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

EPISODE THIRTY-FOUR

Episode Thirty-Four: Brian Alexander Robinson, a 19 year old part-time DJ who murdered a man he had never met before, for no financial gain nor personal malice. And yet, although he was found guilty, Brian should never have been tried for murder.

• Date: Friday 29th August 1964
• Location: The Limbo Club, 11b Wardour Mews, Soho
• Victims: 1 (John "Johnny" Howard)
• Culprit: Brian Alexander Robinson

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in here - "Podcast Transcripts"

THE LOCATIONS

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

Episode 34 – Brian Alexander Robinson and the D’Arblay Street Death

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

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

As always, Murder Mile is a lot like a hot date with a Thai hooker, as it features a quick thrill upfront, a mystery in the middle and a shock at the end, as well as lots of head-scratching and references to sausage, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

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

Today’s episode is about Brian Alexander Robinson, a 19 year old part-time DJ who murdered a man he had never met before, for no financial gain nor personal malice. And yet, although he was found guilty, Brian should never have been tried for murder.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may upset the fluffy-bunny brigade, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

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

Episode 34: Brian Alexander Robinson and the D’Arblay Street Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having stood up and stooped to pick-up a fallen vinyl record, Big Jim popped his paint-splattered boot on Brian’s chair. Being polite Brian asked “Excuse me, sorry can I have my chair” – as this thin wooden seat wasn’t just somewhere to park his bum, as with his fractured arm often caused him pain in the cold as well as the heat, Brian needed a place to rest it - but Big Jim grunted “no”.

Maybe he was genuinely tired? Maybe (like Brian) he was physically disabled? Or maybe, as a racist, Big Jim simply disliked a black man forcing black music into his white ears, but having asked politely twice, Brian shoved Big Jim’s foot and took the seat back. Without provocation, Big Jim pulled a flick-knife and drunkenly slashed at Brian’s torso, but missed and sliced a small hole in his jacket.

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

Suddenly, all Big Jim saw was bricks, as his snarling face was pinned to the wall by Eddie Cassar (the club’s burly bouncer) who disarmed him in an arm-lock. And as Big Jim yelled and frothed like a rabid dog, fearing a bloody aftermath, as Eddie held the drunken lout back, Oliver told Brian to run.
They’d had trouble in the Limbo Club before, not just because it was a club for black men, ran by black men and frequented by black men who danced with white women, and visa-versa, but because the Teddy Boys were always looking for a fight, and they’d travel into town to find it.
And – as senseless as it was - that’s how it started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Lara Ingbordottir, Jay J, Stevie P, Mark Robotham, The Mysterious One and my lovely Eva, who’s paying me in kind. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

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

EPISODE THIRTY-THREE

Episode Thirty-Three: At the Lyon's Corner House Tearoom on Oxford Street, on the 20th April 1945, Jacques Adrian Tratsart decided to shoot to death his father, sister, brother and himself, but what drove this hardworking, well educated man to believe he was doing the right thing?

• Date: Friday 20th April 1945
  
• Location: Lyon's Corner House (14/16 Oxford Street, W1)
  
• Victims: 3 (Jean-Baptiste, Claire and Hugh Tratsart)
  
• Culprit: Jacques Adrian Tratsart
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts".

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

Ep33 - Jacques Adrian Tratsart: The Corner House Killer

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

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

As always, Murder Mile is layered like a bad 1980’s mullet, with the excitement upfront, the business at the back and occasional bangs, laughs and rude-words, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile.

Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

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

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

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

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

Episode 33: Jacques Adrian Tratsart: The Corner House Killer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack felt betrayed; by his father, by his mother, by his faith, and most of all by God.

Francis and Jean-Baptiste were married on 10th March 1938, just one year before the start of World War Two but the biggest battle was being fought in their family home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten minutes later, he tried again. Nothing. No smoke, no blood, no brains. Only this time, everybody saw Jack with a gun in his hand, feverishly clicking the trigger, the sights aimed at his sister’s head, but believing it was just one of Hugh’s water-pistols, Jack was lightly warned against squirting his family with tea during the meal, and with that, he popped the lethal weapon back under table.
Again, Jack fumed, his meticulous plan having gone to pot having been sold a shitty shooter by some salty seadog who’d slinked off with his fiver. Under the linen cloth, he discretely fiddled with the faulty firearm, yanking this and tugging that, unsure what he was doing having never held or even fired it before. But it was then that he heard the hammer click.

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

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

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

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

He tried again. Nothing.

He slammed the revovler on the table. Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile wal

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

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

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

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

EPISODE THIRTY

Episode Thirty: The Blackout Ripper Part 6: On the morning of Friday 13th February 1942, The Blackout Ripper was caught and arrested, but not for the brutal murder of four women in London’s West End, and the Police had no idea who he really was.

• Date: Friday 13th February 1942
  
• Location: West End Central police station
  
• Victims: 6
  
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper
  

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THE LOCATION

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BLACKOUT RIPPER – Part 6 The Arrest of The Blackout Ripper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

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

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

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

EPISODE TWENTY-NINE

Episode Twenty Nine: The Blackout Ripper Part 5: before the brutal murder of 34 year old Doris Jouanett on Thursday 12th February 1942 at roughly 11pm, The Blackout Ripper had attacked two more women in London's West End - Greta Hayward and Kathryn Mulcahy - but why did his killing spree abruptly come to an end?

• Date: Thursday 12th February 1942
  
• Location: St Alban's Street & 29 Southwick Street
• Victims: 2 (Greta Hayward & Kathryn Mulcahy)
• Culprit: The Blackout Ripper

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right)

THE LOCATIONS

As The Blackout Ripper committed two separate attacks, on the same day (technically three) both of which occur in this episode, I've included two Murder Mile maps below.

The Attack on Greta Hayward

The Attack on Kathryn Mulcahy

BLACKOUT RIPPER – Part 5 – Greta Hayward & Kathyrn Mulcahy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And although she was unconscious, Greta was alive…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

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

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

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

Do you watch Sherlock? Remember the scene in 'A Study in Pink' when Sherlock and Watson are seated opposite each other in a Soho tapas bar, having texted the phone of murder victim - Jennifer Wilson - knowing her killer still has it on him.

It was filmed here, at 46 Broadwick Street, Soho, at the window-side table of a lovely little restaurant called Tapas Brindisa. Try it! The food's lovely. 

But what neither the cast or crew would have known is that just two floors above then, in the second floor flat of 46 Broadwick Street, was a real-life murder, which even today - now almost seventy years on - it remains unsolved. 

Ten years after the Soho Strangler - a sadistic maniac who would terrorise West London's notorious red-light district, strangling at least four prostitutes ("Dutch Leah", "French Marie", "French Fifi" and Marie Jeanette Cotton), and whose identity has never been uncovered -  three more prostitutes would be murdered.

As before, all were Soho prostitutes, all were female, and all lived just streets from each other; they were “Russian Dora” on Long Acre, “Black Rita” on Rupert Street, Margaret Cooke on Carnaby Street and “Ginger Rae” on Broadwick Street.

​None of their murders have ever been solved.