detectives were buoyed at having found his lair, and soon him. The scene was secured, the evidence bagged and whisked off to the forensics lab, which took weeks. Only their jubilance would soon turn to despair as when the detectives examined the contents further, the basic items he had left behind; like the candle, the brush, the mug, the tea bags, the jar of sugar and the bag of food, proved to be too generic to trace to a shop or purchase, and like the mattress covered in polythene, no fingerprints were found as they had been wiped away by the weather. As for the spare clothes, lab tests showed no incriminating stains like blood or semen, and couldn’t be linked to any known rapists. The blouse, stockings and knickers were examined, but their prior owners were never identified, and perhaps purchased for cross-dressing or stolen for a thrill, they couldn’t be attributed to any reported victims. The empty beer cans and cigarette butts proved equally as fruitless. And believing that this was a “military style hideout”, detectives spent weeks seeking out sex offenders with military backgrounds, but two teenagers later admitted they’d dug the tunnel being Army cadets who were practicing building a den, and stated they had stopped using it a year before it was found. With his hideout blown, the rapist never returned, and it was buried to stop any copy-cat attacks. Detectives could never determine if this was the hideout of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, or one of several sex attackers who were preying on lone women and girls in this area. But as a predator who didn’t sit and wait, as this one had, but changed his times, places and methods, this was unlikely to be him. But why? He last attacked on Friday the 14th of October 1983, having failed to rape a 14-year-old schoolgirl in Bursted Woods. By this point, he was seven attacks into his 15-month spree beginning in April 1983 with a 16-year-old girl at Falconwood station, and they were increasing in frequency and ferocity. Every victim told the same story; he followed them to somewhere isolated (an alley, a station, a train), he struck from behind, muffled their mouth with his left hand, put a knife to their neck with his right, he threatened to kill them if they didn’t do exactly what as he said, and if they struggled or screamed, he battered them with his fists, a bottle or a block of wood, rendering senseless or semi-conscious. He was always calm, quiet, softly spoken, he said very little, and wore no disguise. As for his description being “25 to 30, 5 foot 11 tall, slim with brown fair hair and brown eyes, and was unshaven”, it was so generic, it matched thousands of men across London and Kent, and also said to be “a scruffy manual labourer, with a stale smell who had a local accent”, with his clothes being cheap and commonplace, and having no visible scars or tattoos, there was nothing unique to identify him. His victims were aged 14 to 34, and said to be small but different, he didn’t target one type of woman, but regarded them all as “whores” who he blamed for something which had ripped at his very being. He knew the train lines, the timetables and every isolated spot to commit his attacks, and yet, he never strayed beyond the areas that as a local man he knew so well, likely having been born and raised here. And unlike one rapist who build a hideout to sit and wait, he attacked randomly on instinct and whim. Examining each attack which occurred roughly every two weeks to a month, based on the fact that he never struck in the early mornings or very late at night, mostly on weekdays, and often between the hours of midday and mid-afternoon, Police surmised that he was either intermittently employed, that he worked a shift pattern, and very rarely attacking on the weekends, he was likely to be a family man. As rape isn’t about sex, but power and control, detectives knew that – as is common with many rapists – he suffered with erectile dysfunction, hence he groped and fondled his victims to get himself hard, and ejaculating early, not at all and secreting no sperm, his failed manhood may have fuelled his rage. There were five more women in this spree who would be left traumatised by ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But what detectives had surmised about him didn’t narrow down the search to anyone they knew… …and being so anonymous, it would take a miracle to find him. The Beast’s name was Allan Pearey. Born on the 25th of March 1949, mere streets from Barnehurst station on the Bexleyheath Line, Pearey was the second of five children to Joseph, a fair-haired, grey-eyed man who came from the northern city of Durham, and having fallen in love during the Second World War with Gwendoline Phillips, a local girl from Welling, one next stop from Falconwood, they married in 1945 and a family followed. This area was his home, his everything, and almost every street of it he knew like the back of his hand, as these four square miles is where he would live and work for the whole of life, but also ruined lived. Said to be “not bright”, but good at manual trades and woodwork, Pearey scraped by with a basic pass aged 15, having been educated at Picardy School on Erith Road in Belvedere, not far from the police station where less than two decades later, a team of detectives launched a manhunt in search of him. Little is known about his early life, as the only traumatic moment seems to have been the death of his father in March 1974 and his mother remarrying in 1979, but as by this point he was 25, employed, married and had moved out, it didn’t impact him or his siblings, as it may have done if he was a boy. Predictably, he matched the description of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ fairly well, being 5 foot 10, slim, with brown fair hair, grey-brown eyes, and - like his father - he had a gap between his front two teeth. But no-one, whether friends or family, pointed the finger at him shouting “he’s the rapist”, as although detectives assumed (based on his attacks) that he was confident and direct, in truth, with no violence, abuse, theft or perversions reported in his past, he was a nobody who blended into the shadows. DS Hawkins who headed up the manhunt remarked when he was caught, “there is nothing particularly unusual about him at all. He’s a boring type, perhaps a little strange and pathetic in his own way”, and as his own wife, Linda, would later state “he was a very moody type, but was a real loner basically”. Living an unremarkable life, aged 15, Pearey’s first job was as a trainee machinist at Parkway Timbers in Belvedere, where he lasted for a year, and was described him as “satisfactory”, but nothing special. By 1965, seeking a job with career prospects, Pearey began working for British Rail as a baggage porter at Dartford station; a large local terminus covering the Dartford Loop, Bexleyheath and the North Kent Line, and working shifts by loading luggage on and off trains for 100s if not 1000s of lone women, part of his job was to know every train, every carriage, every station, and every detail about the timetable. After three years at Dartford, where he shuttled suitcases between Charing Cross, London Bridge and Waterloo East, as well as many of the network’s satellite stations, although quiet, he had impressed his bosses, and clearly being passionate about his job, in 1968, he was promoted to trainee signalman. He had found his place in life, and although a little sullen, he would have succeeded… …only he couldn’t control his basest of dark urges. On an unspecified date in October 1968, a 16 year old girl boarded a train at Charing Cross. It was mid-afternoon, on a weekday, and she was heading to her home in Deptford. When a guard’s whistle blew at London Bridge and the train pulled away, 19-year-old Allan hopped into the closed compartment, where she sat alone and vulnerable in this ‘rape trap’. Muffling her mouth of any screams, nicking her neck with a knife, threatening to kill her and exposing his genitals, the violence he used against her was so severe, she had to be hospitalised, and when arrested, he was charged with attempted murder. In November 1969, Allan Pearey was tried at the Old Bailey for a violent and sadistic crime for which he should have been sentenced to ten years, but as his first offence and having a good work record, it was reduced to the lesser charge of ‘attempting to render a woman incapable with intent’. He served his punishment in a little over a year in a borstal for young offenders, and was out by the turn of 1970. He was free, but jobless, having been sacked by British Rail, and as far as we know… …he didn’t attack any other women until the 16-year-old at Falconwood, when his spree began. It’s hard to pin down why this violent rapist suddenly stopped after his first known attack, but he did, and this is most likely why the detectives struggled to identify him as ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. For 15 years, he was a reformed character, a husband, a father and a working man who committed no crimes. In 1968, he met Linda Gillett, she recalled “I knew Allan through friends. He was going out with a friend of mine. When he went to prison I started to write to him and when he got out we went out together… I knew it was for an attack on a girl, but I believed it was for taking a handbag”, so seeing him for the kind man he was, in July 1970, they married at St Paul’s church in Erith, half a mile from Birch Walk. Living in several council houses in Erith, they were said to be “happily married for 11 years”. Together, they raised four children, and as Linda said “he was a good husband really. He worked hard, loved the children, wasn’t a drinker or anything bad, and he never hit me or the children”. He was ordinary, dull and unremarkable, but isn’t that what a wife and her children would want from a husband and father? She recalled “our sex life was normal, healthy”, and with Pearey said to have no sadism or perversions, was this why his dark urges remained hidden for 15 years, because he had found love, and a sex life? After the birth of their last child, being happy, but knowing that any more children on his modest wage could cause splinters in their warm matrimonial bed, they agreed that Allan would have a vasectomy… …but this, he says changed him, and caused ‘The Beast’ to awaken. In 1978, while 30-year-old Pearey was working as a milkman, he met 15-year-old Sharon Wenham. Linda recalled “Allan denied it, but things were not going well between us… when I came back home one afternoon, I found them in bed together. That was the end of it”. They divorced in 1981, Linda remarried, had another child, and she remained friendly with Allan for the sake of their four children. In January 1982, Sharon and Allan married and being young, she wanted children. In late 1982, Pearey had an operation to reverse his vasectomy, but (as he said) “it was a failure, and I felt that I too was a failure… I could see that deep inside this really hurt her… I felt I was no longer a man. After this we argued more and the arguments got worse”, and as the psychiatrist who assessed him stated “it was the angry reaction of feeling less than a man that launched his catalogue of crimes against women”. This may also explain his erectile dysfunction, and why he left no sperm at the crime scenes. The first known attack in his 15-month spree was on Saturday 23rd of April 1983 at Falconwood station. His victim, a 16-year-old girl - “what’s your age?”, “are you a virgin?”, ”no, you’re not, you’re a whore”. He attacked mostly by day and on weekdays when his new wife was busy. He stuck to areas he knew, and may have struck while looking for work. No-one on the network recognised him even as posters of his photofit were plastered on the walls in September 1983, as he’d been sacked from British Rail 15 years before, and since then, he’d become a reformed character, married, boring and unassuming. …but a month after he attacked a 14-year-old in Bursted Woods, he struck again. Wednesday the 16th of November 1983, back at Falconwood station on the Bexleyheath Line, just after 7pm, a 17 year old receptionist exited the Charing Cross train. It was cold, damp and windy. She later gave an interview to the Daily Express in which she used the pseudonym ‘Carol X’. These are her words. “I went to the mini cab office, and was told I’d have to wait. I thought ‘blow it, I’ll have to walk’. I thrust my hands deeper into my sheepskin coat. There were people about, but most of the faces I travel with had gone on ahead”, and exiting the station, she crossed over the bridge at Rochester Way where ‘The Beast’ had raped a 16-year-old girl just 7 months before, and into the darkness of Falconwood Field. It was short, flat, sparse and she knew it well, but so did Pearey. “I was halfway across when I heard footsteps behind me. There’s a pen knife I usually carry, and I remember thinking ‘I wish I had it on me now’”, only its tiny blade would be useless against a prolific sex attacker who’d honed his method. “I was being grabbed round the neck and there was a knife at my throat. A man said ‘shut your mouth or I’ll cut your throat’… it drew blood. I said ‘I’ve got money. Leave me alone and you can take it’. He said ‘I don’t want your money’ and dragged me by the arm to the side of the field”. Lights were on in the houses surrounding them, but being too dark to be seen, too far to be heard, and if she screamed, she knew she’d be dead, “he made me lie down. I begged him not to hurt me”, and then he raped her. ‘Carol X’ recalled “he ordered me to stay where I was and took my money anyway” as he fled in a half run, half walk, but the second he was out of sight, “I went to the nearest house for help”. Alan Angus, a 57-year-old engineer heard her frantic knocking at his house of Welling Way, “she was crying and distraught, and very frightened. We brought her in, we gave her a glass of sherry and tried to calm her down”, and although all she wanted to do was go home and get herself ‘clean’, she did the right thing. ‘Carol X’ said “when the Police arrived… I talked for about half an hour. I kept saying ‘what am I going to tell my mum and dad?’. Nothing like this had never happened to me before. I think I would have gone to pieces if I hadn’t been treated so kindly by the police. Now I am angry more than frightened”. His description was broadcast across the Police radio: “white, late 20s, 5 foot 11, clean shaven, scruffy, slim, brown-ish hair, wearing dark trousers or jeans, gap toothed, smells strongly of stale cigarettes”, and although with him attacking now at a rate of two a month which meant another was imminent, DS Colin Hawkins stated that thanks to ‘Carol X’ “the prospects of finding him have never been better”. A joint operation based at Belvedere Police station was set-up between the British Transport Police and the Met’ Police, expanding the search to cover the 33 square miles from Dartford to Charing Cross. Extra officers were drafted in, patrols were stepped up, and surveillance operations were established… …but prolific rapists don’t just stop, so as predicted, two weeks later, he attacked again. Wednesday 7th of December 1983 at 8pm, back near Bursted Woods just shy of Barnehurst station, a 25-year-old receptionist ran to the bus stop near the roundabout, but her bus had already pulled away. Even though it was beginning to snow, having decided to walk the few stops to Bexley, she passed the car showroom, and sticking to the path, even with the Erith Road being well-lit and busy, she heard the footsteps of a man coming up behind her; she then felt a hand, a blade, and heard a threat to kill. She knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, as coming face-to-face with a late 20s to early 30s man, tall, lean, long nose, scruffy hair, faded jeans, a bomber jacket, a tooth grin and stinking of ciggies, if she screamed, she’d be stabbed by ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, and if she didn’t, then something worse. Frozen in fear, she did as he said. And although cars and pedestrians passed nearby, nobody stopped to help her, as with his hand draped around her shoulders and the two of them slowly walking side by side, they looked like a couple in a loving embrace, as he led her off the path, and into Bursted Woods. For four minutes, he walked her further from the lights, deeper into the woods, her knowing that with every step, her fate was growing closer and her chance of escape becoming more distant, and when he got her to an isolated spot where no-one would be able to see or hear her, there he raped her. He had raped or sexually assaulted at least 9 women, possibly 11, but Police suspected as many as 17. The story hit the papers by the morning, television by the evening, and with anger rising, the day after, a group of protesters waved placards outside of Belvedere Police station, demanding that they catch him, rather than waiting for him to attack again. This was the moment it became a national story… …and then suddenly, he stopped. ‘The Beast’ went silent, still, as even with his crimes escalating in frequency and violence, abruptly, there was nothing. Not a rape or assault committed in the following months matched his description. Detectives wondered, ‘had he quit’, ‘was he in prison’, or had the media coverage ‘scared him away’?’ It’s something we will never know. Maybe he had found work, perhaps he was arguing less with Sharon about having babies, or possibly he was just laying low? But could a rapist really stop his dark urges? No, as seven months later, he struck again. Monday the 23rd of July 1984, a 17-year-old girl left Bexley College, she boarded the 12:02pm train at Bexleyheath travelling to Charing Cross for a job interview. Sat alone in a six-seat closed compartment, at Welling station, Allan Pearey boarded as the train pulled away, and he attacked almost instantly; a hand, a knife, a threat, “shut up or I’ll kill you”, he violently wrenched off her clothes, and raped her. Just two minutes later, when the train arrived at Falconwood, he fled, but with it being daytime, he was seen by not just his victim, but the station master and the ticket attendant. And although she was bloodied and traumatised, having pulled the emergency cord, the train was stopped, the Police were called, the crime scene was sealed off and detectives one knew thing for certain; ‘The Beast’ was back. Surveillance was stepped up. Across the network, teams of officers worked 24-hours a day for weeks, in 8 hour shifts, at 18 covert locations where he’d attacked before, like Falconwood, Welling, Birch Walk, Dartford, and with a 25-year-old receptionist being attacked in Bursted Woods after she had missed her bus last December, on Friday 10th of August 1984, WPC Julie Edwards was sat at a window, with binoculars and a notepad. The hours were long, dull, but vital, and soon her persistence would pay off, when she spotted a man with a ‘startling resemblance’ to him, loitering at the same bus stop on Erith Road. Alerted, two plain-clothed officers arrived in an unmarked car as Pearey boarded the bus, they tailed him, and getting off just a mile away, he headed to Birch Walk, a place with ominous significance for his victims… …and now, being arrested, for ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. Over five days, he was questioned at Belvedere Police station by DS Colin Hawkins. 33-year-old Allan Pearey confessed to six rapes, two assaults the Police knew of and two which hadn’t been reported. On Tuesday 14th of August, he was committed to trial at Bexley Magistrates Court, during which “he trembled and cried during the 10-minute hearing”, and given his violence, his bail was denied. Rapists are quite often loners, but DS Hawkins was excepting a monster when he met Pearey, a callous and cruel maniac given the sadism and cruelty he had inflicted. But instead “there is nothing unusual about the man at all. He appears a boring type, perhaps a little strange and pathetic in his own way”. He was so unremarkable, even his friends and family didn’t believe it was him, as he was so unlikely. During his questioning, Pearey wept: “I’ve caused great suffering to my victims. I hope that my capture will ease their minds in time and I hope they will be able to forget what I done to them and forgive me a little”. But even with detectives able to prove six rapes and two assaults, he was investigated for a string of attacks on the Dartford Loop, North Kent and Bexleyheath Lines since the late 1960s. One case his method matched was the murder of German tourist Heidi Mnilk onboard the Charing Cross to West Wickham train on Sunday 8th of July 1973, as later confessed to by Patrick MacKay, who later denied it. But with the suspect seen by the two boys being 5 inches shorter, 15 years older and with an “Arabic appearance”, this wasn’t ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, but another prolific rapist. (End) Held at Wormwood Scrubs prison, Pearey sent letters to his ex-wife Linda, blaming his sex attacks on others, stating “the kids were pulling away from me after our divorce. Then Sharon wanted children… this hurt me very much and we went to have the reversal operation done… but it failed… I really thought she had rejected me, it was the final blow. I could no longer think straight… I felt like a freak, everyone was laughing. I finally cracked and I couldn’t remember what I was doing. I had to hate”. Which of course was a lie. He blamed his string of rapes and sexual assaults from 1983 to 1984 on his wife’s rejection and his failed vasectomy in 1982, but he was first charged with the ‘attempted murder’ of a 16-year-old girl, having violently beaten and failed to rape her on a train back in October 1968. He told a psychiatrist: “deep inside I knew I had a very bad problem, but I was too scared and confused to seek help. I am glad I have been caught because now I can receive the help I so desperately need”. Declared sane, on Monday the 14th of January 1985, he was tried by Judge Popplewell at the Old Bailey. It lasted just 54 minutes, but unlike his first trial back in 1969, when he was given a pitiful sentence of one year at a borstal, admitting his guilt to all charges, on Monday 14th of January 1985, Allan Pearey was given six life sentences to run concurrently, with two years for each sexual assault. Summing up, the Judge stated “you terrified and humiliated these victims. I think you are a too dangerous a man be left at large. The public have to be protected from men like you, so I propose the maximum sentence”. His solicitor said, he was so remorseful, that he wanted to donate his kidneys to someone “gravely ill”. Linda, his ex-wife, got on with her life. But Sharon, having heard all the evidence and charges claimed “I write to him every day. I’ll stand by him until the end”. Two days after his conviction, Pearey pleaded to the Home Office for permission for him and his wife to have a child by artificial insemination. Sharon said “I don’t care what other people think, I know Allan as a kind, loving man. If it’s possible for him to give me a baby that would be wonderful”, of which Linda retorted, “his own children are going through enough at the moment. Surely there’s no need to put another child through this agony”… …as well as his victims who may never have children of their own. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE:
This is Part One of Two of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by Murder Mile UK True Crime. From April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks were perpetrated on women and young girls on trains or near train stations on three routes from Central London to the South-East of England and Kent, they were the Bexleyheath Line, the North Kent Line and the Dartford Loop. This prolific serial rapist never disguised his face, he attacked in broad daylight, and he stuck to the areas he knew so well. But who was he?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How did a prolific serial rapist evade capture for so long? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m back at Charing Cross station, off The Strand, WC2; the same street as the last confirmed sighting of the Savaged Prince, just to the side of where the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper said farewell to her pal, the station where German tourist Heidi Mnilk met her death as confessed to by Patrick MacKay, and where a bag of laundry in left luggage bled red - coming soon to Murder Mile. We don’t appreciate how clean and safe our modern trains are; being heated, well-lit and ventilated open-carriages with every angle covered by cameras and communication cords for our safety. I mean, yes, the standard commute is a horrific assault on the senses as the tone deaf play drum n bass via an annoyingly tinny speaker, the stench of ‘the great unwashed’ smells like a flatulent wet dog soaked in puke, every surface is spattered with an ominous sticky residue from any number of foods or orifices, and even a 10 minute journey requires you to be scrubbed with hot bleach, but it was once a lot worse. The design and layout of the train carriages we have to today are as a direct result of the terrifying and deadly incidents inflicted on the fellow passengers in our past, especially on the three train lines covering this network; the North Kent Line, the Bexleyheath Line and the dreaded Dartford Loop. As a busy series of train lines from Central London through the commuter belt of South-East London and into Kent, the Dartford Loop was built in 1866 to alleviate congestion as the city expanded, and it remains a vital part of this link today. Sadly, with so many failings in its design, it became synonymous with crime, and from April 1983 to July 1984, a series of sadistic sex attacks on women and young girls. This cowardly rapist would be nicknamed ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But who was he? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 333: ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ – Part One of Two. During the height of The Beast’s spree of attacks on lone women across the network, Yvonne Roberts, a journalist working for the Evening Standard published an article titled ‘if only men knew how it felt’. Ringing true with many lone female commuters, she wrote: “a woman sits in the middle of two seats on the Charing Cross to Dartford train, her bag clutched to her like a bullet proof shield”, her only real protection being sat opposite a strange man in a cramped and dimly-lit compartment of just six seats. “It is mid afternoon on a Monday. The man who attacked or raped 17 women on or near this line… has mentally mugged every woman traveller by robbing her of her sense of ease. Women, of course, are accustomed to feeling uncomfortable and just plain frightened on public transport”, as in 1982, the year before, there were 570 assaults and 3 rapes on the networks line in these closed carriages. In 1983, a government white paper on ‘Public Safety on London Transport’ was published, but with 97 of the 106 witnesses who gave evidence being men, its recommendations were less about a woman’s right to be safe, and more about the impact on cost and profitability. By May 1983, the Greater London Council had recommended the installation of CCTV cameras in just 33 of its 247 tube stations, with some cameras (providing grainy and unclear footage) only available in the larger train terminuses. It was a safety system implemented by men who didn’t understand a woman’s plight. Yvonne Roberts continued “…on the Dartford train, even the open carriage has eight communication cords”, a simple pull cord which alerts the driver to an incident (and the conductor, if the train has one, which many don’t). “The police have been surprised that none of the woman attacked tried to use them”, but as she rightly noted, “how can they when, with a knee to their throat or back, they are out of reach?”. Yet, it wasn’t just the train that was a woman’s greatest danger, but the station and her walk home. Unlike many serial rapists, ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ didn’t stick to a single train, time or route, as being fuelled by his base desires, he hunted for lone and vulnerable women; day and night, on quiet and busy trains, and not just across a single trainline, but three, as these antiquated rolling stocks trundled through tiny towns and suburban villages, many of which had few street lights and a lone constable. The Dartford Loop began at Charing Cross, Waterloo East or London Bridge, and called at Hither Green, Lee, Mottingham, New Eltham, Sidcup, Albany Park, Bexley and Crayford. The Bexleyheath Line called at Lewisham, Blackheath, Kidbrooke, Eltham, Falconwood, Welling, Bexleyheath and Barnehurst. The North Kent at Lewisham, Blackheath, Charlton, Woolwich, Arsenal, Abbey Wood, Belvedere, Erith and Slade Green. And with all lines terminating at Dartford, for many, these names may feel as unfamiliar as a foreign land, far from where you feel safe, but to this serial rapist, it was as comfortable as home. Saturday the 23rd of April 1983 was said to be the first attack in this 15-month spree. That evening, at roughly 9:30pm, with a slight chill in the air, the streets were quiet and secluded. On Lingfield Crescent was Falconwood station, a tiny brick-built building in a small suburban village on the Bexleyheath Line, illuminated by a single lamp which cast an ominous orange glow. To the east was the Falconwood housing estate, but in all other directions were vast expanses of green; like Oxleas Wood, Avery Hill, Eltham Park, Shepherdleas Park, and just above the railway line, Falconwood Field. The day was uneventful for most; snooker player Cliff Thorburn was celebrating a perfect 147 break, Spandau Ballet's pop song ‘True’ was heading to #1, and tests had proven Hitler's diaries to be fake. One hour after dusk, a 16 year-old girl, her name rightly left anonymous, entered Falconwood station. With the station master off-duty, the ticket office closed and porters only at larger terminuses, she walked left along the platform and sat on a bench, waiting a few minutes for the train to Blackheath. It was dark, cold, wreathed in shadows, and the only other passenger waiting was a man. As she sat silently, he slowly crept nearer. Standing directly behind her, he stared, breathing deep, then pounced. With one hand firmly clasped over her mouth to stop her screaming, he hissed “don’t make a noise, or I will put this knife into your neck”, as the sharp pinch of small blade drew a few drops of her blood. She froze in fear, terrified, her limbs barely mobile, as with her fate in his hands, he forced her off the end of the platform, down a slope onto the side of the rails, and under a bridge at the Rochester Way. On a grass bank, he made her lie down. He asked “what’s your age?”, but she was too afraid to say. He asked “are you a virgin?”, of which any answer risked horrific ramifications for this petrified girl, so saying “yes, I am”, he glared at her and barked ”no, you’re not, you’re a whore”. Ripping off her tights with force and punching her head to keep her silent, it was as her train pulled away that he raped her. Minutes later, he fled. She was so traumatised, even though he didn’t wear a disguise, her description of him was vague, being average height, build and look. There were no witnesses, no suspects, and as an era where rapes weren’t treated seriously and DNA was a pipe-dream, there was no crime scene. The investigation was short and perfunctory, but several details were clear; she didn’t know him, he knew the area well, and although this was the first attack in his spree, she clearly wasn’t his first victim. A month later, he attacked again. On Thursday 19th of May 1983, four miles north-east of Falconwood station and just shy of Erith station on the North Kent Line, a 31-year-old nurse was walking home from her shift at the Erith and District Hospital on Park Crescent. It was 2:55pm, broad daylight, and the school bells were about to sound. As a cut-through between Bexley Road to Fraser Road, known by locals, Birch Walk is a tight secluded alley way with an industrial area to the left, a road passing nearby and a thin wooded area to the right. Walking down Birch Walk, she later told the Police that she noticed a man, “after I walked a short way, something made me look back”, as she realised he was the same man who had passed her moments before. He was walking behind her, silently, quickly and with a definite purpose, she said “I remember the sound of a squeaking shoe” drawing closer. And then, as was his method, he silenced her mouth with his palm, he placed a short sharp blade to her throat, he barked “if you make a sound, I will kill you”, and having dragged her into the nearest bushes, as cars passed within ear shot, he raped her. Giving a fuller description, she told Police, he was “25 to 30, tall being 5 foot 11, lean and slim, with brown fair hair and brown eyes, and was unshaven”, and although a photofit was compiled, he didn’t match any known attackers, and it was uncertain if he was the same man as the Falconwood rapist. And yet, Birch Walk would have an ominous significance for his victims… …and ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. In those early months, the police had no idea that the first two attacks were connected, as he changed his days, times, locations, and attacked not just in or near train stations, but on the trains themselves. On Monday 6th of June 1983, just two weeks after his last attack, a 20-year-old woman had boarded a North Kent train at Dartford to see her mother who lived in Erith, not far from Birch Walk. Again, he wore no disguise. Again, he gagged her and threatened her with a small blade similar to a potato knife. But having boarded the train as it departed the Dartford station, and chosen this closed compartment of a smoking carriage where only one of the six seats were occupied by a lone woman, once inside, she couldn’t flee her attacker – as he pushed her down into the seat, and groped her breasts – as with the only exit being the door to the platform, if she screamed, no-one could come to her aid until the train stopped. But she did… and although he was strong, she kept fighting him off, shouting, kicking and punching until the train arrived at Erith, and before it had come to a stop, he flung open the door, and fled fast. With her description similar to the rape in Birch Walk, police knew they had a serial attacker in their midst, but a detail didn’t make sense; the train from Dartford to Erith took just five minutes, so either he was so stupid he didn’t realise, or (as detectives suspected) he knew the area exceptionally well. The carriages used were Bulleid & Maunsell BR Mark 1s, the same coaches where German tourist Heidi Mnilk was murdered a decade earlier in a suspected failed rape which resulted in her attacker (said to be Patrick MacKay) throwing her body from the train, which were infamously dubbed as ‘rape traps’. By the 80s, the Dartford Loop, Bexleyheath and North Kent lines were so notorious, many commuters avoided them, with the worst stations said to be Barnehurst, Bexleyheath, Welling and Falconwood. Even the South East Rail manager, Michael Woods said “I’m too scared to ride in them. I’d be happier in an open coach than risk being caught in one where I couldn’t get out”, and in 1987, with the Sunday Mirror stating “callously, British Rail refuses to scrap 63 single compartment carriages on South East routes, even though they have been condemned as hunting grounds for rapists and muggers”. Being described as “places of dread for lone women”, it would take a brutal murder for change to happen. On the 23rd of March 1988, 26-year-old Deborah Linsley boarded the 2:16pm train from Petts Wood in Kent to London Victoria. Traveling in a closed six-seater compartment, although 70 people were on the train, no-one could come to her aid as fighting off a potential rapist who was “scruffy, short, stocky, with dirty blond hair", he brutally stabbed her to death, and fled, as the train pulled into Penge East. It remains unsolved to this day, but it wasn’t ‘The Beast of Belvedere’, we know that for certain… …yet almost being caught didn’t stop this serial rapist from attacking again. On Tuesday 2nd of August 1983, two months after his last attack, a 25 year-old woman boarded a train at Charing Cross station, heading to Mottingham on the Dartford Loop. As it arrived at London Bridge, a man walked the platform, peering into every closed compartment, and as it pulled away, he boarded. In this six-seat closed compartment, he sat opposite her with no-one either side, and again, as was his method, he muffled her mouth, put a small blade to her neck, and hissed “I’m going to have some fun with you”, and as she sat frozen in fear, for the next five minutes, he kissed her and groped her breasts. The next stop was Hither Green, and with a few commuters on the platform, rather than running, risking being caught, he ordered her “kiss me, pretend we’re a courting couple”, and she obeyed. It was just a two-minute journey to the next stop, but during it, he raped her, and at Lee station, he fled. That was his fourth confirmed attack in as many months, and even though he never hid his face, he brazenly struck on busy trains in the day, and clearly knew the train routes and timetables, another detail stood out. It was only a 2 minute journey from Hither Green to Lee when he raped her, and although he’d ejaculated, they couldn’t accurately determine his blood group as he secreted no sperm. So who was he, as at that point, he was a mystery? A special rape squad was established at Belvedere Police station under Detective Superintendent Colin Hawkins, with a team of 50 detectives dedicated to hunting ‘the Beast of Belvedere’. They knew his face, his method, and the four-square miles he stalked his prey, and although well versed in tracking all kinds of criminals, a serial rapist was a different proposition, as too often, the victims just vanish. DS Hawkins told the press: “we have heard of woman being raped, but we have no firm information. The embarrassment and even shame can be shattering to a victim. They want to get home, fling off their clothes and bathe away the ‘dirt’ many of them feel. This destroys important forensic evidence which could be vital to the investigation and give an important lead to the rapist. We do not want another victim, but if it does happen, we urge them to come to us first”. And although they knew that a police officer was likely to be the last person a victim of sexual assault would seek out, “every care will be given and the victim helped by sympathetic and experienced police woman and doctors”. It was one of London’s biggest manhunts, it had to be, as with his attacks increasing in frequency, they were also becoming more violent, as DS Hawkins stated “he has attacked victims with a bottle causing head wounds, another had a broken jaw, and another was struck several times with a lump of wood. The man is strong, fit, a fast runner, and is believed to do heavy manual work”, but except for a brief description - late 20s, tall, slim, with brown fair hair, brown eyes, a toothy gap and an odd smell – he didn’t match any known rapist on the police’s database… and his spree showed no signs of ceasing. Wednesday the 7th of September 1983, one month after the last attack, he struck again. A 24-year-old woman sat alone in a six-seat closed carriage at Dartford station waiting for the 7:56pm train to depart for Charing Cross. She was alone, and the only way to exit the carriage was the door to the platform, but as the guard’s whistle blew to order the train to depart, a man jumped on board. Having perfected his method by picking a pretty young woman, slight and vulnerable, sat alone in a carriage from where she couldn’t get help even if she screamed and couldn’t escape, as the train left the station, he muffled her, stuck a knife to her neck, and hissed “shut up and you will be alright”, and remaining unseen until Abbey Wood station, he sexually assaulted her for the full 13 minute journey. Immediately, she alerted the Police, and with the compartment well lit, she built on his description; “26-ish, slim build, hair parted left to right, long pointed nose, a gold stud earing, a brown crew neck jumper, a red checked shirt, blue jeans and white trainers”, with a toothy grin and he smelled stale. In September 1983, the detectives at Belvedere, in co-ordination with the British Transport Police put up posters across the London, Kent and South-East rail networks featuring an updated photofit of ‘The Beast’. It was a simple ploy to embed his likeness into the eyes of any past or possible future victims… …and it worked. On Wednesday the 28th of September 1983, three weeks after his last attack, he struck again. A 36-year-old dental nurse, possibly leaving the Erith and District Hospital just as the 31-year-old nurse had done who he had attacked just four months before, being just 6:50pm and still daylight, she too used the short but slightly wooded cut-through at Birch Walk to make her way to Erith station. She told detectives “as soon as I saw him, I recognised him. I had a feeling that this was the same man that raped a nurse in Birch Walk earlier this year”, but with nowhere to run except to either end of this isolated alley, before she could, he grabbed her, whispered “don’t scream, I won’t hurt you. I only want to look at you”, and pushed her to the floor, forced her legs apart, and he indecently assaulted her. Barely minutes later, he fled, and with the nurse screaming loud, she was found by two women. The posters made women aware, only if they had seen them… …but his next victim had not. Friday the 14th of October 1983, two weeks after his last attack, was the start of half term. Next to Barnehurst train station on the Bexleyheath Line, just off Erith Road and a mile south of Birch Walk stood Bursted Woods, 12 hectares of untouched woodland with heavy foliage and dense bushes. At roughly 5pm, his youngest victim, a 14-year-old girl was walking her dog, as she usually did, not far from her home. It was daylight and other walkers were in ear-shot. As her dog ran ahead, possibly chasing a squirrel, as a man passed her, before she knew she was in any danger, as was his method; he muffled her mouth, put a blade to her neck, and said “don’t make any noise and I won’t hurt you”. In panic, she pushed his hand away, screaming. Grabbing her, he spat “make a move again and you’re dead”. But as she struggled to break free of his grip, he punched her hard in the face, knocking her down, and although he lifted her skirt, groping her genitals, he repeatedly tried to rape her, but failed. His description matched ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ with the girl adding that he had “a local accent”. The force he had used showed an escalation in his desperation, as Police feared “he may get more violent unless he is caught soon”. Even he would later say of this sexual assault, “I feel very distressed about what I have done to this girl. I know it should not have happened to any woman of any age, but to do it to a child is unforgiveable”. Yet, it didn’t stop his attacks on lone women, traumatising them forever. But was this him? Compiling the four photofits of the rapist seen attacking women in or near to stations across the three lines, as well as on the trains, the Daily Mirror queried “were four rapists on the loose”, as ‘The Beast’ was scruffy, tall, fair-haired and local with a gap tooth, but the others were short, wore glasses, had beady eyes and a heavily pockmarked face, not unlike the man seen leaving Heidi Mnilk’s carriage. So far, detectives could attribute him to the attack on a 16 year old in Falconwood, a 30 year old and a 36-year-old in Birch Walk, a 20-year-old and a 24-year-old on the Dartford train, a 25 year-old on a train near Mottingham, and now, a 14-year-old schoolgirl at Bursted Woods. But a man with a similar description, in the same timeframe and within those four square miles, had raped a 20-year-old at Foots Cray Meadows and a 16-year-old in Abbey Wood, with more in Albany Park and Lesness Woods. But was this him, or someone similar? One attack not attributed to ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ by himself was on Monday the 7th of November 1983, three weeks after his last, as a 23-year-old woman boarded the 10:32am to Dartford at Waterloo East. Again, he jumped into her empty carriage as it was departing, he sexually assaulted her, hopped off just minutes later at London Bridge, but this time, her “early 20s, scruffy and gap-toothed” attacker was said to have “sandy or gingery coloured hair”, and – for the first time ever – he stole her handbag. Had he started taking souvenirs, or had he committed so many attacks that he couldn’t recall them? The detectives were stuck and the investigation was slowly unravelling… …but they had already unearthed the biggest clue in their hunt for this serial rapist. On Wednesday the 6th of July 1983, in Lesnes Abbey Wood, 88 hectares of ancient woodland between Abbey Wood and Barnehurst stations near the town of Belvedere, a 16 year old girl was raped. Just a month later, on Thursday the 18th of August, again in broad daylight, a 30-year-old mother was raped in front of her 3-year-old son. Threatened with a knife, she was told he’d be stabbed if she screamed. Both attacks happened just 100 yards apart. And then, just after midnight on Tuesday 30th of August, two dog walkers heard a woman’s screams, their torches shined upon a man as he fled, and although the victim was never found, police flooded the area with more than 100 officers and sniffer dogs. Their plan was to flush him out, but he had already vanished. (End) PC Clifford Thomas was just a regular constable with the Belvedere police force assigned to search the woods armed with nothing but a truncheon and a torch, when he made a startling discovery. Under foot, as his heavy boots stood on a thick brush of holly leaves, something metal clinked underneath. The scene was fresh, having been vacated recently and used often, as with a sheet of corrugated iron covering the hole, when removed, it led to self-dug tunnel, 15 foot long by 3 foot wide. Said to be a “military style hideout”, the rapist had used it as he had lain in wait for his victims, hidden from view. Inside was everything a patient yet desperate attacker needed in his hunt for another woman to rape; a candle, a brush, a mug, tea bags, a jar of sugar, a stash of food, spare clothing, an air freshener, and a single mattress covered in polythene, where he had slept, and possibly attacked several victims. Police admitted it was luck that they had found it, yet being littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts, as well as a blouse, stockings and knickers, forensic scientists could potentially identify him. It was an unnerving insight into the warped mind of this serial rapist, but it wasn’t his only hideout. A day later, over the road and 100 yards away, a second bunker was found. It was smaller, but given its position, detectives believed this was where he would run after his attacks, to flee from any witnesses, to hide from the police, but – as a sexual thrill - to spy with glee as his victims panicked and screamed. Detective Inspector Geoff Cooper stated “the man we are looking for is a danger to the public. We are very, very concerned”, and with the surrounding neighbourhood rightly terrified, everyone was on the look out for ‘The Beast of Belvedere’. But is this how a prolific serial rapist evaded capture for so long? Part two and the concluding part of ‘The Beast of Belvedere’ continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
Stanley Court, Woodfield Road, Ealing @Googlemaps 2026 Sept 2022
EP332: THE EALING CROSSBOW KILLER: On Wednesday the 20th of July 1988, at 8am, 36-year-old business executive Diana Mam exited her flat at Stanley Court. Dressed in a smart green suit and stockings, she placed her handbag and briefcase on the floor, and as she locked the door, she applied a final coat of lipstick, ready for a busy day ahead. Only she never made it to work, she never made it to her car, she didn’t even make it from her door. Who killed her and why?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How can a sadistic killing be both unsolved and (some say) solved? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Woodfield Road in Ealing, W5; four streets north of the home of Alice Gross’s killer, five streets west of the brutal murder of Penny Bell, four streets north-west of the penultimate attack by The Beast and three streets south of the custard eating nonce - coming soon to Murder Mile. In a leafy enclave of Ealing near Montpelier Park sits Stanley Court, a block of 32 brown-bricked self-contained flats built in the 1930s to cater for West London bachelors. Back then, being fitted with a double bed, a modest kitchenette and a soft sofa for savouring one’s leisure time, the ambiance wasn’t sullied by the ear-shattering wail of ungrateful brats in need of a good slap, the feted stench of soiled nappies, and every surface spattered with all manner of bodily fluids and jam, as their sexless, broken and eternally knackered parents count the years until they can get out, flee, or just get divorced. Oh yes, tell me how having children is a ‘magical experience’, and when you’ve finished, tell your face. In 1988 though, with greater (and necessary) changes in equality laws, several professionals who lived at Stanley Court were women; career girls who eschewed marriage and babies for the independence to plough a furrow as a high-flying executive with their own flat, car and future. One woman was 36-year-old Diana Maw, a recruitment consultant who had done everything right in her life. She was well-liked, kind, popular, and had never made a single enemy. So, why would someone want her dead? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 332: The Ealing Crossbow Killer. Diana could be summed-up by the platitudes her family and friends shared when told of her murder. It made no sense “as she was liked by everyone”, “she was a lovely woman”, “absolutely delightful”, “no-one had a bad word to say about her”. And this wasn’t a façade, as it was exactly who she was. Diana Stafford Maw was born on the 2nd of August 1951 in Newcastle upon Tyne in the north-east of England. Said to be a well-rounded girl who skilfully balanced every facet of her life, she was popular, sporty, caring and academic, she had no rough edges or abrasive tone, as for her, life was about living. Her passion for education, travel and success, as well as her bright personality, came from her parents. Married in the Scottish city of Dundee during the cataclysmic chaos of the Second World War, Diana was the only child of Sheila, a GP from the earthy industrial heartland of Blackburn in Lancashire, and Theodore Stafford (who she was named after) being a respected eye surgeon from Warwickshire. They were two doctors who shunned the wealth of a private practice and the calm safety of academia to provide care and compassion for the poorest communities during the post-war gloom and the early days of the National Health Service. She was given a great start in life, but unlike many who felt that being pampered or privileged was their birthright, she never became self-centred, or squandered it. Educated at Cheltenham College, a prestigious boarding school for girls, in 1969 aged 18, she won an exchange scholarship and (already having a thirst for travel) she spent the year being educated in New York, which expanded her mind further to opportunities, but also the life of others, both rich and poor. In 1972, she graduated from Oxford Polytechnic with a Higher National Diploma in Business Studies. Aged 21, being career-motivated, for 13 years she worked as a recruitment consultant for a wealth of high-end executive search agencies gaining a reputation as “a professional of the highest calibre”, until November 1986, when she became an executive at the Industrial Society at 3 Carlton House Terrace. Alaistair Graham, the society’s director said “Diana was held in high regard by everyone”. By her mid-30s, she was a high flying executive on a wage of £25,000 (about £85,000 today), she had a sports car, and her own flat in a desirable enclave in Ealing. It was the era of the Yuppies, the ‘young upcoming professionals’ with their red braces, Filofaxes, cocaine habits, mobile phones the size of bricks, and an arrogant belief (being the Wall Street mantra) that “greed is good”, but Diana wasn’t part of that ilk. What grounded Diana was her faith. Both parents were Quakers, and as a frequent churchgoer, she embraced those same values of compassion, justice and honesty, with a solid focus on helping others. Unlike the city boys who lived a life of bragging, jet-setting and getting STDs, Diana was a dedicated council member of The Shaftesbury Homes and Arethusa, one of Britian’s oldest charities helping the young and unemployed, where “Diana passionately wanted to encourage people working in the city to help those who did not have their advantages”. And when she wasn’t striving to better the lives of those she had never met before, she read books to the elderly at Chestnut Lodge old people’s home. As a strong and independent woman, she had made the best of both worlds; an amazing job, a strong family life, a solid moral compass, she was financially stable, happy and had a good circle of friends. It made no sense that anyone would want to hurt her… …so why did they? Said to be an “all-round sports woman”, Diana was keen but wasn’t competitive; she liked fell walking and tennis, she was a regular at Ealing golf club playing weekly with her friend Anne to improve her 36 handicap, and she was an honorary Oxford Blue at lacrosse, but it was all for health and happiness. In her spare time, she liked playing Bridge, going to the theatre, overseas travel and choral singing, which aren’t the kind of pastimes where she may make a bitter rival and end in a savage blood feud. Maybe someone was jealous? As her life was desirable, her car stylish and her clothes fashionable, she was attractive, beloved, and living in a luxury flat. It’s possible, as we know she wasn’t murdered for her money, as all of her estate of £181000, about half a million pounds today, went to her parents. In February 1988, five months before her death, she met Michael Stevens, a 37-year-old executive at a premium electronics company. Falling madly in love, and being described as ‘the perfect couple’, by May, Diana had put her £130,000 flat at Stanley Court up for sale, as had Michael, their offer had been accepted on a £300,000 Victorian house in exclusive Mount Avenue, and she was waiting to exchange. Her life was good, she was happy, and it was about to get even better… …only someone was watching her. Stanley Court is a four-storey apartment block just off Woodfield Road, a quiet residential street. Encircled by a u-shaped driveway where parking is for residents only, it stands isolated, off-set from the other buildings, and the only way to access the flats is via the communal door. A few weeks prior, two of the flats had been burgled, so with Diana as secretary of the management committee, to nip this in the bud, they had a security door fitted, so the flats could only be accessed by an entry phone. Obviously, that didn’t stop all the crime. On Sunday 12th of June 1988, five weeks before her murder, the window of Diana’s car was smashed and her briefcase stolen. Nothing of value was inside, except her Filofax, so with it more of an annoyance but easily replaceable, she thought nothing more of it. One evening, her phone rang, but the caller hung up just as she answered. It was probably kids messing around, she thought. Days later, it happened again, but this time, the caller remained silent, listening as her voice became more panicked as she asked who it was and what they wanted, but heard nothing. Again, days later, the calls came through at odd times of the night, waking her with a start, disturbing her with heavy breathing, and making her life a misery, as how could she sleep knowing someone was out to unsettle her. And then, when they did speak, twice they would threaten her, using her name. She told her friends, but never said who the caller was, if she knew them, or what they had said. If it was a prank, it wasn’t funny. If it was a prowler, why had they targeted her? If it was a robber, was it him who had stolen her Filofax, but why hadn’t they tried to extort money from her? And who would want to harm her anyway, as it was unlikely to be an ex-boyfriend as she was on good terms with all. If their aim was to unnerve her, it worked, as every time she left her flat, she felt as if she was watched; whether shopping by herself, walking to her car, or going to the cinema with her boyfriend, Michael. On Sunday the 10th of July, 10 days prior, she tried not let it upset her, as her parents were down from Sheffield. Unaware of her fear as she didn’t want to worry them, they had a wonderful day-out at the Royal Horticultural Gardens at Wisley, Surrey, they watched a performance of Aida (the tragic opera by Verdi) at Earls Court, and her mother Sheila recalled “Diana enjoyed it enormously. She was her normal happy self... I last spoke to her on Saturday before and she was as happy as she had ever been”. Then, the anonymous phone calls ceased, as had the supposed stalking… …but now her killer would take a fatal step. Wednesday the 20th of July 1988 was a typical British summer’s day; it was cool and drizzly. Diana was due to give a seminar that morning so that was on her mind when, and at 8am sharp, she left Flat 24 on the second floor. Dressed in a smart green suit and stockings, she placed her handbag and briefcase on the floor, and as she locked the door, she applied a final coat of lipstick, ready for a busy day ahead. Only she never made it to work, she never made it to her car, she didn’t even make it from her door. At 11:30am, three-and-a-half hours later, 15-year-old Ali Farnam exited the neighbouring flat, and as anyone would do, he didn’t expect the worst, but something innocent. Ali stated “I saw her lying on her side at the end of the corridor near the exit. I thought she had fainted and I could see that her face had gone a horrible grey colour. I was really scared so I went to get my friend”. He thought she’d fallen. “There was bits of make-up scattered all around her, and she was still holding a lipstick in her hand”. But when they returned, “there was hardly any blood. Just a tiny drop. I knew something was wrong. My friend said he thought she was dead but I didn’t believe it. We called the police straight away… I’ll always be haunted by what I saw… her lying there with an arrow sticking out of the side of her head”. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Superintendent Malcolm Hackett. The building was sealed off, the street was closed, house-to-house enquiries were conducted, officers with police dogs and metal detectors scoured the area, and forensics examined the scene. But there was not a single witness to her murder, to her murderer, and the murder weapon was never found. Her keys were by her body, but neither her flat nor car had been accessed. Her briefcase lay beside her unopened, yet the scattered lipstick, purse and letters had clearly come from her missing handbag. But the most baffling aspect of the crime wasn’t this pointless theft, but the method of killing itself. Sticking out from behind her left ear was a six-inch aluminium shafted crossbow bolt. All that could be seen was the plastic flight, as able to travel at 135mph, its steel tip had narrowly missed her skull and severed her spinal cord, buckling her legs underneath her, killing her instantly. With no bruising, no scrapes and no sign of struggle, she had been shot, robbed of an almost empty bag, and her killer fled. With the hallway window shut and no broken glass, the autopsy determined that Diana had been shot at close range, which made no sense, as a crossbow is used for shooting at a distance, not inches away. Ballistics determined that the weapon was a Barnett Trident handheld mini-crossbow, like a pistol, as used by amateur hunters or sportsmen. It was small enough to hide in a bag or jacket, and although its 75lb draw-weight prod made it one of the most powerful handheld crossbows, it’s almost silent. Police checked every seller in the UK, but although a lethal weapon, as shops weren’t legally required to record who bought what and when, with 100,000 sold in the country yearly, it was a fruitless task. Several theories were postulated as to who Diana’s killer could have been. Every known burglar was questioned, but with no signs of a break in, that was ruled out. With the new security door fitted weeks before, this should have limited the number of people who had access to Stanley Court, but it was left open from 7am to 9am daily, for the postman, milkman and builders. And with no doorman, witnesses and being before CCTV was standard, anyone could have entered. With the Police describing her killing as “a million-to-one shot”, some queried if this was the work of a professional assassin? Only Diana had no association with crime, and as Detective Malcolm Hacket later stated “it was the kind of toy which somebody would use for target practice… it is not the sort of weapon an intelligent man would use if he was planning a cold-blooded murder”, especially a hitman. Another theory the detective posed was “the crossbow was intended to threaten her, but discharged accidentally” as it had a hair-trigger, or “we are unable to say whether the bolt was used to stab her”, as above everything else, it looked like a basic robbery. But for what, as no money was missing? One month later, Diana’s handbag was found hidden in bushes on a footpath between Mount Avenue and Montpelier Park, a third of a mile from the crime scene, but nothing of any value was taken. On Thursday the 8th of September 1988 at 9pm, an appeal was broadcast on BBC’s Crimewatch, and an eyewitness came forward. The day before the murder, an unnamed ice-cream vendor spotted “a slightly built blonde young man” passing Stanley Court, carrying a mini crossbow in his leather jacket and a set of crossbow bolts in his hand. He was 19 to 21 years old, 5 foot 8, and had “cold hard eyes”. A photofit was sent to all Police boroughs, but who was he? Nobody knew. With no arrests or suspects, the coroner Dr John Barton asked that the body be held at Ealing Hospital for four more weeks “to give the killer a chance to come forward and say that it was an accident”, but as nobody did, Diana was buried in her family home town of Aughton. And with that, the case stalled. A memorial service was held on the 21st of June at St Peter’s Church in Ealing. In her honour, The Diana Maw Commemoration Fund was established to provide unemployed young people with training, as the most fitting way to remember her. But her boyfriend, Michael Stevens, struggled to come to terms with her murder, recalling “I’ve almost given up hope that the killer would be brought to justice… if someone knew something they would have come forward… more appeals aren’t going to help”. It was a motiveless crime on an unlikely victim by a sadistic culprit who remained unknown. Likely, they were the same person who had broken into her car, stole her briefcase, stalked her and terrorised her by phone, but none of that could ever be proven. Yet what baffled everyone most was the reason. Diana Maw was lovely, kind and caring, a woman madly in love, who had no enemies or rivals… …at least, that was what it seemed, as someone had been watching her. Released in UK cinemas on 15th of January 1988, Fatal Attraction starring Michael Douglas and Glenn Close introduced to the world the term ‘bunny boiler’, meaning a manipulative and vengeful ex-lover. Jane Frances Salveson was a 35-year-old design consultant from Brook Green near Hammersmith. Like Diana, they were smart, driven, successful and ambitious, but where as Diana was caring and loving who brought happiness to everyone, although tall, blonde and attractive, plagued by self-doubt and regularly attending group psychotherapy sessions, Jane was said to be jealous, selfish and possessive. In 1982, six years earlier, while on a sailing holiday on the Isle of Wight, she was introduced by a friend to a handsome business executive who had a £17000 yacht called Sodium on Hayling Island. They fell in love, became a couple, and planned to marry and move in together. His name was Michael Stevens. In May 1988, Michael broke up with Jane, and planned to move in with his new lover, Diana. Said to be “depressive, grief stricken” after the break up, anyone else would have let it go, but Jane couldn’t. In court, Janes’ solicitor, Brian Raymond said “she behaved in what she described as an undignified manner… but it should not, however, have been interpreted in the horrendous sinister way it was”. When questioned by Police, having voluntarily submitted herself to be interviewed four times, giving up her fingerprints and allowing the search of her flat twice – admittedly months after the murder - she admitted following the couple on dates to the cinema, but said she “made no direct approaches”. She also denied making the phone calls, or breaking into her car to steal her briefcase and Filofax. Investigating her further, detectives found out that she had posed as a buyer on several occasions to get into Diana’s flat at Stanley Court before the killing, and the house Diana was buying with Michael. On Monday 18th of July, two days before the murder, Jane withdrew money from two cash machines, with one on Haymarket in Piccadilly, perhaps for innocent reasons, or (as the detectives suspected) to conceal her purchase. That same day, a woman – described as “blonde, slim and attractive” - entered the London Trading Post sports shop at 52 Haymarket and bought a Barnett Trident mini crossbow with “a 75lb draw weight prod”, identical to the murder weapon, and a set of six-inch crossbow bolts. Staff remembered her as “crossbows are almost exclusively bought by men”… …the problem was, the suspect seen near Diana’s flat with the crossbow was a man. Jane vehemently denied threatening, stealing from or killing Diana, and although her solicitor retorted “her actions make her a sad woman. She was obsessive, but not a killer”, and yet the Police were rightly suspicious. On Wednesday 30th of November at Ealing Police Station, Jane took part in a ID parade of nine similarly looking woman in front of the three witnesses whose evidence could convict her. The sales assistant who sold the crossbow failed to pick her out, as did the store’s cleaner, yet the ice-cream vendor who said he’d seen “a slightly built blonde young man… with cold hard eyes” picked Jane out, having been asked by detectives about the man he’d seen, “could it have been a woman?”, at which he said ‘yes’. Jane Salveson was arrested that day, even though the evidence against her was purely circumstantial and seven compelling witnesses stated that at the time of Diana’s murder, “she was in a business meeting at the other end of town”, two of whom gave their statements a month before the ID parade. On the 1st of December 1988, at Ealing Magistrates Court, she denied murder, with her solicitor stating “she DID follow her former boyfriend and his girlfriend. But she NEVER threatened violence to either of them. It is a shameful behaviour which she bitterly regrets now… brought about by the break-up”. Committed for trial, her bail was rejected as detectives felt she was unstable, suicidal, and “there may be a very real fear for the safety of her ex-boyfriend at her hands”, and being held on remand at Holloway prison, her solicitor stated “for Jane Salveson to be accused of murder is a terrible mistake”. But on Thursday the 21st of April 1989, all that changed during a routine remand hearing. (End) With Jane bailed in February to a friend’s house on Shakespeare Road in Acton, Clare Reggiori, solicitor for the Crown Prosecution Service admitted “due to the complexity of the investigation, this case was far from clear cut… therefore, on the evidence available we cannot safely seek to convict Miss Salveson of murder”. Jane wasn’t in court, but by the end of the four-minute hearing, she had been acquitted. Her solicitor, Brian Raymond stated “there had been a gaping hole in the evidence” with “the Police becoming fixated by the idea that Miss Salveson was guilty… the real killer of Miss Maw is out there now. Miss Salveson was guilty of no more than being unlucky in love, and her life has been devastated”, adding “there was at least one person with a more potent motive for wishing ill towards Diana Maw”. Jane stated “I am immensely relieved that this ordeal is over and I can become a private person again. I never doubted that my innocence would be proven when all the facts were known”. But by this point, her life had been “irrevocably damaged for wrongful arrest” which no compensation could rectify. With no trial, no further arrests or other suspects, Jane was forced to quit her job, and friends stated “the trauma of the 10 month inquiry left her a recluse and needing psychiatric care… her reputation has been tarnished and she feels it may never recover”. Since 1989, she has not given any interviews. As for the police, whose investigation had serious flaws, rather than the lead detective taking the full responsibility for this abject failure, an unnamed spokesman said “no decision on whether to continue the investigation has taken place, but if new evidence came to light, Miss Salveson could be charged”. Yet the true victims were Diana whose brilliant life was cut short so tragically, her boyfriend Michael whose future with her was taken, and Diana’s grieving parents who stated “one hopes that justice has been done, but it won’t bring Diana back”, as above it all, “the tragedy is that our daughter is dead”. After almost four decades, the murder of Diana Maw remains unsolved… (Fake ending, music distorts). …only that isn’t where this story ends. Having been branded a ‘bunny boiler’ by the press, the Daily Mirror wrote “jilted lover Jane Salveson… denied being the prowler who has been haunting her ex-boyfriend”, and his new girlfriend, Joanna. On the 20th of July 1989, three months after the acquittal and on the one-year anniversary of Diana’s murder, an anonymous letter was sent to the press giving them sordid details about Michael’s life. Two weeks later, his home in Battersea was burgled, a window was smashed but nothing was stolen. Two week after that, damage occurred to his new girlfriend’s garden, and fearing that someone was out to do them harm, as they had begun to receive threatening phone calls at night, they moved out. In the first week of August 1989, Cowes week, Michael’s yacht called Sodium was burgled, and several personal items of his was stolen, including his camera, keys, cheque book, sunglasses, and his diary. And then, in June 1990, while Michael & Joanna were on their honeymoon, a suspected arson attack badly damaged their new three-storey house in Fulham, a fire which could have killed its occupants. Someone hated Michael, his new wife, his happy life, and they wanted them to be truly terrified. Jane Salveson was the primary suspect, with all three cases brought to trial. But again, on the charge of arson and burglary of his home, the CPS dropped the case owing to a lack of evidence. And as for the burglary of his yacht, although his stolen possessions were found in Jane’s flat, she said the diary, keys, sunglasses and chequebook came into her possession “when we exchanged property after our relationship ended”, that a mystery man had tried to frame her by selling her his camera, and again, that she couldn’t have committed the yacht’s burglary as several friends confirmed she was with them. Acquitted of all charges, Jane Salveson was released, and hasn’t been publicly heard of since. In court, her lawyer claimed “she’s felt victimised by the Police and their incessant involvement in every aspect of her life. This is a case that was unlikely to have been investigated with the vigour that it was and she feels bitter that she has borne the brunt of a very powerful and resourceful prosecution team”. And that is where the story truly ends. A sadistic killing which some say is unsolved and yet solved. So, who murdered Diana Maw; was it the jealous and possessive ex-girlfriend of her husband-to-be, or a mysterious unnamed stranger? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY: On Monday 9th of November 1970 at 8:42am, the TR5 sports car of celebrity hairstylist Andre Mizelas pulled up on South Carriage Drive in Hyde Park, London. It was daylight, rush hour and he was surrounded by cars, cyclists and pedestrians. 40 minutes his body was found in the dr4iver’s seat with two bullets in his head. No-one saw of heard his murder. But who killed him and why?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Who gunned down a celebrity hairdresser in a London park, and why? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on South Carriage Drive in Hyde Park, W2; a short walk south of the real reason for the killing of Constable Jack William Avery, a light dawdle west of the suicide pact of Gladys Wilson and her love-crazed Polish lover, the same road as the bloody Hyde Park bombing, and one street north of the deranged diplomat and his deadly obsession with feet - coming soon to Murder Mile. South Carriage Drive is a quiet little cut-through running along the south side of Hyde Park; as used by taxi-drivers when they can’t be bothered to fleece the tourists by getting snared-up in traffic, cyclists whose giant arses look like they’ve swallowed their saddles whole, and a bastard of joggers (yes, that’s the collective noun) who do more stretching than running, more huffing than sprinting, more swigging of sports drinks than actual sweating, and whose bulge or crevice is as sweaty as a week-old sandwich left in the sun while wrapped in clingfilm, as they wheeze and stumble as a motivational app’ reassures them: “keep it up, you are great, no-one thinks you are a twat, Lycra looks great on a 21 stone hippo”. And although many are a heart attack waiting to happen, they aren’t the only deaths on this stretch. On Monday the 9th of November 1970 at 8:40am, 48-year-old celebrity hairdresser Andre Mizelas was driving his sports car to his Old Bond Street salon, when - as he often did - he took a detour down South Carriage Drive to avoid the rush hour traffic at Hyde Park Corner. Within seconds, he was dead. But who would want to brutally murder a Mayfair hairstylist and why? Was it a jealous rival, a business partner with a grudge, a case of mistaken identity, or a gangland hit over secret dodgy dealings? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 330: The Slain Stylist. Andre’s life truly was a ‘rags to riches’ story. Born in Mile End Old Town on the 17th of April 1922, Andre was the eldest of two sons to Samuel & Sarah Mizelas, Jewish parents of Greek origin. As a rough, noisy and poverty strewn part of the East End of London, Andre was raised in a turbulent time seeing a rise in anti-Semitism and violent reprisals from Oswald Mosely’s ‘black shirt’ fascists as anti-immigrant sentiment swept across the city. For many boys, the only way to survive in such a cess pit of hate was with quick wits, fast fists and a switchblade razor, but Andre wasn’t big or tough. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t disguise his olive skin from the racists, and even as he adopted ‘Harry’ as his nickname, his surname of Mizelas summed him up perfectly, as it originated from the Yiddish word ‘meisel’ which means ‘small’ but also ‘little mouse’. Andre was a little mouse in a big house full of hungry cats, but what he lacked in size he gained in guts. On the 29th of March 1930, during the depth of the Great Depression, Andre’s baby brother ‘Bernie’ was born, and being eight years his junior, although always his little brother, the two were inseparable. For years, the family had lived at 56 Clark Street in Stepney, a working-class district surrounded by the deafening thrum of factories and the choking belch of caustic smoke, as although dark and dirty, they knew that the only way to climb out of the poverty trap was if you had a skill. Sarah his mother was a seamstress, Samuel his father was a tailor’s machinist, and keen to better themselves, in their back room was a worktable and a sewing machine where at night they worked, and Andre learned his trade. Sat behind a spinning spool of thread and bobbing needle, the small oval face of Andre sat for hours, his hair as neat as a pin, his suit immaculate, as he learned the value of professionalism and standards. In 1936, he left school, with his father keen that he become a tailor like him and his father before him, but hating the constant noise, he took the bold decision and told his dad “I want to be a hairdresser”. Many father’s of that era would have poured scorn on such a feminine profession, but seeing his son’s style, passion, and being several ranks higher than a common barber, Samuel not only supported his son, but funded his apprenticeship to learn his craft at ‘Le Jean’, a fancy stylists in London’s West End. His journey to fame and success had only just begun, yet every day, he would fight to make it right. In 1948, during the post-war boom, while working at the exclusive ‘Riche’ salon in Mayfair, Andre met a fellow stylist who worked at Claridge’s hotel. Bernard Greenford was a small, dark and dapper man, born in Essex and - like Andre - having spent his childhood in London, many knew him only as ‘Charlie’. They were so alike, it made sense to work together, only Bernard admitted “I didn’t have a passion. I was pushed into it… as a youth, I wanted to go to the South Sea Islands like Fiji, and signed up as a ship’s hairdresser”. He saw the world, served in the Nazy, and - like Andre - being medically discharged, he was earning an honest crust as a high-end stylist when the two friends decided to pool their savings and opened their first ladies hair salon at 20 Grafton Street in Mayfair, and ‘Andre Bernard’ was born. It worked perfectly, as Andre was the creative force, Bernard was the businessman, and with many a wealthy woman travelling across the country to have her hair teased by this ‘fashion wunderkind’, in 1953, Andre’s younger brother, Bernie – a man he whole heartedly trusted - began managing their expanding fleet of salons, as they opened in Liverpool, Wigan, Southport, Norwich, Chester and Bristol. In 1965, being a celebrity in his own right, Andre legally changed his middle name to Harry, and with his reputation growing far and wide, by 1967 and the height of the Swinging Sixties, business was so good that Andre Bernard went public, and as a limited company, they sold shares in their business. By 1970, with more than 20 salons, two more about to open and 400 staff, Andre the ‘little mouse’ had become a ‘big cheese’ in the fashion industry, with actresses like Julie Christie, many top models, and seven queens as his regular clients, attending his flagship salon at 10a Old Bond Street in Mayfair. And better still, his personal life was stable and good. Back in 1946, Andre had met and fallen in love with Betty Warburton, who like many women had been made a war-widow in her early 30s. They never married, as she never felt it necessary (and perhaps, was left a little traumatised as her last husband was tragically killed), so – never having children – the two (who everyone knew as Mr & Mrs Mizelas) moved into a stylish Regency style home at 29 St Mary Abbots Terrace in fashionable Kensington, where the would live happily together for the next 25 years. Fame made them regular guests at fancy soirees, Andre drove a brand-new Triumph TR5 sports car in red, they rented out their second home at 8 Lonsdale Square in Islington having converted it into flats, and holidayed several times a year at their tranquil little Quintas at Fazenda da Caravela in the Algarve. Business was booming and profits were up, so much so that in September 1970, it made sense for the infamous stylist but also Andre’s friend for 20 years, Vidal Sassoon, to be in high level talks to merge his more successful salon empire with Andre Bernard. Within a decade, Vidal Sassoon would be worth over $100 million annually ($300 million today), making Andre’s dream of going global, a reality. Before the year had ended, Andre would be gunned down in what looked like a professional ‘hit’… …but who would want a hairdresser with no known criminal connections, dead? It made no sense. It was either someone who truly hated him, had mistaken him for someone else, or would gain from his death? His brother, Bernie said “he knew lots of people, but did not have many close friends”, as being so focussed on success, he could be blunt. Yet many of his rich clients loved him so much, they made him executor of their estates, as Doris Baker did in 1967 even though her husband was still alive. Mistaken identity was unlikely, as with his face often in the newspapers being seen at a party draped over a famous actress, he was a name, he was known, and drove a car which even today turned heads. As a boss, he’d become a success by being tough, determined, and as everyone knew ”a man with an iron will in business affairs. If in his estimation, employees and executives had let him down, they were out”, and although hard, isn’t that what you expect from a successful person? Being cold and ruthless. In October 1957, 17-year-old Sheila Kaye refused to cut her shoulder-length dark-hair and was sacked as an apprentice at one of Andre’s salons. He said she looked like “the woman in a ‘keep death off the road’ poster’… it looked dirty, unkempt and out of shape”. She sued him for wrongful dismissal, and was awarded damages of £1 and 4s (about 4 days pay). She wasn’t the first employee whose feathers he ruffled, but would a disgruntled stylist hire a potential ‘hitman’ to whack out their demanding boss? One unnamed associate said “he was smooth, well dressed and too sure of himself. I didn’t like him”, as even his own brother had to admit “he was extremely confident of himself”, he lacked humility and “had a violent and sudden temper”. In May 1968, the board of Andre Bernard Ltd came to blows when Bernard Greenford sued Andre and their co-director Dame Patricia Hornsby-Smith over a libel claim that Andre had said he was “unfit to manage”. In 1969, the matter was settled in court, Bernard left the company, but retained 15% of the business. Not bad for a man who never wanted to be a stylist. There was no obvious animosity between Bernard and Andre, as after 20 years they had drifted apart. But if Bernard had hated Andre, wouldn’t his revenge have been more brutal? As Andre died in a fast efficient way, but if this was an emotionally charged killing, wouldn’t he have beaten him to death? Bernard Greenford was married to Linda, Sybil Burton’s half-sister who was actor Richard Burton’s first wife. In The Richard Burton Diaries, he states that in May 1969, “Bernard was being squeezed out by his snake-in-the-grass partner Andre… a sneaky jumped-up-jack of a fellow”, and Burton had loaned the company ‘substantial amounts’ when times were tight during their rapid expansion. But there was also talk that Bernard had quietly walked away from the business three years before, hence the libel. On Friday the 6th of November 1970, having come back from a holiday in the Algarve with Betty, Bernie and his brother’s wife, word came through that – after four months of talks - the hotly anticipated merger with Vidal Sassoon had collapsed, because of a “difference of opinion” between the two men. Described by an unnamed ex-associate as “a very tough, but unhappy man”, Bernie later recalled, that weekend, that Andre had said “I think that some time next year, I’ll pass the business over to you… perhaps then they’ll leave me alone”. Bernie was so shocked at the weariness in brother’s demeanour that he never asked who ‘they’ were, and with Andre clearly worried about something, or someone… …the next time they saw each other, that fact had gone with him to his grave. Monday the 9th of November 1970 was an ordinary day. Being the cusp of winter, the morning was glum and drizzly. With the air still stinking of gun powder after the flash-bang festivities of Guy Fawkes night, many papers bemoaned the dangers of fireworks and bon fires, and the chatter on the street was of the loss from circulation of the ten-shilling note, the debut of comedy series The Goodies that night, the troubles in Northern Ireland, floods in Pakistan, and rumblings in Ted Heath’s government. At 8am, as per usual, being a man of impeccable routine and timekeeping, Andre sat down to breakfast with his common-law wife Betty, enjoying orange juice, buttered toast, coffee, and a bowl of cereal. He was his normal self and in an okay mood as he kissed her goodbye, and at just before 8:30am, again as per usual, in his identifiable red Triumph TR5, he left his home at 29 St Mary Abbots Terrace. As a journey he had undertaken daily for more than two decades, this 3.6 mile trip to 10a Old Bond Street in Mayfair – his flagship salon surrounded by designers like Cartier, Hermès, Louis Vuitton and Gucci – with a travel time of roughly 33 minutes during a late rush-hour, he would arrive at 9am precisely. That morning, he took his usual route; left onto High Street Kensington, passed Holland Park, skirting passed Kensington Palace (the then-home of Princess Margaret), onto Kensington Road on the south side of Hyde Park, passed many foreign embassies, the Albert Memorial and the Royal Albert Hall, and at the junction of Exhibition Road, he turned left into Alexandra Gate as he entered Hyde Park. The time was just after 8:40am, and to avoid the snarl-up of traffic at Hyde Park Corner, after 1.4 miles and roughly 15 minutes, he turned right onto South Carriage Drive, travelling east towards Park Lane. Andre Mizelas, the celebrity hair-stylist was seconds from being murdered… but why, and who by? At about 8:42am, Andre’s TR5 trundled down South Carriage Drive at a slow but steady pace; it was day-time, during rush-hour, he was surrounded by cars, bicycles and strolling commuters in the heart of a major metropolitan city, and proceeding on a long straight road lined with trees and bushes on both sides, as he passed the bowling green to his left, it was then that his killer made his appearance. A cyclist behind the TR5 recalled “a man stepped out from the bushes to flag down the car. He stopped so suddenly that I had to break to avoid crashing into it”, and with the car‘s nearside wheels two feet from the kerb, it was parked so badly, cars had to steer to avoid it. Yet the killing, nobody saw or heard. Craning down as the TR5 was barely 4 feet high, with a 0.22 or 0.25 calibre pocket pistol – maybe a Beretta 950, a Raven P25, or a Colt Junior – the killer had leaned in and fired from a distance of four inches from inside the open passenger’s door, shooting Andre twice in the left forehead and temple. Police initially thought that the gun had a silencer, as none of the cars or pedestrians who were passing heard a shot, but ballistic tests proved that the car’s interior had muffled the bangs, maybe mistaken for a car back-firing, there was barely a flash, and the traffic sounds had eliminated any raised voices. Anyone passing may have thought this was merely two men engaged in a conversation, and not that a killing was taking place, which explains why no-one came to Andre’s aid, or saw the killer flee. For 40 minutes, the TR5 sat ‘badly parked’ on South Carriage Drive with its engine on and doors shut. Nobody stopped to see if the driver was okay, as with Andre slumped over the passenger’s seat, many motorists and passersby (who were engaged in their own affairs) may have assumed that the car was abandoned and empty. But it was an assumption which let killer to walk flee and evidence to vanish. (Sounds: cars passing, the passage of time, etc). At 9:25am, a cyclist (often mistaken for the one who swerved to avoid the car) cycled passed the TR5. Caroline Scarlett, an assistant librarian from West Kensington who was heading to Portman Square, recalled thinking it looked strange: “I rode on for five yards… I looked through the windscreen... I saw a man slumped in the driving seat. My first impression was that he had fallen asleep, so I cycled on”. With two entrance wounds to his left temple and forehead, no exit wounds to the right, and slumped on the passenger’s seat, Caroline didn’t see the blood on his grey hair and sheepskin coat, “so I thought he may be ill. I went back and looked. I can never forget the colour of his face, it looked absolute blue”. But even then, she wasn’t thinking this was a murder, or even that he was dead. Alerting two groundskeepers from the bowling green just 100 feet away, the first said “a girl came and told us that a car had stopped… a man looked ill and needed assistance”. He said “I knew at once he was dead. I’d seen enough bodies during the war”, but as he opened the car door to check, seeing the open bloody wounds to his head, even he didn’t think this was a murder, but a car accident. But how? At 9:53am, called to a possible ‘road accident’, PC Chris Drakes didn’t have a crime scene to secure, so he asked the groundskeepers to move the car as it was blocking traffic, and thereby inadvertently destroyed any fingerprints. He escorted Andre, who was barely alive, in an ambulance to St George’s hospital on the east side of Hyde Park, but at 10am, he was declared dead… and with CID informed about the bullet wounds to his skull, it was established as a murder, but the evidence was lost forever. The investigation was headed up by Detective Chief Superintendent Ivor Reynolds. As expected, the crime scene was a mess; as the car was moved, fingerprints erased and bloodstains smeared, any muddy footprints in the bushes had been trampled by gorping pedestrians as the street wasn’t sealed off for another hour, the car’s position had to be guessed from memory, and unaware that they’d witnessed a murder, many witnesses (some of whom were tourists) had vanished for good. Nobody heard the shots, nobody saw the killing, and nobody saw Andre’s killer. The area was searched with metal detectors and sniffer dogs, but nothing was found. 1000s of people were questioned at road blocks in Hyde Park with Andre’s TR5 in position with a sign on it which read ‘you must have seen this car?’, but very few recalled it. And with the Serpentine searched by divers, no gun matching the killer’s was found, so all forensics had was two crushed bullets from Andre’s skull, but no shell casings. It wasn’t a suicide, and as a murder, it made very little sense. If this was a car-jacking, why hadn’t they stolen his sports car? If this was a robbery, why hadn’t they taken his wallet, his gold watch, his rings, or his briefcase? If this was a grudge attack, why did the autopsy find “no marks of violence or a struggle”? If this was a pre-planned murder, why had they killed him in broad daylight, during rush-hour, and on a busy road, where (police estimated that) at least fifty cars pass every minute, let alone pedestrians and cyclists? And why kill him here, rather than behind the door of his home, on his street (which was an unlit isolated terrace), or in his own office? Appealing for witnesses, a 9 minute reconstruction was transmitted on LWT’s crime show ‘Police 5’, a precursor of BBC’s Crimewatch, as hosted by Shaw Taylor. And on the 23rd of November, two weeks after the killing, the first cyclist (often confused with Caroline Scarlett who found the body), who had swerved to avoid hitting Andre’s car, was stopped at the road block and volunteered her information. She didn’t realise it, as she didn’t know what she had witnessed, but she had seen the killer’s face. She remembered it vividly, as she almost collided with the rear of the TR5, and said that a man stepped from behind the bushes by the bowling green, and flagged down Andre’s car. He was in his 30s, 5 foot 9 inches tall, he had a thin face, a square jaw, thin lips, dark hair, a sallow complexion, and was of a Latin American or Mediterranean appearance, wearing a dark jacket, blue trousers, a polo-necked sweater, a peaked cap, and (even though the day was typically dark and gloomy) he wore sunglasses. He didn’t look like anyone that Andre’s friends, family, staff or business partners had seen… …but one thing was certain, Andre knew him. His brother, Bernie stated “Andre would never stop his car for a stranger, he had a fear of hitch-hikers”, but he would use those moments travelling to work to pick-up someone he knew to discuss business. So was this a meeting which ended in his death? No. Police confirmed that there was nothing out-of-the-ordinary about Andre’s routine that day, but the cyclist recalled seeing that very identifiable stranger in the same spot on South Carriage Drive, just a few days before, but that week, Andre had taken a different route by heading to Hyde Park Corner. As Andre had told his brother two days before his murder, “perhaps then they’ll leave me alone”. But who were ‘they’? A clue came in a meeting which never took place. Three days before his death, Andre had called Colin Findlay, the head of a private detective agency in Upper Norwood, South London. Colin said, “(Andre) told me he wanted strict surveillance put on two people”, he was calm and relaxed, he didn’t appear frightened or upset, “I said it wasn’t wise to discuss the matter on the telephone and said we should arrange to meet and talk it over fully. In the end, he agreed to telephone me”, on the day he was murdered, “so that we could meet some time later in the day… obviously, I now realise that it is a good possibility that his death is strongly connected with the two people he wanted me to observe”. Andre never said their names, or alluded to their occupations. But who were they, as it’s clear they must have benefitted from his killing? Everyone who had worked for him was questioned, and ruled out. Bernie, his brother was distraught and proven to be in Chester when he was shot. His co-director, Dame Patricia Hornsby-Smith had an solid alibi and wasn’t considered a viable suspect. And although he had sued Andre, his former partner Bernard Greenford’s 15% of the business would have been worth nothing with Andre dead, if it hadn’t been expertly managed by Bernie, his grieving brother, who steering Andre’s legacy into greater profit. (Voice) - “perhaps then they’ll leave me alone”. With Andre unmarried and childless, Betty his common-law wife inherited his personal estate of over £153,000, as decreed in a will dated four years before, with the remainder of his property left to his brother and his parents. She stated “after his death, I lost a life-long friend and had a breakdown”. (Voice) - “perhaps then they’ll leave me alone”. As for Vidal Sassoon, his friend of over 20-years, the collapse of the merger and Andre’s death neither benefitted nor hindered his business, and he spoke openly about his grief at losing a man he respected. (Voice) - “perhaps then they’ll leave me alone”. (End) Being short on facts and desperate to print any old twaddle, the tabloid press came up with a raft of silly theories which DCS Reynolds said “held no weight”, all of which only muddied the investigation. One was that he owed gangland boss Alfie Gerard £100,000 and was bumped off by Nicky his son, the hitman who would murder Alfredo Zomparelli in 1974, only he looks nothing like the photofit. Another was that, although he’d been with Betty for 25 years, Andre had an affair with a gangster’s wife and the killing was payback. But then why would Andre pull over his car for a mistresses’ jealous lover? The press also tried to link his killing to the unconnected murder of market research executive, James Cameron who was shot dead in his Islington home two weeks before. Four years later, they came up with a bullshit theory that “Mr Mizelas… was shot dead by a hired killer from abroad… the killer arrived in London… went to a safe deposit box in a West End hotel where a gun and ‘fee’ was waiting”, even though this again contradicts the fact that Andre would never stop his car for a stranger, and by driving a high-end sports car, he could easily have sped away down this straight road if he felt threatened. And they even tried to link it to a man who was found dead with a single head wound, having been shot with a 9mm bullet using a mysterious ‘walking stick gun’, in the same park, a few hundred yards away and almost exactly one year after Andre’s murder, but this was later ruled as ‘a tragic accident’. On the 24th of March 1971 at Westminster Coroner’s Court, DCS Ivor Reynolds who headed up the investigation stated that with no arrests made and - more importantly - no motive, “at this point of time we have no valid suspect”. And with that, there was no need for the jury to retire to consider their verdict, as coroner Dr Gavin Thurston ruled that Andre was “murdered by persons unknown”. Andre was buried on 3rd of February 1971 at Bushey Jewish Cemetery, and with it still a mystery who Andre had asked the private detective to keep surveillance on, and why, the case remains unsolved. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
22 Coulter Road in Shepherd's Bush @Googlemaps2026 July2025
EP331: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS: On Friday 7th of February 2025, single mother of four children, Victoria Adams invited homeless ex-con Apapale Adoum arrived to stay at her home at 2 Coulter Road in Shepherd’s Bush. The next day, he brutally murdered her. But what were both of their motives?
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Why did a mother-of-four invite a violent ex-con to live in her home? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Coulter Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W6; three streets east of where Reg Christie had his dog (Judy) put to death, two streets north of the sadistic rape and murder of 12-year-old Katerina Koneva, three streets south of the recent suitcase murders by a fame-obsessed ex-porn star, and four streets west of the maniac who terrorised an empty grave - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated off Goldhawk Road in what is affectionately called Brackenbury Village (even though it’s not a village), Coulter Road consists of a very ordinary series of two storey terraces from the early Victorian era. Being flat-fronted except for a bow window on the ground floor, this gives everyone the chance to gorp inside to see what their neighbour is watching on telly and get a sense of who they truly are. In short, if it’s reality TV guff, they’re a bit thick, as they think all ‘celebrities’ must have Turkey teeth, a tan, fake tits and no brain; if it’s art, they’re a pretentious ponce in red trousers; if it’s news, they’re a bigot, a bore or a blatant racist depending on what channel they’re watching; and sport denotes a fat wheezing loser whose sole purpose in life is to drone on about what the players did wrong, having seen the offending clip fifty-two times from sixty-eight angles in slow-mo. Oh, isn’t hindsight great? But not everything we need to know about our neighbours can be gleaned within a single look. On Thursday 6th of February 2025, Victoria Adams, a single mother-of-four invited a homeless man to escape the bitter cold. Said to be a ‘good Samaritan’, she opened her heart to this fellow human who had recently been released from prison, and by the Friday, she had opened her doors to him. But by the Saturday, he had taken advantage of her warmth and generosity, and had brutally murdered her. But why did he sabotage this valuable act of kindness, and why did she invite him to stay? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 331: The Kindness of Strangers. Life is difficult, it’s a struggle, and although many of us refuse to admit it, we need others to survive and with it being difficult to ask for help, we often only do so when our lives reach its lowest ebb. The ‘Good Samaritan’ was 37-year-old Victoria Adams, known to her friends and loved ones as ‘Vicky’. Little was reported about her upbringing, as with the trauma of her tragic death still fresh in their memories of those who grieved her, their grief rightly revolved about what they miss about her most. Her aunt Cathy tearfully told the press "Vicky tried to repay the kindness she’d been shown by others”, as a good deed can only be repaid if the recipient pays it forward to someone equally as in need, “but she paid for this with her life. She was a woman in her prime with her whole life in front of her”. It was a life of strife and struggle, but having been aided by others, this was possibly her chance to pay it back. Vicky was described as “very trusting, generous, caring and fun-loving”, a woman who wanted not the finer things in life, but what any person deserves; to be happy, to be loved, to be safe, and although in the reporting of her death, a husband or partner was never mentioned in the life of mother-of-four young children, those details may have been kept out of the press, and for good reason. Nobody wants the tabloids trawling thought the difficulties she had endured, or worse still, its readers making a slew of uneducated accusations about her circumstances, based on her name, her photo, or even less. It's little more than victim-blaming or victim-shaming, as if her actions were the reason for her death. What’s undeniable is that Vicky was vulnerable, someone who needed support, and yet instead, for her own reasons, she became a saviour to someone who she felt was worse off than her. Her younger sister, Sophie said “I was in shock… she was murdered in her own home by a man she barely knew, a man she was only trying to help. The hardest part is knowing she left behind four beautiful children. It breaks my heart to knew they will grow up without her. She didn’t deserve this, no-one does”… …and yet, her life would be taken by “one man’s selfish actions”. For just a short period of time, Vicky had lived in the upstairs flat of 22 Coulter Road in Shepherd’s Bush, a pleasant residential street in a decent neighbourhood where generations of families had lived since the 1860s. The flat was small and self-contained, perfect for a lone woman, where she may have hoped to rebuilt her life, as (given her circumstances) it was suggested that her children didn’t live with her. …but someone else soon would. Thursday 6th of February 2025 was a typical late-winter’s day; cold, drizzly and barely above freezing. Only Vicky truly knew why she went there, but that day, she headed to one of the several homeless charities in the area (maybe St Mungo’s, St Paul’s, Shelter, Crisis or Glass Door), where some of the most desperate queued up for life’s basics; like a warm meal, fresh water, clean socks and a safe place to sleep, being not just drunks and druggies, immigrants and the insane, but battered wives fleeing abuse, ex-soldiers forgotten by the state, and (all too often) prisoners who have served their sentence. The saviour and the homeless man were strangers. It was said that there they “met for the first time”, and the next day, having given him her address, holding a suitcase of his possessions, he came to stay. It may seen odd, even dangerous, that a vulnerable lone woman would invite a stranger, especially a man, who is also an ex-con whose history (including any possible crimes, drug habits and mental health issues) she was unaware of, to come and live in a small isolated flat behind a locked door, but she did. It’s something that happens to us all, a sense of charity and a need to help others; for some, it’ll mean a small monthly donation to built a well in a far-away village they’ll never visit, to others, they’ll give their time and energy to a cause which tugs at their heart strings - Vicky would help a homeless man. And although many lives have been changed by such positive altruism, it can come with many dangers. In 2016, nine years prior, 50-year-old Tracey Wilkinson of Stourbridge, a married woman with a good life, a nice house, a happy life and a 13-year-old son called Pierce, took pity when she saw 24-year-old Aaron Barley outside a supermarket huddled in a cardboard box. Knowing she could change his life, she drove him home, fed him, gave him a safe place to stay, and her husband, Peter, found him a job. It was a fresh start for a young drug-addict for whom life had run out of second chances, but as the judge later summed up “you abused (their) extraordinary kindness and generosity… you destroyed this family”. Having crept back in, and lain in wait, he launched a “violent, sustained assault involving severe force”, which Peter barely survived, but with Pierce stabbed 8 times and Tracey 17 times, both mother and son died in bloody agony. Aaron Barley was sentenced to life with a minimum of 30 years. Not all acts of kindness end in tragedy, but this did, and Vicky’s story would. But why did this lone and vulnerable female invite a dangerous male stranger into her home? Was it charity and compassion… …or an ulterior motive? Every story has a hero and a villain, regardless of whether it’s a film, a soap opera or a news story. The murder of Victoria Adams was no different, as the second it hit the headlines, it became politicised, a tool to beat those who are different, as if we (and our own kind) are entirely blameless of any crimes. In the early stages of the investigation, very little could be reported, so the press all rehashed the same basic facts and used similar headlines along the lines of ‘homeless man beat good mother to death’. Rightly, they highlighted her positives, being a kind and loving mother-of-four, but some also tweaked details to suit this agenda of showing how different they were by (in some cases) calling him a ‘tramp’, and her street as 'Millionaire's Row', when it wasn’t, as the average house price in London is £1 million. Under the headline were two photos; Vicky, whose kind face was that of an ordinary, tax-paying, law-abiding woman who – instantly – every reader knew they could relate to; and next to hers, her killer. His photo, even before the facts were known (and many of which were never reported) didn’t stop a torrent of uneducated bile from spewing forth from the bored knee-jerk reactionaries on social media who claim to be patriots, or foreign-funded news organisations with their own ‘dog-whistle’ agendas. All we could tell from his grumpy, scowling face was that he was a male in his late 30s and black, and even though almost every article regardless of it’s political leaning was mostly accurate, that didn’t stop the morons making their opinions known in the comments section, having not read a single word. On a popular news website, when he was named as Apapale Adoum, the comments read “not a very British name. No surprise… I could’ve guaranteed you that he wasn’t gonna be called Jonh!”, which was made all the more ironic having spelled ‘John’ wrong, with one even blaming Vicky for her killing, stating “what kind of a name is that, lady should have known better!”. And because he was black, some wrote “tell us again why diversity is our strength” and “more enrichment in our community?”. In the first week of 2025, the migrant boats crossing the English channel from France had become a hot potato, as used (and abused) by every political party. One year before, figures state that 36,000 people mostly from Afghanistan, Syria and Vietnam made the perilous journey in flimsy boats. In 2025, that increased by 16%, with roughly 50 on day one, 100 on day two and increasing to 250 on day three. It didn’t matter that Vicky’s killer wasn’t an immigrant, an asylum seeker or had never lived overseas, as having seen his photo, all that mattered was that he wasn’t white, and that’s all they had to know. One commenter wrote “another ‘guest’ of our government?” followed by angry emojis, another wrote “no immigration, no crime” as if there’s never been a white person in prison, one wrote “deport every last one of them” which would be easy as he born just a bus ride away from London, and – rattling the chains of another political hot potato, the government’s scheme to reduce the asylum backlog of refugees facing homelessness, by ordinary people offering up their spare rooms, especially to families of those from war-torn Ukraine – one commenter wrote “I ain’t letting no murderers in my bedroom”. Admittedly, some gave good advice; “we look after homeless people over winter but we are told never to invite them into our homes”, some turned it into a joke “strange way to go about looking for a step dad”, some pointed out “though not all homeless are thieves, drug addicts, psychopaths or sociopaths. Some are! The same as those who are religious, middle class and wealthy”. But it didn’t take long for the basic facts to be bastardised, with some sources claiming he was “a migrant from Chad, in Africa”. And as it always does, with every falsehood now a fact in the eyes of those who choose to believe it, with the so-called immigrant status of Vicky’s killer weaponised by those with an axe to grind, and with the truth about Apapale Adoum not being reported, it’s hard to blame the ignorant for their lies. So, who was he? On 12th of December 1986, five years after the Birmingham race riots, Wynton Apapale Adoum was born in Eastbourne, a seaside town on the English south coast – meaning he was British born and bred. As the eldest of two sons to a single-parent mother whose maiden name was Buffard (a name which has Middle English origins), he was educated at Wey Valley School in Weymouth, a very British seaside town in the picturesque county of Dorset, known for its stunning Jurassic coastline. Little is known of his early life being raised on a 1970s council estate called Littlemoor, and although it may seem idyllic and far from the crime of the big city, being a black youth in white village came with its own problems. In fact, the only time the family was mentioned in the local paper was when his brother went missing for several days, aged 12, but was later found safe and well, having ran away from home. But it wouldn’t be the last time that Apapale Adoum would make the headlines. With no known skills or job, on the 19th of July 2004, aged 18, his descent into drugs and violence was reported in the Dorset Echo: stating “Wynton Apapale Adoum… has denied threatening to kill a person and two counts of assault. But admitted damaging a door frame on the day of the alleged offences. He was granted bail on condition that he lives at a friend’s house in Bristol, does not contact any witnesses, does not drink alcohol or take any non-prescription drugs, and does not visit Weymouth, except to attend court”. Barely out of his teens, and already an angry messed-up boy who, often being high and drunk, was banned from his hometown owing to threats, intimidation, and prone to unprovoked acts of violence and with murder on his mind, Apapale Adoum was about to serve a stretch in prison, the first of many. The prosecutor, John Price KC, said during his trial for Vicky’s murder that “he had a history of violence against women”. Something it’s unlikely Vicky knew, as in 2018 he broke a woman’s jaw and gave her a black eye, and in 2024 he attacked two female prison officers, punching one and knocking her out. In court, he shouted furiously from the dock, denying claims that he was a woman beater, stating “I’m just violent. That’s my problem. I’m a bad man for that, don’t make me out to be a coward”, for which the judge had to send him back down to the cells at the Old Bailey, so he could calm himself down. See? With a little research rather than just reacting to the colour of his skin, those who commented on his crime didn’t need to fabricate his immigrant status in order to hate him, as he was already a nasty, violent man who should never have been allowed near any woman, ever again… …but he was. During the last week of January 2025, having been released from prison, Adoum was homeless, alone, and broke. This also meant that any anger management courses became voluntary, his counselling became as empty as his wallet, and the medication to cure his drug abuse was sketchy as his prospects. Upon release, his situation was bad, as it was for many prisoners that year. 13.1% of prisoner released in England in 2024 ended up homeless. 53% of all homeless persons have been in prison with 11% citing it as their last address. 67% of homeless ex-prisoners are more likely to reoffend, and with overcrowding and funding an issue, that year, 12% more prisoners were released. Many ex-prisoners become homeless owing to faults which aren’t their own. Some are only told of their release with little (if any) notice, so any accommodation cannot be planned. While inside, they are disqualified from council housing. Landlords are hesitant to rent to those with criminal records. Delays in Universal Credit leave ex-prisoners without funds for rent or deposits. Prison can worsen any trauma, mental health and addiction. Family ties and friendships are often severed. And the situation is so bad that some prisons issue homeless prisoners with a tent and a sleeping bag upon their release. Prison is a hard and unforgiving place, full of fear and danger. But for many, homelessness is worse. It’s so horrific – with it reported that in 2023, the UK saw a worrying rise of 12.2% in homeless deaths, - many former convicts deliberately reoffend, so they can return to the place they feel safe – prison. September 2024, an early-release scheme was initiated to free up space in our overcrowded prisons. Again, on paper, it ticked a lot of boxes so the bureaucrats could give themselves a pat on the back for a job well done, but with some prisoners released by mistake and others let out without electronic tags or a curfews, as before, with no accommodation planned, where were these prisoners to stay? Many would be homeless without the kindness of a Good Samaritan… ...but, why did Vicky invite this homeless stranger into her home? It seems odd, as she was a lone vulnerable female. It seems stranger still, given his history of violence against women, which (having supposedly just met him) she may not have known. But said to be “kind and trusting”, it was believed Vicky had "tried to repay the kindness she’d been shown by others”. Her neighbour, Ellie Scot, said the street as “peaceful… there’s never any trouble”, and although, just days later, an attempted murder occurred just a few streets away, the reason Vicky was said to be vulnerable was because of her drug use and having previously invited homeless people to stay. That could also be why her children weren’t there… and thankfully so, as this could have been a massacre. On Wednesday 5th of February, three days before her murder, and one day before (it is said) she had met Adoum at a local homeless shelter, neighbours saw three men shouting up at her first-floor flat, they argued, and at roughly 3am, another neighbour heard the “piercing screams of a woman”. As a lone vulnerable female, it is unexplained why she didn’t call the Police, her friends or family, as instead she went to the homeless shelter seeking someone who looked like he could protect her. It was never said why she was at a homeless shelter, maybe she was a Good Samaritan, a volunteer, or being in dire need, she was visiting a food bank? Both being drug users, that could be how they knew each other? And although this could seem strange to us, it may have seemed normal for Vicky. On Friday the 7th of February 2025, Apapale Adoum arrived (as planned) at the communal door of 22 Coulter Road in Shepherd’s Bush, and rang the bell to the upstairs flat. He was wearing the same clothes, he was hungry, in need of a bath, and carried his worldly possessions in a small suitcase. Prosecutor John Price KC said “Ms Adams allowed him to stay at her home as he had nowhere to live and thought he would offer her some protection from local drug dealers who were threatening her. She came to regret it, probably because he is by nature violently unpredictable and she may well have become frightened of him”, and realising her mistake, she wrote him a nice note asking him to leave. But where as she feared the violence of drug dealers, he feared being hungry and homeless. Sometime during the afternoon of Saturday the 8th, just one day after his arrival, being alone behind a locked door in an isolated flat with a large powerful man who refused to leave her home, Vicky was attacked in what was said to be ‘a blind rage’, as his unpredictable fury against women was unleashed. In her bedroom, the one place she should have felt safe, he entered with one just thought on his mind – her murder. Neighbours later reported hearing screams coming from the flat, but no-one came to her aid, as taking these weapons of death from her own kitchen; he slipped a black plastic bin-bag over her head, pushed her face into a pillow suffocating her, and with a wooden cooking mallet, “he bludgeoned her with severe force… inflicting 10 separate injuries to the back and side of the head”. Her death was horrific and swift, but his departure was not. Instead of fleeing, he left her body where she lay, growing ever cold until her blood coagulated around her. In the kitchen, he attempted to wash-up the mallet which was matted with her blood and hair. He then packed his suitcase, leaving it in the sitting room to collect later, and left, stealing her purse. But as premediated as this murder had been, one thing he had forgotten to steal – her house keys. Having drained her bank account and blown what little she had on cocaine, drink, trainers and junk food, the next day, Sunday 9th at 10:13pm, police were called to 22 Coulter Road as neighbours heard Adoum’s repeated attempts to break down the communal door. With two knives and a screwdriver found in his pockets, he was charged with two counts of possession of an offensive weapon, and even though Vicky’s body was found, at that point in the investigation, they couldn’t charge him with murder, so callously he asked about his suitcase, “am I going to get the rest of my stuff from upstairs?” On Tuesday 11th, three days later at Westminster Magistrates Court, Adoum pleaded ‘guilty’ to two counts of possession of an offensive weapon and was sentenced to 42 weeks’ imprisonment. He could have fled, and vanished at any time, but as the police’s only suspect in the murder of Vicky Adams and with the evidence against him mounting, his bail was denied and he was held at Wandsworth Prison. The investigation headed up by Detective Chief Inspectors Matt Denby and Ollie Stride was thorough, and with a timeline established and a careful forensic analysis of how Adoum was linked to Vicky’s death – including CCTV footage, traffic cameras, phone mast data and her bank statements which showed where he had spent her money during his spending spree – the most damning evidence was the bloodstains in her sink, the mallet which (although he had attempted to wash it, her DNA remained on it) being found inside his suitcase, as well as his fingerprints on the binbag used to suffocate her. On Thursday 5th of June 2025, almost exactly four months after they had met, Adoum was re-arrested on suspicion of her murder, and the very next day, he was formerly charged with that offence. (End) The three-week trial began at the Old Bailey on Tuesday 26th of August 2025 before Judge Nigel Lickley KC. Before the court, 39-year-old Wynton Apapale Adoum of no fixed address said he had prepared a statement which was said to include “derogatory comments about Victoria Adams”, and he wanted it read out “for the sake of appeasement for anyone who may be present”. And although his “various handwritten notes about what happened at the flat had been prepared”, they were never reported. That same day, pleading guilty to her murder, with the judge delaying his sentencing for two months to allow time for any appeals on grounds of his mental health, later found to be sane and fully aware of his actions, on Thursday 30th of October 2025, Adoum given a life sentence with a minimum term of 21 years, meaning he will not be eligible for parole until 2046. In his summing up, Judge Lickley told Adoum: "Ms Adams was murdered in her own home. She had taken you in and offered you shelter… but you betrayed her kindness and good nature… in an attack which was both brutal and savage". Detective Chief Inspector Matt Denby said: “I hope that Adoum’s admission of guilt and long sentence is a small reprieve for Victoria’s family and friends. It is a tragedy that she was killed by Adoum after offering him a place to stay, and showing him kindness during his time of need. She deserved better”. Yet, for her sister and aunt, they were left "numb and struggling to understand what happened". And that’s what happened. The truth is truly out there, but many will never find (or seek) it by making crude assumptions about a person or persons based on their name and photo. There was no need to fake any details to make Vicky more sympathetic, just as Adoum was a heinous man whose diabolical deeds as a villain (throughout his life) didn’t need to be inflated any further, as he was a poor excuse for a human being regardless of his ethnicity, and he didn’t deserve the kindness of strangers. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. 
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
This is a ten-part crossover series written and created by Murder Mile and True Crime Enthusiast. Parts A to F (covering the murders that serial killer Patrick MacKay confessed or was suspected of) are available via Murder Mile, and Parts 1 to 4 (covering the murders he was convicted of, as well as his life, his upbringing and his trial is available via the True Crime Enthusiast podcast.
PATRICK MACKAY: TWO SIDES OF A PSYCHOPATH: This is Part F of F of Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath, about the killing of Ivy Davies. On the night of Sunday 3rd of February 1975, between 10:30pm and midnight, 48-year-old café owners and single parent of seven children Ivy Davies was brutally beaten to death in her own home by an unknown assailant. It has remained unsolved for 50 years. But was it British serial killer Patrick MacKay and one of the eight additional killings he was suspected of or confessed to? This series explores the killings he confessed to, and which he committed.
Part F of F by Murder Mile covers the murder of Stephanie Britton & Christopher Martin:
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: In the lead up to his trial in November 1975, 23-year-old Patrick MacKay – the drunk, the druggie, the bully, and the pointless petty thief who many said would amount to nothing - had become a celebrity. Mackay was front-page news for almost a year; with his stage-managed photos under every headline, his confession of “I killed eleven people” printed in bold, his memoir repeated verbatim, his nicknames cementing his legacy, and his name preceded by maniac, monster, psychopath and now serial killer. What began as a petty and pathetic series of half-witted robberies to fund his alcoholism, culminated in an 18-month “campaign of violence and terror” with the bulk committed in the last two months. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t neat, and possibly spawned from the accidental killing of Isabella Griffiths in a short burst of rage (as any of the 23+ old frail ladies he robbed and assaulted could have been), the press bought the lie, as MacKay wasn’t a thug, but a bright, erudite storyteller who sought infamy. Questioned by Detective Superintendent John Bland at Brixton Prison in April 1975, MacKay admitted “all I want to do is to be frank and honest”, having admitted to three provable murders, “but before I start, I have got another murder I want to get off my mind” – being the drowning of a homeless man at Hungerford Bridge, and confessing or suspected of a total of eight, that took his tally to eleven kills. It was the moment which made him famous, but caught in a series of lies, he would also be forgotten. Title: Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath – Part F. His arrest record dating back to when he was 12 was hardly the stuff of legend; 1964, aged 12, he got 3-years’ probation for stealing garden ornaments and setting fire to a church curtain; 1966, a 12-month discharge for breaking a window; 1968, 2-years’ probation for GBH and 1 day’s prison for robbing a boy of a watch; 1973, three convictions, burglary (while drunk) and issuing a forged cheque, possessing an offensive weapon (while drunk) and damage to property (while drunk and disorderly), with his longest stretch being 4 months for burgling Reverand Brack’s vicarage where he stole nothing. Luckily for him, the newspapers were too distracted by the unprovable details of his alleged cruelty to animals and his so-called obsession with the Nazis to explore his paltry criminal past, or his confession. Of the eight murders he was suspected of or confessed to; Heidi Mnilk’s case was high profile, so parts he could recall, but still he got details wrong, and there was no proof he was there; he confessed to Mary Hynd’s, but had to be coerced by detectives; Stephanie Britton & Christopher Martin he denied killing, possibly to protect his legacy; Leslie Goodman he confessed only to the robbery, maybe to give his murders a sense of mystery; and Sarah Rodmell, he denied, perhaps owing to the sexual assault. Or, he could be innocent of all six of those murders, as there’s no solid evidence to convict him. As for the unnamed homeless man he supposedly drowned, MacKay said “I lost my temper. I grabbed him by his pants and neck, and heaved him over the edge… the water sprayed up. He must have gone under, and then I saw him come up. He started splashing… and went under again”. Police pulled three bodies from the river, none matched his description. But as a film fan who was inspired by the 1970s craze for serial killer movies, A Clockwork Orange was withdrawn from circulation in 1973 due to copy-cat violence, especially one scene where a homeless man is murdered. So was MacKay’s story a lie? It made perfect sense for MacKay to lie about killing ‘eleven people’, of which eight, he later denied. Of the killers who existed in his era or were popular in the crime books he read; George Chapman ‘The Borough Poisoner’, Trevor Hardy ‘The Beast of Manchester’; Ronald Jebson the ‘Babes in the Wood’ killer, John Straffen (who was Britain’s longest serving prisoner until MacKay) and Graham Young ‘The Tea Cup poisoner’, all had three confirmed kills, but are still largely forgotten by the general public. Whereas to be infamous and cement his everlasting legacy, three confirmed kills wouldn’t be enough; John George Haigh ‘the Acid Bath murderer’ had 6, John Reginald Christie of 10 Rillington Place had 8, Thomas Neil Cream and the Moors Murderers both had 5, Gordon Cummins ‘The Blackout Ripper’ had 4 but is mostly unknown due to the war, Jack the Ripper had an unprovable canonical 5 (although who needs proof with a sensationalist story), and with a new breed of killers – like The Zodiac with 5 and Edmund Kemper with 10 – by tomorrow, MacKay’s forgotten headlines could be used to wrap chips. MacKay would have known that his pitiful backstory lacked credibility, that his accusations of sadism were paper-thin, that his photos and quotes were clearly curated, that many detectives felt he was “an inveterate liar” who “lies about trivial matters, even when it is unnecessary”, and - with all three killings he was convicted of being manslaughters, not murders – his ploy could easily be picked apart. Since his release from Wandsworth Prison, having planned a “campaign of violence and terror”, across January to March 1975, there was a clear escalation in his attacks on wealthy elderly ladies across Chelsea, Belgravia and Finchley - with an erroneous attack on Sunday 3rd of February 1975 at Red Lion Square in Holborn where he violently robbed a lady on her doorstep of £25 and an ‘inscribed silver pen’. His robberies were an almost daily event, ending with the killing of Father Crean on 21st of March. When arrested at the Cowdrey’s home at 48 Grantham Road in Stockwell, MacKay was sat on the sofa, hungover, and when asked what he would do that day, he said “dunno, probably get pissed again”. By then, MacKay had killed three people; so why did he stop, why did he then confess to killing eight more, and then, withdrew his confession? Of those he either confessed to or was suspected of - they were all as similar in method and motive as they were dissimilar, and as provable in evidence as they were disprovable - but unlike the first seven killings, the eighth had one thing that the others lacked… …DNA evidence. Ivy Lillian Davies, known to her customers as ‘Aunty Ivy’ was a 48-year-old café owner from the seaside town of Westcliff-on-Sea on the south-east coast of England in the county of Essex; 50 miles west of MacKay’s hunting ground of Chelsea and Belgravia, and 28 miles north of his hometown of Dartford. Correction: made by Victor, Ivy's son "My mums married name is Davies, her maiden name was SHERMAN". Born on the 30th of December 1926, little was reported about her early years, but described as a well-liked and popular woman with a bubbly personality and a “good morning” for everyone, there was a great pain in her heart and an intense loneliness she would hide from her few friends and customers. In her early twenties, having met and married a soldier whose surname was Slark, Ivy had lived a very unsettled life being bounced between Army bases over the UK, as the Cold War slowly heated up. As a squaddie’s wife, she had just one purpose, to bear children, and from the late 1940s, eight would follow; Patricia, Ivy Junior, Susan, Victor, David, Stephen and Carol, with Karen dying aged 3 months. With no money, no freedom, and a husband who was physically violent and mentally abusive to this small dark-haired woman with thick-rimmed glasses, for the sake of her children, Ivy sustained more than a decade of torment and torture at the hands of a brute, by taking the beatings to protect them. In 1960, plucking up a gallon of courage, Ivy divorced him, and moving from Yorkshire in the north of England, she fled from his fists to the seaside town of Westcliff-on-sea to start again, as a single mother of seven young children, who – when and if she had a second to herself - earned money as a waitress. Her whole family needed a fresh start, and although an old fashioned and impoverished poor part of the country whose main income was furnished by a throng of tourists in the summer months, its sandy beaches, crisp sea air and seaside fairs made it a good place for a young family living on benefits. But always seeking love, the next man in Ivy’s life came with a complication none of them had anticipated. Again, being a soldier, this time based in nearby Shoeburyness, he loved Ivy and wanted to marry her, but being transferred to Colchester, he flatly refused to raise another man’s child, and Ivy had seven. Why she made this decision is something we can never know; maybe she was terrified of loneliness, was bullied by another brute into making a bad choice or was traumatised by the abuse she’d suffered, but with the exception of her two eldest daughters – Patricia and Ivy Junior - her five youngest children were put into care at the Seaview Children’s Home in Shoeburyness, with Vic’, her eldest of three sons, ending up in foster care, where he suffered abuse, which changed the course of his life for the worse. Vic later said “she wasn’t the angel they made her out to be”, she was ‘cold’ to those the children she had abandoned, and with the relationship with the soldier lasting just eight months, although she tried to get Susan, Victor, David, Stephen and Carol back from foster care, Social Services had said no. This was the side of her life that she hide from her customers, with her face always bright and bubbly… …when her heart was plagued with guilt and regret. Despite her past, Ivy made the best of her present in Westcliff-on-Sea, an old fashioned seaside town full of hotels, B&Bs, a golden mile of arcades and fairs with a famous pier, and in the Orange Tree, a ‘greasy spoon’ café – on the Western Esplanade and built into the railway arches – since 1968, she’d worked for Ernest Hasler as a waitress, but in 1972, having saved up enough, she became the owner. Nicknamed ‘Aunty Ivy’, she was a popular and well-liked face in Westcliff. With the café far from busy off-season, she made ends meet by working part-time as a school cleaner, she had a small but close circle of friends who she played bingo with, and plagued by loneliness, she had started dating again. And although she had fought to rebuild her life, she was haunted by her past. In 1965, when her son Vic’ was just 8 years old, he tried to rekindle a small hint of a relationship with his estranged mother. It’s something this young boy would do for almost decade, even though it was strained and frosty. But by the January of 1975, with Vic’s life having hit the skids and descended into a petty theft, aged 18, when Ivy found out that he had been locked up in a Young Offenders Institute in Northampton, she wrote him a letter. He recalled “it was a ‘Dear John’ letter… she said she was disgusted with me, and told me she never wanted to see me again”. For the second time in his life, his mother had rejected him, and with her brutal murder just days away, as much as he would want to, he never saw her again. Sunday 3rd of February 1975 was a typical late winter’s day being mild with a little drizzle. At 6am, as was her routine, 48-year-old Ivy opened up The Orange Tree café. Being off-season, it was quiet except for the usual crowd ordering fry-ups, scrambled eggs, beans on toast and mugs of tea. It was an unexceptional day, just as the week and month prior had been, with no incidents or strangers. At 5:30pm, the sun-set as Ivy locked-up the café, and although a business owner, as women couldn’t have their own a bank accounts until later that year (thanks to the Sexual Discrimination Act of 1975), wearing a blue-green dress, she was seen by her friend, Ernest Hasler, carrying the day’s takings – and although that moment would have been the perfect opportunity for a thief, nobody robbed her. By 6pm, again as was typical, she returned home, alone, to 21A Holland Road, a little bungalow neatly hidden behind a set of two-storey Victorian houses - a place you could only find, if you knew about it. That evening, she had planned to meet up at Palace Bingo in Southend with Margaret Jewry, a friend and fellow café owner who was the mother of the pop star Alvin Stardust, who looked remarkably like her, but instead, she stayed at home, made a cuppa, and having hidden the takings in her oven (which she did every day, as she didn’t have a safe), having got into her nightdress, she watched the telly. On ATV, at 7pm was ‘Master Of Melody’, at 7:25pm was ‘Sunday Night At The London Palladium’, at 8:20pm was ‘Once Before I Die’, a 1966 war drama starring Ursula Andress, with the news at 10:15pm, and closedown at 10:30pm. We’ve no idea what she watched, or who she may have watched it with… …but right there, on the rug, it’s likely her killer had left his DNA. At 10:30am the next morning, when Madeline, a friend of Ivy’s daughter Pat noticed that the café was still locked, with the help of Ivy’s neighbour Stella Zammitt, they gained access to the bungalow with her own keys, and Madeline screamed as Stella ran out crying “oh god, there’s blood everywhere”. Ivy had been brutalised by a ‘maniac’, and her killing sent shockwaves across this small seaside town. With the investigation headed up by Detective Chief Inspector Peter Croxford of Southend CID, motive was key to establish. Ivy was described as “a gentle lady who wouldn’t hurt a soul”, and “a very lonely person who didn’t have any real friends”, but with no signs of a break in and the door locked from the outside, Vic’ stated “she wouldn’t open the door to anyone”, so it’s unlikely she had let a stranger in. As for theft, DCI Croxford said “jewellery was left on the television set… and £20 in cash nearby”, a red or white purse was missing, and £1800 (or £19,800 today) was found in the oven where she’d left it. The rooms hadn’t been ransacked, but then maybe this was a kill for thrills, or a robbery gone wrong? No break-in, no theft, a superficial ransacking, and no clear motive – but was it MacKay? Found slumped on her living room settee, dressed in her nightdress, although her killer had attempted to strangle her with an unstated ligature, Ivy had been brutally bludgeoned about the head by “a heavy object with considerable force”. Blood had spattered up the walls, across the ceiling, over the floor, and with her skull smashed open, someone had attacked her with a hatred, or a short burst of rage. With detectives keeping the weapon a secret to snare the killer when questioned, the press wrongly claimed it was “an axe” - which is why it may have been linked to Father Crean’s killing - when it was a 20-inch-long, 3lb pry bar made of high tensile steel, used by mechanics in factories with gear wheels. It didn’t belong in the house, yet it had been dumped in a curtained alcove, not far from the body. The crime scene was strange, but this wasn’t the oddest detail about Ivy’s senseless killing; as with Dr Cameron the pathologist putting her time of death at ‘around midnight’, with the TV schedule finishing 90 minutes before, her killer may have put the telly on to obfuscate his true intent, and although, no sexual assault was detected on this semi-clad woman, on the rug before her, lay a semen stain… …but being two decades before DNA was used in modern policing, it was missed by forensics. In total, 3000 people were interviewed, 300 friends, family and associates were fingerprinted, a false sighting of Ivy at Palace Bingo in Southend turned out to be her doppelganger, Margaret Jewry, and – of the Police’s likely suspects – her son Vic’ had a cast iron alibi being in prison, a PhotoFIt of a late 30s man with greying sandy blond hair pointed to an innocent café regular, a “tall, dark-haired man in his early 30s” (similar to the man thought to be MacKay, as previously seen as The Mercer’s) was spotted near the train station, and although – after his confession – Detective Superintendent Simon Dinsdale stated Mackay “was a figure in the investigation… but as some kind of vagrant, he was ruled out”. Detective Chief inspector Ray Newman confirmed, “he wasn’t seen as a likely or a possible suspect”. On the 7th of April 1975 at Southend Coroner’s Court, after just five minutes, the jury returned a verdict that she was “murdered by person or persons unknown”, and although the investigation continued, soon every lead would be exhausted. Ivy Davies was buried at Sutton Road cemetery on 17th of April… …and until further evidence or a confession presented itself, the case had stalled. Over the years, many theories and sightings have been presented. In 2017, a former waitress at the café claimed Ivy was killed by was an escaped patient from Runwell mental hospital posing as a doctor who said his name was Patrick MacKay. Ivy’s son, Vic, also said detectives told him “Mackay had signed on the dole in Southend”, which proved he was nearby during the week of her murder. But this could be Police coercion as seen in Mary Hynds’s murder, as we know where he was the night Ivy was killed. In the unreliable book, Psychopath, it states “MacKay said he knew the café and admitted that he had contemplated robbing Mrs Davies… but he had not been in Southend since 1972”, even though there no provable origin for this quote, coming from the source who said MacKay had visited ‘The Mercer’s. Several newspapers also state “MacKay had bragged in Brixton Prison about Ivy’s murder”, but again, there’s no name, no date and no origin for this quote, and although sensational and feeding the legacy MacKay crafted, it also lets her real killer walk free, having never been punished for his heinous crime. In 2025, Vic, Ivy’s son told tabloid newspaper The Sun: “the way she was killed was his MO. She was ripped apart on one side of the body. Whoever did it had undressed my mother, put her in a nightdress and put her on her bad side, then turned the TV on”. Details which don’t appear in any other reliable source, but also (if true) facts which point to this not being a killing by MacKay, but by a sexual sadist. On an unspecified date in May 1975, after his infamous (but shaky) confession, MacKay was driven in a police van to the Orange Tree café in Westcliff-on-sea and Ivy’s home at 21A Holland Road. He stated he didn’t recognise either, and wrote in his memoir, “I was never charged with this and I would think not too. It certainly wasn’t me they wanted”. Which makes sense as it’s unlikely he was even there. On the night of Sunday 3rd of February 1975, after Ivy had locked-up her café and headed home, Patrick MacKay – a 6 foot 2 inch, stoutly built, mixed race man with a soft voice, who never disguised his face in any of his attacks – robbed an elderly lady on the doorstep of her home in Red Lion Square, Holborn in London. He stole £25 and an ‘inscribed silver pen’, and she later identified her robber as Mackay. Why would he kill a stranger in a place he barely knew, and how could he be in two places at once? The most likely theory was that, being lonely and dating again, Ivy had invited a man back to her home. In 2005, 30 years after her murder, with this cold case being re-investigated, Police discovered that when Ivy’s bungalow was cleared out, a neighbour had kept her bloodied rug. It hadn’t been touched in decades, and with advances in forensic technology, on it was not only Ivy’s blood, but a semen stain. As a convicted murderer, Patrick MacKay’s DNA had been retrospectively added to the database after it was set-up in 1995, along with his fingerprints. A comparison was made, but it didn’t link to him. In November 2006, Essex Police arrested a 68-year-old unnamed man from Basildon who lived near Ivy at the time, and according to John Lucas’ reliable book on MacKay: “when Ivy rebuffed his advances, he lashed out with the pry bar. Covered in blood, he crept back to his own house… confessed to his partner, and she returned with him to Ivy’s house to make the scene look like a burglary”. But lacking sufficient evidence, the Crown Prosecution Service decided not to charge him, and he was bailed. MacKay was charged with two of the eight additional murders, only this was not one of them… …but that’s also part of the problem with his legacy as a serial killer, that he’d made his name as a liar. While incarcerated, MacKay was approached by an associate of Stanley Rogers, who was awaiting trial for the murder of 10-year-old Alison Chadwick whose body was found in a sack. MacKay was offered £15,000 and £20 per week for 15 years to confess to the killing, but tried to blackmail Rogers instead. MacKay was “an inveterate liar”, everybody knew it, and although he’d told Detective Superintendent Bland that he was “relieved that at last I was telling someone what I had done”, he later said, “I deny any killings other than the three I admit. I can’t recall any incident categorically linking me to these”. Tried at the Old Bailey on Friday the 21st of November 1975 in Court Two, this minor celebrity wouldn’t get the attention he desired or required to fully cement his legacy, as with his legal team fighting to get him convicted of ‘manslaughter by diminished responsibility’ and not ‘murder’ to ensure he would be sent to a psychiatric hospital rather than a prison, his confession to killing eleven was dismissed. In a short and perfunctory trial, MacKay was declared sane, and diagnosed with a ‘severe psychopathic disorder’ but not a mental illness, convicted of the manslaughters of Adele Price, Isabella Griffiths and Father Anthony Crean, Justice Milmo sentenced him to a minimum of three life sentences to be served concurrently, and held on Her Majesty’s Pleasure, he was warned that he many never be released. The killings of Heidi Mnilk, Mary Hynds, Stephanie Britton, Christopher Martin, Leslie Goodman, Sarah Rodmell, Ivy Davies and the unnamed homeless man (if he existed) remain unsolved. Of those, MacKay stated “I’m glad I wasn’t done for those others”, and although unprovable, Scotland Yard said “we are satisfied that he is responsible for 10 killings” with the only one they didn’t think was him being Heidi’s. MacKay was never sent to Broadmoor – alongside the likes of Peter Sutcliffe, Robert Maudsley, and later Peter Bryan and Daniel Gonzalez – instead, being sane but volatile, he served his time in Category A prisons, where as “one of the most violent prisoners”, he attacked staff and held a teacher hostage. In March 1995, at the end of his minimum term, an Independent Parole Board declared “his risk is too high to be safely managed in the community”, so he remained behind bars, later making him “the UK's longest-serving continuous prisoner”. But growing older and passive, since 2017 he has been housed at HMP Leyhill, a low-security men’s open prison, and has been seen on monitored day trips in Bristol. Now aged 73 and changing his name to David Groves, it is uncertain whether he will ever be released. He’s the man that the law is too terrified to release, that society doesn’t want back, and with the truth about his crimes barely known to the wider public, as Vic’, Ivy’s son sums-up "everyone knows he did more. He hasn’t shown any remorse" – even though there no hard evidence to prove that he had. So, why isn’t Patrick MacKay as infamous as other killers like Shipman, Christie or Haigh? (End) Like his life, his legacy had no consistency. As a boy, his early crimes were nothing more than random acts of robbery to fund his alcoholism, with the sadistic cruelty (he was later famous for) only were there to gain attention. He was lost, alone, confused, angry, and bounced between institutions which didn’t care about him, being told that he was worth nothing, and diagnosed as a psychopath aged 11, he was ignored, except when he was bad. Like his robberies, his killings were unplanned. The first, Isabella Grffiths, was a rage-fuelled robbery which went wrong; the second, Adele Price, was similar (as many others could have been); Father Crean’s killing was personal, and then MacKay quit, as he couldn’t commit to anything, even murder. And that’s the problem, not only did he repeatedly lie, not only did he fail to provide proof, but also, in all of his murders - whether he was convicted of, confessed to, or suspected of - all are inconsistent. In his own memoir written before his trial, MacKay acknowledged “my life was wasted. I now realise that it is now wasted forever to rot… when I look at myself, I could put a bullet through my head for the kind of bloody life that I have had, but I do not know who would do me that service. I have often thought to myself, whenever I am alone, that it would be the best thing I could ever have done”, as all he brought to the world was pain and misery to others – like his father – and his legacy was ruined. With just three confirmed kills to his name, MacKay has been usurped in the pantheon of serial killers; as Nilsen had 12, Sutcliffe had 13, Dahmer had 17, Bundy had 20, and Shipman had 218 confirmed. If he had really killed 11, he would be infamous, but being convicted not of murder but the lesser charge of manslaughter, not being ‘wilful murders’, his manslaughters make him ineligible to be a serial killer. As a late decision to make something of his life, MacKay had pushed his luck just a little too far… …so now, he’s not remembered as a infamous serial killer, but as a serial liar. That was the final part of Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath by Murder Mile UK True Crime. Parts 1 of 4 (covering in detail the killings of Father Crean, Isabella Griffith and Adele Price, as well as MacKay’s life, crimes and trial) are available now via as part of this cross-over series with the True Crime Enthusiast podcast, with all six parts by Murder Mile available now also. Just search ‘Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath’, or click on the link in the show-notes. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
48 Ash Grove in Hackney (far right) before demolition
This is a ten-part crossover series written and created by Murder Mile and True Crime Enthusiast. Parts A to F (covering the murders that serial killer Patrick MacKay confessed or was suspected of) are available via Murder Mile, and Parts 1 to 4 (covering the murders he was convicted of, as well as his life, his upbringing and his trial is available via the True Crime Enthusiast podcast.
PATRICK MACKAY: TWO SIDES OF A PSYCHOPATH: This is Part E of F of Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath, about the killing of Sarah Rodmell. On the night of Saturday the 21st of December 1974, 92-year-old Sarah Rodmell, a spinster who had lived in Hackney all her life, went to her local pub (The Temple Bar Tap) at 5:30pm, and having left at 11:15pm, she arrived back at 49 Ash Grove, just shy of midnight. She was brutally beaten to death on her doorstep for the £7 in her handbag. But was this one of the additional eight murders that British serial killer Patrick MacKay was suspected of or confessed to? This series explores the killings he confessed to, and which he committed.
Part E of F by Murder Mile covers the murder of Sarah Ann Rodmell:
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: If Patrick Mackay had killed eleven people as he confessed to, he would be one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers after Harold Shipman, Dennis Nilsen, Peter Sutcliffe and Fred & Rose West. Only he didn’t. Of the eleven, three he was convicted of, eight he was suspected of or confessed to, only two of those he was ever charged with, and all eight he later denied - perhaps at his lawyer’s insistence. But why did he confess to eleven, and why were the detectives so certain of his guilt in those crimes he denied? A nameless detective told tabloid newspaper The Sun “we thought we had a mass murderer… it looked as if we were going to clear our books of almost every outstanding murder in London. An oddball like MacKay… he was one of the most terrifying killers to be walking around London for a long time”, and as a drunk psychopath with a bad memory and inconsistent methods, it was easy to pin any ‘maniac’s murder on MacKay, as he’d willingly confess to every killing, within reason, even if he was innocent. By the summer of 1974, it’s confirmed that he had committed one provable murder – Isabella Griffiths, but being elderly, infirm and likely to have been a robbery which (in a short burst of rage owing to his warped moral code) this killing could easily have been an accident, as there’s no hint of premeditation. Of the eight; he may have admitted to Heidi’s killing, as being a high-profile case, it gave him exposure. Mary’s fitted his MO with the police coercing him to confess, but unless he broke out of prison, it’s unlikely to be him. He may have denied Christopher Martin’s killing because – being a boy - he didn’t want to be as hated as the Moors Murderers. Or by partially proving his guilt as with Leslie Goodman, did he want his crimes to have a sense of mystery, with his victims uncertain, just like Jack the Ripper? As an unwanted nobody and a certified psychopath, his only chance to become someone important, famous and maybe even admired, was by becoming not just a killer, but a serial killer. The problem was, by that summer; he’d only killed one in possible a rage-fuelled mistake, his crime spree was both petty and pathetic, and when it came to achieving any goals, MacKay was chaotic and inconsistent. It’s likely, unless his next killing was truly shocking and hideous, that Patrick MacKay would be entirely forgotten. So why, if Sarah Rodmell, the eighth victim he was suspected of, so neatly fitted his method and motive, did he again deny murdering her, when this killing was impossible to prove it wasn’t him? Title: Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath – Part E. Throughout his life, in the same way he had no consistency where he stayed, how he earned, and who he saw as a role model, Patrick MacKay lacked commitment. Across the early 1970s; he lived in hostels, hospitals and remand centres, occasionally his mum’s, the Cowdrey’s, and often Reverand Brack’s, but he had no focus or goal, and as he aimlessly wondered the city, drunk or drugged, he achieved nothing. Having quit his job sweeping up leaves not far from the crime scene at ‘The Mercer’s and leaving his pleasant lodging with Mr & Mrs Whittington, now unemployed, broke and heavily drinking, on the 7th of July 1974, one month after the murder of Leslie Goodman, MacKay did something truly unusual. That night, having previously had a falling out with Reverend Ted Brack (the other priestly mentor who had let him lodge at his vicarage in East Finchley on many occasions), MacKay called him and asked to meet up, perhaps to apologise as he was often plagued with remorse and had few good father figures. When the priest left, MacKay didn’t meet him as planned. Instead, he broke into the vicarage, he made himself a hot meal (as if he owned the place), he didn’t search the drawers for things to steal (as far as we know), and in the bedroom which was once his, he hid underneath the bed, waiting not only for Ted to return home, but for him to go to his bedroom, undress, switch out the lights and fall asleep. Hours later, MacKay crept across the hall, into the priest’s room, and – eight months before his sadistic and brutal killing of Father Crean, his other priestly mentor – he didn’t strangle, stab or bludgeon him to death, instead, as he soundly slept, MacKay went through the priest’s pockets looking for cash. It was something he could have done at any time on any day, yet he chose to do it then. But why? Ted awoke, in the darkness, he asked “Pat? Is that you?”, and although MacKay would kill others for reasons less than that, he fled and having already been seen, MacKay was arrested just two days later. Again, it was a crime without a clear motive; so did MacKay do it to scare him, was he drunk, on drugs, was it a botched robbery by a coward who was yet to learn that his perfect victims were frail old ladies in the wealthier parts of town, or as a psychopath who had achieved nothing, had the seed of an idea about ‘leaving a legacy’ as a serial killer spawned in his mind, and was this was a failed murder? Having sabotaged his bail conditions on a suspended sentence for chasing a homelessman with a metal pole and defrauding Father Crean’s cheque, on the 31st of July 1974 at Highgate Magistrates Court, the burglary at Ted’s vicarage saw him sentenced to four months. Held at Wormwood Scrubs prison, MacKay later stated it was here that, upon his release, he planned “a campaign of violence and terror”, resulting in the 23+ robberies he would confess to, and the murders of Father Crean and Adele Price. For four months, he was locked-up with nothing to do but seethe, fester and to dream of the heinous levels of cruelty he would inflict, as the name ‘Patrick MacKay’ became synonymous with serial killing. Released on the 22nd of November 1974 - being broke, unemployed and homeless (as his mother had disowned him, he’d fallen out with the Cowdrey’s, and Reverend Brack wouldn’t have him back) – he spent that Christmas in a bail hostel at 38 Great North Road in Barnet, with the bulk of it blind drunk. On the night of Saturday the 21st of December, 92-year-old spinster Sarah Rodmell was robbed on her doorstep for a few pounds and brutally bludgeoned to death. Described by detectives as “the work of a maniac”, it had many hallmarks of MacKay’s crime-spree and Sarah was his perfect victim… …but was this the first killing in his “a campaign of violence and terror”? Born on the 14th of June 1883 in Mary le Bow in East London, 92-year-old Sarah Ann Rodmell would be the eldest and frailest, but also one of the poorest of MacKay’s victims - if indeed he was her killer. As a toddler, being raised barely a half a mile from the killings of Jack the Ripper, her early years were riddled with poverty, disease and fear, as the mortality rate for a working-class child was low and even lower for those who struggled to make-ends-meet. As the eldest of four siblings to Frederick, a railway porter and Sarah Ann, a pieceworker, as was typical in that era, her siblings quickly followed; with Alice in 1886 in Whitechapel, Frederick in 1887 and Ada in 1888, both born in Mile End, further east. Crammed in a small two-roomed lodging on Shoreditch High Road, in 1894 with all four children barely in their teens and the youngest barely school-age, their mother died aged just 37, leaving the family devastated. As was his need, although still grieving, Frederick remarried, Frances became their step-mother, in 1896, their half-sister Lily was born, and they also adopted a young girl called Frances Ray. Time were hard, money was tight, poverty was endemic, but for the Rodmell’s, family was everything. By 1901, the family were living at 132 Corfield Street, a dirty-sodden industrial part of Bethnal Green, one street south of the pub where - 73 years later - she was last seen alive, yet her history is a mystery. For forty years, she almost entirely vanishes; she never marries, has no children, and although she can vote, as a woman, she can’t own a home or have a bank account. Then in 1939 and the outbreak of the Second World War, said to be working as a ‘kitchen hand’, records show she was living in a ground-floor one-roomed lodging at 49 Ash Grove in Hackney, with a widowed office-cleaner, Mary A Lock. Aged 56, with no savings - regardless of her age and infirmity - she lived a hand-to-mouth existence on the fringes of society as a forgotten woman who was reliant on her friends and family to survive. But fate is often cruel. In 1937, her father died, and as a poor man with no Will, she was left nothing. In 1941, her brother Frederick died, along with his love and his financial support. In 1963, her sister Ada died, followed by Alice in 1969, her half-sister Lily in 1970, and with Mary Lock, Sarah’s long-term friend and (possible) partner in 1974, she had survived so much, but now aged 92, she had no-one… …and she had nothing, except a cat, a cold dark room and a pitifully small pension. By the Christmas of 1974, Sarah had lived at 49 Ash Grove for more than 30 years. Later demolished to make way for a bus depot, by the 70s, being in it’s dying days, Ash Grove was the epitome of squalor; comprising of two lines of dilapidated Victorian terrace houses – with many derelict and squatted in – it was surrounded by an overhead trainline to the east, a canal and the Haggerston gas towers to the south, the GLC workshops to the west, and on the same street, J Bush & Co, a large chemical factory. It was noisy, dirty, rough, caustic, and riddled with violence and drugs. As a council-funded flat for only the most impoverished, Sarah’s lodging was so bad; the walls leaked, the floorboards were rotten, it ran rampant with rats, bed bugs and lice, and it didn’t have any heating or hot water. Sarah Rodmell was old woman who the council had left to rot, and when she died, their costly obligation would cease. But little would anyone know that it wouldn’t be the cold or hunger which would kill her. Saturday the 21st of December 1974 was typically damp but unusually warm for winter. As was her daily routine, being a lonely old lady who hated living in the dank isolation of a cold council flat, at 5pm, she left her lodging at 49 Ash Grove. Dressed in a tatty ‘flowerpot’ hat, a long black coat and a woollen skirt – the same clothes she’d always worn – wearing men’s slippers, she shuffled the 45 minute journey through the unlit backstreets, stopping every few minutes, as her back had a stoop. Described as grubby, ‘Old Sarah’ or ‘Ginger’ as she was known had lived a hard life, and being very old and incredibly frail, although she was still “a tough old woman” who was said to be direct and abrupt, neighbours said “(Sarah) was notorious for drunkenness… she has been banned for causing a nuisance from most of the pubs around”, with Ada Deighton, her neighbour stating “she always went out to the pub at five”, the one she wasn’t banned from, “and came back at midnight, usually worse for wear”. Drinking wasn’t just the highlight of her day, but also a necessity. Living off a State Pension of just £6 75p per week (£90 today), drinking was her one pleasure which gave her something she didn’t have. Her local pub was the Temple Street Tap, a Charrington’s owned pub on the corner of Temple Street and Hackney Road, E8, just off Cambridge Heath train station, and although having a reputation ‘Old Sarah’ was limited by the places she could booze, this was an unusual haunt for a 92-year-old spinster. Or was it? From the outside, the Temple Street Tap was like any other pub; with a saloon bar, a dart board, sticky floors, and – with the clientele being exclusively men – it also had a foul-smelling loo. But inside, the waitresses served drinks as their bare breasts jiggled, and on a grotty stage, strippers shook their pale asses before baying crowds of ogling old perverts, as this – as it was known – was a titty bar. ‘Old Sarah’ didn’t care, she liked it. In fact, she was a regular. Described by landlady Laura Harris as “a sweet old lady” who was “like a mother to us all… all the customers young and old loved her”, and as she sat at the bar, every night, nursing two bottles of Guinness, it wasn’t just the occasional chat and companionship she liked, but being perched next to the electric heater, it kept her old bones warm. Whether she was gay or not – being a childless spinster who had lived with a woman for decades and frequented a strip club – is immaterial, as if this was what made her happy, who could deny her that? That night was special for Sarah, as with the government having introduced a £10 Christmas bonus for pensioners, although a ‘token gesture’, that night she would spend £3 on drink, and the rest she would save as part of her yuletide merriment. And although the landlady later said “the customers knew her, liked her, and had begun to chip in 50p each to buy her a turkey and some groceries for Christmas”… …she would never receive it, as by then, she would be dead. But was it Mackay? Her killing matched his method and she was his perfect victim, so why deny it? At 11:10pm, as per usual, the landlady aided a frail and drunken Sarah to the door, the barman Brynley Gregory helped her across Hackney Road, and she staggered her regular route home. Later recreated by WPC Daphne Robson for the police investigation, with the country still partially blighted by the energy crisis, she stumbled the unlit backstreets of gas towers and factories up The Oval, Andrews Road, over the canal, and – having stopped to rest – forty-five minutes later, she entered Ash Grove. She didn’t leave with a stranger, so whether someone followed her home along this dark half-mile walk is uncertain, but just shy of midnight, neighbours heard her staggering and fumbling for her keys. Ada Deighton, her neighbour later stated “I heard a thumping noise… but just thought she was locked out and was banging for the lady upstairs to unlock the door”. No-one paid any notice to the noise, as being a habitual drunk who many had fallen out with, Ada recalled “she sometimes bought drinking companions home with her… otherwise she had no visitors” – and that’s all they thought this was. With no screams heard, it’s likely she was attacked fast by someone a lot younger, and overpowered by someone taller and stronger - most likely a man who had no qualms about robbing an old frail lady. Stealing her black handbag, we can never know if her attacker knew about her £10 Christmas bonus, but then, some monsters are so callous, they would kill an old lady for a few pounds, or even less, but in this case, they also stole her pension book, her spectacles, a tin opener and a bent tin of cat food. Attacked on her own doorstep - even though a shove or a punch would have floored her - Sarah was repeatedly beaten over the head with something blunt, sustaining wounds that the detectives said was “horrific” and the “work of a maniac”, and although the press said “she was sexually assaulted”, we don’t know to what extent, but it was said that her stockings were “partially removed”. It was a killing as pointless as it was tragic. The next morning, Harriet Law, a 73-year-old widow living in the flat above, came down with a cup of tea for Sarah, but found that her bed hadn’t been slept in. Opening the communal door, it was then that she saw the body; cold and lifeless, her frail legs crumpled underneath her, her pale arms bent in unimaginable positions, her skull caved in, her hair matted, her brain exposed and swarming with flies. It wasn’t well reported, but it caused an uproar in this small patch of Bethnal Green. The pub’s regulars were stunned, many of the dancers cried, and with landlord Harry Harris stating “she didn’t have a decent death, but we’re determined to see that she gets a decent funeral”, a whip-round raised £160 for a coffin and a headstone, and he spent weeks using the pub’s PA system pleading for information. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Chief Superintendent John Cass of Hackney CID. Police conducted house-to-house enquiries but almost no-one heard or saw a thing, a reconstruction played out on Police 5 but resulted in no suspects, and a voicemail at the Hackey Gazette led to two credible tips of the first name and an address for the suspected killer, but the tape was so bad, it was inaudible. A black handbag was handed in but it couldn’t be confirmed as Sarah’s, the murder weapon was never recovered and its type (either a metal or wooden blunt instrument) was impossible to verify even by autopsy, and although one of the £1 notes given to Sarah in the pub as change had ‘Lou 1974’ written on the back in biro, this had never been handed in, and it was never found in MacKay’s possession. With no fingerprints, no witnesses, and no suspects, the case went cold. When questioned, MacKay denied murdering Sarah Rodmell; he made no confession, we don’t know if he was coerced by detectives, shown the crime scene photos or driven to the location, and with the evidence against him being slim, in his memoir, he simply wrote “I was never charged with that”. It’s the kind of crime that MacKay both committed and confessed to, and (as a possible wannabe serial killer with a ‘legacy to leave’, but only one provable murder under his belt), why did he deny this one? Unlike Heidi’s killing, it would have been impossible to glean any reliable facts from the papers as even the Hackey Gazette called the assailant the ‘£5 killer’, when in truth, £7 was stolen, and with the Daily Mirror callously calling her a ‘meths drinker’ implying she was a vagrant, victim shaming was rampant. But her killing does mirror MacKay’s method; as it was said he had begun “a campaign of violence and terror”, he spoke of exterminating “all the useless old people”, he was living in a hostel and was broke, he travelled to kill, he liked drinking so may have frequented the pub (even though nobody saw him), Father Crean was bludgeoned with a blunt instrument (as was Mary Hynds and Leslie Goodman, if this was him), and anti-Semitism was suspected in Leslie’s killing, so was Sarah killed if she was gay? Inconsistency runs rampant throughout all of MacKay’s proven crimes, and although it makes no sense for him to travel so far east to kill an old frail lady for the sake of £7, as a bag-snatcher who attacked pensioners without any remorse, it matches many of his 23+ confirmed robberies, it has similarities to his attack on 83-year-old actress Jane Comfort whose assault could have ended in her death, and even his approach or attack on the doorstep matched other victims like Adele Price & Isabella Griffiths. The difference is Sarah was poor, but Adele & Isabella were not. So, if this murder was MacKay, is this the killing which changed his crime spree, and made him focus on frail old ladies who were wealthy? Four days after Sarah’s murder, MacKay spent Christmas Day drunk at his hostel in Barnet. By Boxing day, being broke, while prowling Wilton Street in wealthy Belgravia, he conned his way into the home of Lady Becher, he grabbed her throat, pulled a knife, snatched her bag containing £115 and an £85 medallion and fled. Four days later, he committed a similar robbery on Tite Street in affluent Chelsea. By the new year, his crime spree had ramped up; on the 20th of January 1975 he robbed an old lady in Finchley, another held at knifepoint in Chelsea on the 28th, he snatched a bag on the 29th, and on the night of Sunday 3rd of February - having carried her bags as a so-called ‘good Samaritan’ - he robbed another at Red Lion Square in Holborn. Across January to March, he stole roughly £600 (£8000 today) in cash, gems and trinkets, and with increasing levels of violence, Chelsea CID were mapping this unfolding crime spree, with DS John Bland who later interviewed MacKay on the hunt for a thief… …who just weeks later, murdered Adele Price and Father Anthony Crean. Unlike his earlier ‘pathetic and petty’ crimes, this “campaign of violence and terror” was written about in the newspapers and bought him the infamy he craved, and even though detectives were yet to link the robberies or murders to MacKay, this was the start of his legacy as a thief and a serial killer-to-be. Through his childhood, his adolescence and into his early adulthood, by then, aged just 22, MacKay had failed to commit to anything – a job, a home, friends, family, sobriety or reforming his bad ways – but now, he had goal, a future and something he could actually commit to. When arrested, the Press feverishly picked apart every detail from his past to prove he was a psychopath; whether true, a lie or unprovable; like the animals he tortured, the fires he started, he quotes he spoke, or his Nazi ideology. Everything he’d done was a cry for attention, and now, as a killer, he’d get everything he’d desired. By the trial, with Patrick MacKay synonymous with serial killing and branded with nicknames like ‘The Beast of Belgravia’, ‘The Devil's Disciple’ and ‘The Psychopath’, his legacy was forged by three pieces of his own fabrication to cement his place in criminal history; first was his confession “I killed eleven people”, which every newspaper printed in bold, but failed to report when the truth was uncovered. Second, his 40-page prison memoir; a biased narrative with himself as the only living witness, which was read out in court, sealed his fate, and – as a pure piece of sensationalism – was reprinted verbatim. And thirdly, as a part of his legacy which became more infamous than his crimes, the four photobooth snaps he had taken just after Father Crean’s murder, which many like Michael, Mary Hynds’s nephew, state “I think Mackay was mad. Look at the photos of him, you can almost see it in him”. But is it? Think of it logically. MacKay didn’t walk into a photobooth and candidly capture four images of himself in a state of mania. No, he travelled to his mother’s home in Kent to collect a chicken he had her roast for him, he then took it to a train station (possibly at Charing Cross or Waterloo), he went into a booth, he pulled out 10p, he popped it in the slot, and having planned out the shots – because as we know, with four photos taken every five seconds in a blinding flash, three will be terrible and one passable – yet he somehow created four shots which perfectly typified Patrick MacKay the serial killer; with one ripping part flesh, one having devoured it, one in a pained mental state, and one gripped in pure rage. It's a perfect piece of stage management, and for the sake of entertainment, the world bought it. Patrick MacKay was front-page news across 1975, he was a poster boy of cruelty, his past was debated in full, and yet, it all may have begun by accident when the robbery of Isabella Griffiths went too far? So, with MacKay already a certified serial killer, why did he deny killing Sarah Rodmell? (Out) It’s crime which matches his method, being broke he had motive, he travelled to steal money, and with many of his robberies being violent - and with his victims both old and frail - sparked by a short burst of rage owing to warped morals, each could have easily have turned into a murder, like Sarah’s. Detectives admitted “we thought we had a mass murderer with as many as ten or eleven victims. It looked as if we were going to clear our books of almost every outstanding murder in London”, and with it committed by a ‘maniac’ and MacKay described as a ‘psychopath’, it was a win-win for both. But the evidence against MacKay was slim to non-existent. Nobody saw him in Bethnal Green or the Temple Street Tap which was full of regulars. He denied the killing, he knew nothing about it, and in Psychopath, a book of dubious sources, it states “he established an alibi”, but it can’t be corroborated. Conversely, in the well-researched book ‘Britain’s Forgotten Serial Killer’, John Lucas suggests that as Reverand ‘Ted’ Brack occasionally drank at the now-demolished Lord Hood pub in Bethnal Green, half a mile south of the Temple Street Tap, and MacKay may have joined him, but this can never be proven. It’s a killing as similar as it is different to MacKay’s method, except for a tiny detail. None of MacKay’s robberies or murders had a sexual element, even as old ladies like Adele and Isabella lay there, dead, silent and still, he didn’t undress them, fondle them or kiss them, as he was a sadist, but not a rapist. But with the papers stating “she was sexually assaulted”; if this was true, or he had tried to strangle her with her own stockings, or they had simply fallen down in the struggle, in the same way he didn’t want to be branded a child killer with Christopher, did he not want to be labelled a rapist of old ladies? Part F, the final part of ‘Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath’ concludes next week, with Parts 1 of 4 (covering the killings of Father Crean, Isabella Griffith and Adele Price, MacKay’s life, crimes and trial) available now in full as part of this cross-over series with the True Crime Enthusiast podcast. And via that feed, Paul & I will also be doing two hour-long chats where together we examine the case. Just search ‘Patrick MacKay: Two Sides of a Psychopath’, or click on the link in the show-notes. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
Archives
April 2026
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|