Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #17 - David Martin and the Baffling Case of the Transgender Houdini
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Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of 300+ untold, unsolved and often long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.
Episode Seventeen: David Martin and the Baffling Case of the Transgender Houdini. On Christmas Eve 1982, 36 year old David Ralph Martin was charged at the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court on twelve counts including armed robbery, theft, fraud and attempted murder, but his bungled arrest would led to one of the Metropolitan Police’s worst miscarriages of justice.
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Ep17 – David Martin: The Baffling Case of the Transgender Houdini
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode seventeen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.
When I started Murder Mile, I wanted to show the world that murders aren’t simply something which happens to other people, living in other towns or cities, but that there truly is murder on every street and in every house, and to find the truth (if you’ll pardon the pun) you just need to dig deep enough.
I started with London’s West End; a place I’ve worked in for over two decades, and although I know the streets well, I didn’t know a single murder in and around Soho. And even though on Murder Mile we delve into the often untold and unsolved murders within one square mile, so far we’ve barely even covered a fifth of a mile, and on just these few streets we’ve unearthed serial killers, mass murderers, gangsters, evil pimps, dead prostitutes and mafia hits.
If these stories surprise you? Trust me, each week as I uncover a new case, it surprises me too. But today’s episode is not only surprising, it’s also hard to explain, so I’ll just let the story tell itself.
Once again, stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s podcast of the week, this time it’s the awesome True-Crime Sweden; 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 David Martin, the gun-loving, sticky-fingered, cross-dressing transgender burglar whose bungled arrest led to one of the Metropolitan Police’s worst miscarriages of justice.
Murder Mile contains graphic descriptions of violence which may upset those who are easily offended, 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 17: David Martin and the baffling case of the Transgender Houdini. (Note: the word transgener wasn't in common usage in the early 1980's, so having discussed this with members of the LGBTV community and some of David's associates, it was agreed that "transgender" was a term which he would have approved of, rather than "transsexual" or "transvestite" which were in more common usage back then).
Today, I’m on Great Marlborough Street, in Soho, W1; a mid-sized road which runs parallel with Beak Street (where mad shoemaker and wannabe cock-chopper William Stoltzer was arrested), Broadwick Street (where big-hearted Ginger Rae was brutally murdered) and intersects with Carnaby Street (where the mysterious Margaret Cook was gunned down).
Often called Marlborough Street owing to a clerical error made on the original Monopoly board, a mistake which remains today, Great Marlborough Street was named after John Churchill, the First Duke of Marlborough. And although Great Marlborough Street was the former home of evolutionist Charles Darwin, the current home of the mock-Tudor splendour of the Liberties store and the inspiration for the Marlboro cigarettes as it’s here where in 1881 tobacco baron Phillip Morris’ opened his first cigarette factory, it really is a street which doesn’t warrant the prefix of Great, as today it’s little more than a coffee-shop filled cut-through for honking taxi-drivers and impatient delivery trucks.
But for fans of true-crime, this street has one redeeming feature, as 19-21 Great Marlborough Street was once the home of the Marlborough Street Police Station and Magistrates Court; where Oscar Wilde’s infamous libel trial was held, where the Rolling Stones stood trial for drug and firearms offences, where John Lennon and Yoko Ono were tried for obscenity, where Richard Rhodes Henley (the randy Canadian sailor with a deadly wanking fixation) was arrested and it was here, in 1982, that a baffling chain of events which led to the near-execution of an innocent man which all began with the arrest of a transgender burglar called David Martin. (INTERSTITIAL).
A word of warning before we proceed any further; as insane, deranged and bat-shit crazy as the details in this episode may seem, although the story reads like a trashy tabloid journalist has eaten his own sleazy newspaper and shat out onto the page a runny bum-lump of words, it is entirely real, totally true and very unpredictable, so strap yourselves in folks we’re in for a bumpy ride.
The childhood of David Ralph Martin was truly unremarkable; he was an only child to a doting mother and a hard-working father, raised in a lower-middle class house in the shadow of post-war London. And although rationing was still inforce; he didn’t starve, he wasn’t beaten and he wasn’t broke. Being an incredibly bright, driven and talented child who could truly turn his hand to anything, David should have excelled at school, but as an easily bored child who was often distracted, dissatisfied and desperate for toys, love and attention, David’s overriding traits were greed, frustration and impatience, and it would drive him into a life of crime.
Aged just 14, David stole a car; not that he needed a car, not that he wanted a car, but because it was there and he felt it belonged to him. And yet, being arrested didn’t bother him, being told off by his parents, nor was it the brief stint in borstal which lit a fire under David’s arse, but that having returned the car to its rightful owner, David felt a great hatred towards the Police (which would remain to the bitter end) as in his eyes, they had stolen what he felt was his.
During his teenage years, having progressed up the criminal ladder to burglary, David applied his sharp brain, dextrous hands and photographic memory to a new set of skills; and just as his training as a motor mechanic had made him a swifter car-thief, having learned to bypass any building’s alarm system and developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of door locks, this had made him into a master burglar, who only needed the briefest of looks at a key to memorise the shape of the barrel and to fashion himself a lock-pick using whatever object came to hand.
Before his twenty-sixth birthday, David Martin had been arrested and convicted on more than fifty counts of theft, burglary and fraud, resulting in minor custodial sentences in borstal, young offender’s institutions and later adult prison, until 1973, when David was convicted of the greater charge of cheque-fraud and was sentenced to nine years in Brixton Prison.
Having grown-up under the strict rules of a domineering father; and being so driven, free-spirited and independent, with a deep-seated hatred for authority; prison-life should have been hell for David as a closet bisexual who (although he enjoyed being a man), he always felt that his long legs, petite frame and feminine features were better suited to women’s clothes, and by wearing a dress, high-heels and stockings, they always made him feel more comfortable.
Although initially self-conscious; inside prison, David slowly became the man he wanted to be, and as a transgender bisexual (whose feminine look bridged the gap for sex-starved heterosexual convicts), it was here that he fully explored the homosexual side of his bisexuality, later entering into a loving relationship with Britain’s most infamous serial killer Dennis Nilsen, and letting his cross-dressing very much became not only an important part of his life and his identity, but also his criminal career.
Prison had reinforced David’s self-confidence and upon his release in 1981, David Martin ditched his jeans, jacket, trainers and t-shirt, and – feeling a need to always look fabulous, even whilst committing a crime – he’d often dress in a leather skirt, halter-top, stockings, suspenders and designer sling-backs, with his hair dyed, his nails painted, his make-up done, and – like a feisty femme fatale in a 1940’s pulp novel – always packing a fully-loaded revolver in his handbag, which was not only his identity, but it was also a disguise,
David’s duel-identity was an invaluable part of his criminal career, as initially he’d case a building dressed in a blouse, skirt and a fur-coat – the genius part of his plan being that no-one would suspect him as a thief, as when was the last time you ever heard of a burglar wearing high-heels – and then at a much later date, he’d break in wearing the more practical attire of jeans, t-shirt and trainers.
Being skilled but broke, and with a greater need for designer clothes, David progressed to armed robbery, later holding up an armoured car dressed in a leather skirt, six-inch heels and fish-net tights. And although, in July 1982, he’d steal 24 handguns and over 1000 rounds of ammunition from Thomas Bland & Sons, a gun-dealer on New Road in Covent Garden? He didn’t need the guns and he didn’t want the guns, and (although some he sold) he kept most, believing that they belonged to him.
In February 1982, having ventured into the lucrative market of video piracy, David used his burglary skills to break into Colour Film Services; a film laboratory and private cinema at 22 Portman Close, at the back of Oxford Street, to assess which video recorders and master copies of the latest Hollywood blockbusters he would eventually steal. When disturbed by Albert Seaman who was working the nightshift, and asked what he was doing there, instead of fleeing, with supreme self- confidence, dressed in a blonde wig, mink coat, tapered trousers, Cuban heeled shoes and carrying a clutch-bag, David simply replied in his manly voice “It’s okay mate, I’m security”, then flashed a fake ID badge, and casually walked out, testing the doors he left. So implausible was this story that, even though Albert reported it to his superiors and eventually the Police, no further action was taken.
On Thursday 5th August 1982, at a little before midnight, David returned to Colour Film Service at 22 Portman Close dressed in dark jeans, boots, a black leather jacket, a lot of eye-liner (well this was the 1980’s) and picked the lock using the key he’d fashioned a few months earlier out of a screwdriver. Once again, having been spotted by a security guard, David bluffed his way out, but not believing the story of a man dressed entirely in black, the security guard called the police.
Moment later, PC Nick Carr and PC Jerry Fretter entered the premises.
Unfazed by their arrival, David was polite but officious, adopting the believable persona of an anxious employee with a tight deadline to keep, and when asked who he was, he handed an ID card in the name of David Demain, that he’d stolen just a few days before. His story was good and the ID checked out, but when the dubious PC’s requested that David empty his pockets, he refused and tried to flee. With PC Fretter having rugby-tackled the dark-dressed suspect to the floor and holding him in a tight headlock as PC Carr went for his handcuffs, David’s hatred towards the boys in blue came bubbling up once again. Seeing red, from his jacket pocket, he pulled a Colt Mustang semi-automatic pistol and fired three .38 calibre bullets, hitting PC Carr in the leg and severing a vital artery.
PC Nick Carr was rushed into hospital, where – although he lost six pits of blood – he survived, made a full recovery, and both he and PC Fretter were later awarded a Police Commendation for Bravery.
But having fled the dark-lit building, leaving the police with a limited description of the assailant who was using a stolen ID, David Martin should have been impossible to trace…
…but with numerous robberies over the last few months having been committed by a skilled burglar and locksmith, with long blonde hair, a slim feminine body, heavy use of make-up and a very distinctive Roman nose, who often carried a black .38 Colt Mustang, so small it easily fits into a lady’s clutch-bag? Police knew his face, they knew his MO, now they just needed a name.
In need of some quick cash after the bungled burglary at the film laboratory, David attempted to sell the firearms he’d stolen from the Covent Garden gun-dealer to another dealer in Ladbroke Grove. Being suspicious, the dealer discretely notified the Police and handed them the contact details that David had left. Except this time, he didn’t use a fake ID, or a stolen identity, he used his real name, and also supplied the gun-dealer with his home address of Flat (16?) 1 Crawford Place, Marylebone.
Knowing he was armed and dangerous, Detective Constable Peter Finch and Detective Constable Guy Van Dee of the Metropolitan Police kept surveillance on David’s Crawford Place flat for several weeks, keeping their distance, but never once seeing him, only his dark-haired girlfriend – Sue Stephens – and a slim blonde-haired lady who accompanied her to the wholefood shop and yoga practice…
…the lady of which had large feet, an Adam’s apple and a distinctive Roman nose.
Having made a positive ID of their suspect, on Wednesday 15th September 1982 just before 10pm, as David pulled up outside his flat in a stolen VW Golf wearing a wide-brimmed hat, leather skirt and jacket and black stockings, he entered 1 Crawford Place, not knowing that the Police were lying in wait. But being edgy, angry and paranoid after six weeks on the run, the second he exited the 7th floor lift, Detective Constables Finch and Van Dee pounced, but David had already drawn his black .38 calibre Colt Mustang from his handbag.
Fearing for his life, their guns not drawn, Finch wrestled David to the floor, knocking the firearm free of his hands, and as he flipped David over to handcuff his disarmed assailant, with his free-hand, David reached between his legs and pulled from his stocking top, a small but deadly silver Smith & Wesson .22 calibre pistol and – in a truly-terrifying moment in which his life flashed before his eyes – as a volatile man with wild hair, black eyeliner and blood-red lipstick smeared across his face, the unstable David screamed “I will blow you away” as he pointed the loaded gun directly at Finch’s head.
Desperate to protect his partner from a dangerous man with a death-wish, Detective Constable Guy Van Dee shot David Martin in the neck, disabling his suspect and cuffing the bleeding suspect, all the while with David frothing like a rabid dog, screaming “I could have killed the lot of you, I could have had you all, why don’t you just finish me off?” goading them to end his life, there and then.
Just like PC Carr, the police constable who he’d shot, although he’d lost a lot of blood, David survived, had the bullet removed from his neck under armed guard at Charing Cross Hospital, and was later sent to Brixton Prison, where he awaited his trail.
And although David was arrested and imprisoned, and both officers received a Police Commendation for their bravery, Detective Constable Peter Finch would never forget David Martin for bringing him this close to death, and neither would he forgive him. As although the due process of law had to be carried out, bad blood remained between them. (FAKE CWNN OUTRO)
On Christmas Eve 1982, 36 year old David Ralph Martin was charged at the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court on twelve counts including armed robbery, theft, fraud and the attempted murder of PC Nick Carr, where he pleaded “not guilty” to all charges… (RECORD SCRATCH)
Of course, in any normal story, this would be the end… but it wasn’t, this is just the beginning.
After his initial hearing, David was returned to the cells in the bowels of Marlborough Street Police Station; a standard single cell measuring six foot wide by six foot deep, surrounded by four cold grey walls of solid brick, a small high window covered in thick iron bars, with a basic bed, a simple toilet and the only way in or out being a eight inch thick steel door, which was locked. Here the prisoner would sit and wait, as the endless hours and minutes ticked by, trapped in a grey drab cell.
But then again; being so driven, bright and easily distracted, with people to see, things to do and an all-consuming contempt for the law, David was never very patient man, and so, by 4pm that afternoon, when the Police opened his cell-door to transfer his back to Brixton Prison…. David was gone.
Nicknamed by his former Police captors as “Houdini”, after the infamous magician and escapologist Harry Houdini, David wasn’t just a genius at breaking into the buildings, he was just as skilled at breaking out. Claiming to his friends, “there’s no prison which can hold me”, David had first escaped from borstal in 1968 by picking the lock. In 1972, he twice escaped from the prison-van on his way to court; one through the skylight, the other by picking the lock and springing his cell mate’s doors open too. In 1973, David and twenty other prisoners rammed the prison gates having hijacked a rubbish truck, but was caught hailing a cab on Brixton Hill. In 1974, he almost escaped from Parkhurst maximum security prison having handcrafted a set of seven keys to the prison doors. And in 1975, at HMP Gartree, another maximum security prison, having cut away the metal grill in his window and bypassed the alarm system he almost escaped, but was caught, having injured his leg.
But this time, in his cell at Marlborough Street Police Station, David didn’t have the luxury of time, so he made-do with what he had… which was an encyclopaedic knowledge of locks, a photographic memory and a lock-pick hidden in his thick blonde hair for emergencies. And having viewed the shape of the key in the warder’s hand for literally a split second, David fashioned the pick to match the barrel of the lock, inserted the makeshift key, turned it, and barely a minute later, his cell door was open.
Scurrying along the prison corridor, David darted up to the top floor, popped open a skylight, climbed onto the prison roof, jumped onto the Palladium Theatre, waltzed into the theatre’s foyer, mingled with the patrons, exited the front doors, and disappeared into the throng of Christmas shoppers on Oxford Street. By the time the warders had opened his cell door, David was long gone.
David had literally vanished into this air; and although the Police kept surveillance on his usual haunts; his Crawford Place flat, his parent’s home, his favourite bars, yoga clubs and wholefood shops, David had completely disappeared. But everyone has their weaknesses… and David’s was a woman. Described by David as “the only woman I would ever love”, Sue Stephens was a 26 year old glamour model who David was so besotted with that the Police knew he’d break cover to contact his girlfriend.
On the evening of Friday 14th January 1983, having received a tip-off that David and Sue were due to meet to hand-over a stash of cash, stolen IDs and guns which David had stored in a safe-deposit box in Selfridges, Detective Constable Peter Finch spotted a bright yellow Mini pull up outside of Sue’s flat. As the petite dark-haired figure of Sue got into the backseat of the cramped little car, although Finch didn’t recognise the driver – Lester Purdy, a friend of Sue’s – the man in the passenger’s seat seemed very familiar, with his dark leather jacket, slim frame, long blonde hair and a very distinguished nose.
DC Finch radioed in a possible sighting of David Martin, and with two teams of armed Police officers keeping a safe distance until a positive ID could be made, they followed the yellow Mini, all the while with DC Finch desperate to put an end to David Martin’s criminal career once and for all, as the bad blood between them had already been spilled.
As the rush-hour traffic around Earls Court became hopelessly congested and the yellow Mini came to a dead stop on Pembroke Road, DC Finch – as the only officer on the team who had physically seen David Martin in the flesh – was sent forward to make a positive ID. Fearing for his life and knowing that the David was volatile, dangerous and heavily armed, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, as he ran along the pavement towards the bright yellow Mini, this time Finch’s gun was drawn.
Sidling up to the Mini, armed with a standard Police issue Glock-17, DC Finch glanced in through the darkness of the passenger’s side window and saw the familiar features of David Martin; a flash of fear in his eyes at seeing the armed officer, and as the blonde-haired passenger reached his hand around into the backseat, in a split second decision between life and death, DC Finch opened fire.
Providing tactical back–up for his partner, Detective Constable John Jardine fired five shots through the Mini’s rear window, missing Sue Stephens who cowered in the backseat and hitting the passenger as a volley of shots ripped through his from different angles. Fearing for his life, the car’s driver Lester Purdy scrambled from the blood-splattered Mini and as his wounded friend attempted to flee through the driver’s side door, DC Jardine shot the injured man two more times, as he slumped on the driver’s seat. With his heart racing and his blood pumping, as DC Finch reached the driver’s side door, firing once more, he realised he was out of ammunition, so unarmed and angry, he dragged the bloodied man from the Mini and pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness.
David Martin’s criminal career had finally come to an end.
No longer being a danger to anyone, having handcuffed the unconscious passenger, they rolled him over to formally arrest him, but as his blonde hair which was matted with blood was moved away from his face, DC Finch realised he had made a deadly mistake, the man he had shot… was not David Martin.
The Mini’s blonde-haired passenger was Stephen Waldorf, a 26 year old freelance film editor, who was a friend of Sue’s who had never met David Martin, and yet tragically they looked remarkably similar. The police had shot an innocent man; pistol whipping him, handcuffing him, shooting him five times, hitting him in the arm, the stomach and the head, and leaving him bleeding on the pavement. (FAKE CWNN OUTRO)
Although riddled with bullets, having gone into cardia arrest and lost a lot of blood, Stephen Waldorf remained in intensive care at St Stephen’s hospital (Fulham) for many weeks and went on to make a steady recovery, He received a full apology from the Metropolitan Police, was awarded £120000 compensation (roughly £300000 today) and Detective Constables Finch and Jardine were charged at the Old Bailey for the attempted murder of Stephen Waldorf. (RECORD SCRATCH)
Of course, in any normal story, this would be the end… but it wasn’t.
On 19th October 1983, even though the ambush on the yellow Mini was conducted amidst busy traffic, posing a serious threat to public safety, openly flouted the strict rules which governed the Police’s use of firearms and an innocent man was severely wounded, Detective Constables John Jardine and Peter Finch were found not guilty of all charges and acquitted of the attempted murder of Stephen Waldorf, and although both men were relieved of firearms duties, they remained on the force.
And yet, throughout, the police’s hunt to find David Martin continued unabated. Still traumatised and shocked after the bloody attack on the yellow Mini and terrified that her association with David Martin had risked her life and almost killed her friend, Sue Stephen’s agreed to have the Met’ Police use her as bait to lure him out of hiding.
Having covertly agreed to meet “in the last place we met”, on Thursday 28th January 1983 at 8pm, a beige stolen Ford Sierra pulled up on Heath Street in Hampstead (North London); inside sat a furtive looking man in his mid-thirties wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket, with short dark recently dyed hair and a distinctive Roman nose. And although he wore no make-up, no skirts and no heels, there was no denying that this was David Martin.
As David nervously sidled up to the Milk Churn; the small family run-restaurant where he’d agreed to meet his beloved Sue, his instincts told him that something didn’t seem right, and with no sign of Sue in the half-full restaurant and too many single men aimlessly milling about the street, sensing that this was a set-up, David fled on foot, with the Police in hot pursuit.
Having hidden in the Nag’s Head pub, armed officers flooded the street, blocking David’s access to his stolen getaway car, and seeing no other way out, he sprinted into Hampstead underground station, leaping over the barriers, bouncing down the spiral stairs, onto the northbound Northern Line platform, where he ran the full length of the stationary tube train, burst through the driver’s cab, out onto the tracks, and - narrowly avoiding the power line which carries a deadly charge of twenty-five thousand volts – he vanished into the inky blackness of the tunnel.
Once again, David Martin – the “transgender Houdini” – had disappeared into thin air.
But having lost him before, there was no way that the Police were going to lose him this time. Having switched off the deadly current, armed officers swarmed the Northern Line tunnels in both direction, entering from both Golder’s Green (one stop to the north) and Belsize Park (one stop to the south). At 8:43pm, on the southbound line of the Northern Line at Belsize Park, having double-backed on himself using a service door to fool his pursuers, hearing footsteps in the tunnel, the officer’s torches illuminated the dusty, dirty and choking silhouette of David Martin, who – with armed officers on all sides – was out of breath and options gave up without a fight.
Taking no chances with the volatile, violent and heavily armed man, the officers searched David in the tunnel and although he didn’t have a gun, he was packing two knives and a can of ammonia spray. But before this infamous Houdini who had bragged that “there’s no prison which can hold me” was put in his prison cell, the Police (very wisely) subjected David to a very thorough body cavity search, upon which they discovered several lock-picks and a razor blade in his hair, and a stuck to the roof of his mouth using a piece of chewing gun, a tiny pen-knife filed to the shape of a lock. To which, naked and unashamed, David gave the officers a wry smile and joked “well, you can’t blame me for trying”.
David Ralph Martin was tried in Court Two of the Old Bailey on 27th September 1983 and was charged with fifteen offences including robbery, fraud, resisting arrest and the attempted murder of PC Nick Carr, and although the wealth of evidence against him – with his customary brand of contempt for the law – he pleaded “not guilty” to all charges.
After a 14 day trial, on 11th October 1983, David Martin was found guilty of all charges, and even though he was sentenced to twenty-nine years in Parkhurst maximum security prison, where he had already escaped before, he vowed there and then that he would escape again.
Prison life was no great shakes for David having spent much of his adult life behind bars, and as a cross-dressing bisexual who filled the gap for horny heterosexual inmates and (having been sentenced at the same time as him) David rekindled his relationship with the infamous British serial-killer Dennis Nilsen. But life inside was not the same, and it would never be again.
Described by David as “the only woman I would ever love”, Sue Stephens, his 26 year old girlfriend whose life had been risked in the bungled attacked on the yellow Mini, had broken up with him, refusing to write, visit or see him ever again. Left in a fragile, vulnerable and emotional state, with his drive gone, his ambition quashed and his heart broken. And with no reason to escape or even live, on 13th March 1983 at 6pm, prison officers found David hanging in his cell from a ventilation grill, having used a bootlace as a noose.
David Ralph Martin, the infamous burglar, robber, trickster and criminal escapologist made his final escape from Parkhurst maximum security prison, but this time he didn’t ram the gates, burst through the skylight or pick the door’s lock, instead the heartbroken man exited his cell, this world and the life he despised so much, for the final time, lying face-up in a simple pine box…
…and in the final indignity to this “transgender Houdini”, he was dressed as a man.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile.
If you love true-crime podcasts, this week’s treat is the amazing True-crime Sweden. I know! Sweden! It’s hard to believe that in the beautiful home of Ikea, Nokia and ABBA that evil people could even exist, but they do. In True-crime Sweden, our fabulous host Pernilla provides you with a real eye-opener into the dark and dirty side of Sweden’s most infamous killers. (PLAY PROMO)
If you fancy chatting to myself or any fellow listeners, seeing unseen photos or discussing any of the cases, I’ve set-up a discussion group on Facebook, simply called the Murder Mile true-crime podcast discussion group and there’s a link in the show-notes. Or join us on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.
Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
Next week’s episode is… The unsolved murder of Nora Upchurch
Thank you 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 ADD NAMES, 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
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London".
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