Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast #35 - The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif) - TRANSCRIPT
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script.
You can DOWNLOAD episode #35 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below
Full Transcript - Episode #35 - The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif) - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-five of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
Each week, on Extra Mile, I’ll be hosting a listener Q & A, so if you have any questions about Murder Mile, the making of Murder Mile, it’s recent nomination as one of the Best British True-Crime Podcasts of 2018 (whoops, did I mention it again, oh well), or any questions on the cases we’ve covered, feel free to message me via the links in the show-notes, and I’ll do my very best to answer them.
As always, Murder Mile is arranged like dinner date with famous Belgian detective Hercules Poirot; as what begins with a very detailed dissection of a grisly death, soon descends into a sarcastic amount of waffle, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.
Today’s episode is about Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif (Abd ar-Razzak Sayheed al-Nay-eef); an exiled Iraqi national, living in the West End, who found himself the target of several assassinations. And yet, as high up as the orders to have him killed came, his death was left in the hands of a most unlikely man.
Murder Mile contains grisly details which may disturb any delicate poppets, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.
My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.
Episode 35: The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi.
Today I’m standing in Bryanston Square, W1; two streets north of Oxford Street, two streets east of Edgware Road and two tube stops west of Soho. If this sounds familiar, that’s because situated on the north side of the square, at the junction of Wyndham Place and Montagu Place, there once stood an air-raid shelter, where Evelyn Margaret Hamilton became the first victim of The Blackout Ripper.
With its private garden surrounded by several seven-story Edwardian mansion houses, so anonymous they can only differentiated by subtle changes in their brown bricks, white windows and black wrought iron gates; this square is so exclusive and yet deliberately discrete; with so many embassies nearby, it’s highly likely that the bin-men are bugged, the street-sweeper’s a secret sniper, each concierge has top secret clearance, the milkman’s been knighted, the homeless are only here by royal appointment, and even a posh poodle doing a doggy poo-doodle on the path is protected by diplomatic immunity.
And with me not being an oily oligarch, a Saudi slime-ball, a disgraced duke, or an aristocratic bit of hoity-toity who’s under house-arrest as the judge deemed him too posh for prison; the second I even think of setting foot in their private garden; alarms will wail, flood-lights will flash and six black-suited men with Uzis will hurl me into a holding cell, I’ll be frisked, stripped and water-boarded; tortured, strangled and chopped into a rather fancy pate, as (in their eyes) anyone who doesn’t have a diamond-encrusted Rolex, a Beamer painted by Picasso, an aversion to paying tax, a dubious human rights record and isn’t a regular donor to the Tory party is clearly suspicious.
And although this was the home of socialite Wallace Simpson (the American divorcee who caused King Edward VIII to abdicate) and Osmond Barnes, the man who gave the whole of India to Queen Victoria as a gift, it was here, outside Flat 21 of 35 Bryanston Square, that Abd al-Naif, an exiled Iraqi national with a death sentence on his head faced a very unlikely firing squad. (INTERSTITIAL).
On Friday 18th February 1972 at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple were shopping amongst Edgware Road’s noisy, excitable and chaotic Middle Eastern bustle of shawarma bars, shisha cafes, deli’s, tailors and coffee-houses. Being home to many Arabian immigrants since the late 19th century; regardless of where their roots lay (whether in the Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Israel or Egypt), although this half mile stretch of Edgware Road is often dubbed “Little Beirut”, it’s always been a place of peace, safety and anonymity.
Being five foot nine inches tall with black wavy hair, thin brown eyes and a lantern jaw, 38 year old Abd was the epitome of an Iraqi businessmen; as dressed in a tailored suit and shiny shoes with a crisp shirt and tie, although he had the heft of a man with a military background, with a thin uneasy grimace about his lips, he had the face of a politician. But by those who knew him, he was widely respected.
Side-by-side, Abd walked with 34 year old Lamya, his beloved wife of sixteen years and mother to their five children (the youngest of which – Ali – they’d dropped off at a local nursery). And although she was an unassuming little lady with long dark hair, beautiful eyes and an intoxicating smile, having followed her husband through thick-and-thin, she was his strength, his confidante and his soul-mate.
And as much as they resembled an average middle-class Iraqi couple who’d relocated to London in the early 1970’s, they were anything but, and very few people knew who he truly was.
Born in the Iraqi city of Fallujah (43 miles west of Baghdad) on 18th June 1934, Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was raised in an affluent middle-class family, the second oldest of six siblings, and educated with traditional values, religious upbringing and a passionate patriotism for his country.
As a confident, polite and driven young man; aged 16, Abd enrolled in the Iraqi Military Academy. Being eager to rise through the ranks of the Army, after three years of intensive training, Abd was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant, graduated with a degree from the State College of Baghdad and being both a successful soldier and a political thinker, with Iraq being our ally in the years after World War Two, Abd was trained by British intelligence at an undisclosed military base in Uckfield (Sussex).
By 1964, Abd was appointed Deputy Head of Iraqi Military Intelligence. By 1965, he was Advisor to the Iraqi President (Abdul Salam Arif). And by 1968, Abd was promoted to General, all by the age of 34.
But by 1968, with the Cold War heating up as the US and the USSR battled for supremacy in both the Space Race and the Arms Race, with the government of Iraqi leaning towards Communism, on 17th July 1968, Abd initiated a “bloodless coup”, seized control of the state and appointed General Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr of the Ba’ath Party as President, and himself as the 39th Prime Minister of Iraq.
Dubbed “The White Revolution”; this bloodless coup was seen as indicative of the peaceful coalition government Abd had created with al-Bakr as an Arab Socialist and himself as an independent, but after just 15 days as Prime Minister, President al-Bakr and several Ba’ath Party conspirators - one of whom was the future Iraqi President Saddam Hussein – had Abd arrested.
Eager to keep-up the pretence of a peaceful transition, al-Bakr had Abd ejected from Iraq, exiled to Rambat and (fearing for his life) was forced to take-up the powerless position as the Iraqi Ambassador to Morocco. One month later, having been shipped-off to Switzerland to act as the Iraqi Minister for Swiss Foreign Affairs, Abd was warned that the Ba’ath Party were plotting to have him killed.
As the authorities in Switzerland were unable to offer him protection, with his escape bankrolled by a wealthy Iraqi ally - Sheik Mulalhal Balasim al-Yassin – Abd, Lamya and their five children fled to London on 15th September 1969 and moved into the safety of Flat 21 at 35 Bryanston Square.
It was here they hoped to live a normal life, far from al-Bakr, the Ba’ath Party and Iraqi politics. But living in a city surrounded by strangers, with a death sentence hanging over his head, he would never be sure who would be sent to kill him. On 18th February 1972, Abd came face-to-face with his assassin, and he arrived in the very unlikely guise of a man named Yahya Qassim. (INTERSTITIAL).
Born in the Iraqi capital of Baghdad on 10th October 1914, 58 year old Yahya QASSIM (Yiy-yah Cazim) is described by eye-witnesses as “odd”, “feeble” and “wizened”. Being just five foot three inches tall, seven stone in weight and burdened by a wrinkled weedy frame (so thin and slight) that a sharp gust of wind could easily blow him off his feet; and dressed in a shabby raincoat, a crumpled suit, a bent trilby hat and thick wire-framed glasses, Qassim hardly looked like a hired killer.
With no military experience, intelligence training or knowledge of espionage; Qassim wasn’t a soldier, a spy or an assassin. If anything, being awkward, agitated and highly strung, not only was he the sort of man who struggled to reach things on a high shelf and needed help to open a jar of pickles, but with a nervous stutter so pronounced he was often impossible to understand, being the type of weasel-like weirdo you’d naturally steel clear of, Qassim looked suspicious, devious and untrustworthy.
But then, Qassim wasn’t a killer, he was a scholar. Being bright, erudite and political, in 1934, aged 20, Qassim graduated from Baghdad College with a law degree, set-up his own legal practice, and later became Assistant Secretary to the Baghdad Council of Ministers, Legal Adviser to the Iraqi Railway, editor of his own left-wing Arab newspaper - ‘Ash-Sha’b’ and devout member of the Ba’ath Party.
By 1971, as a writer, a lawyer and a married man with two grown-up sons, Qassim lived at 4 Hyde Park Place, a nine minute walk from Bryanston Square. Having never owned a gun, held a gun, or even risked firing one for fear that that recoil may break his wrist, Qassim’s role in the assassination was not as the killer, but as the bait, and under the guise of an ally, eager to rebuild the reputation of this exiled Iraqi General, he would lure Abd into a public place, where his assassins would lay in wait.
But first, he needed Abd to trust him… and for the weasily Qassim, that was easier said than done.
Abd’s trusted friend - Sheik al-Yassin – the Arab businessman who had bankrolled Abd’s escape, exile and had even financed the education of his five kids, reluctantly introduced Abd to Qassim one year prior, describing the stuttering lawyer as a persistent pest and an irritant who was never to be trusted.
Being a polite and patient man, burdened by a desire to never cause offence, Abd agreed to a brief meeting with Qassim in the safety of Sheikk al-Yassin’s Kensington office, and as they said goodbye, he considered the matter closed… but this meeting marked the beginning of the end of his life.
It started with phone-calls; sometimes weekly, sometimes daily, sometimes nightly, and always on the end of the phone was Qassim, pestering Abd for more meetings to discuss the eventual overthrow of the Ba’ath Party regime and the exiled General’s glorious return to power as the rightful Prime Minister of Iraq. None of which Abd even wanted, but still Qassim droned on, and on, and on.
And then came the meetings, endless meetings with a never-ending slew of nameless people, as Qassim waffled on about Abd’s impending rise to power as the leader of an anti-Ba’ath Party revolution, which Qassim had claimed to have already mustered the support of powerful allies - such as the Jordanian Prime Minister, the Shah of Persia, the Iranian Minister for Foreign Affairs and King Feisal of Saudi Arabia – and yet, as much as Abd politely tried to persuade the nervous little lawyer that he had no plans, at all, to re-ignite the Iraqi revolution, to destabilise the Ba’ath party, and that he only cared about his family’s safety, Qassim remained persistent and droned on, and on, and on.
A few weeks prior to the assassination plot, Abd had grown deeply suspicious of Qassim’s questioning, as what began as polite pleasantries before a tedious barrage of business talk, soon felt more like he was deliberately fishing for information about the minutiae of Abd’s daily routine.
Early December 1971: Abd received a series of strange and silent calls from public phone-boxes to his home phone, but – on every occasion - the second he’d pick-up, they’d hang-up.
Late December 1971: Qassim organised a meeting between Abd and Saddig El Bassam, a (supposedly) high-profile Iraqi merchant and staunch opponent of the Ba’ath Party, and yet, as urgent as their meeting was, very little was said, the details were vague, and the next day, the merchant had vanished.
January 1972: Having bumped into Qassim on George Street (a residential road one street south of Bryanston Square), with his stutter being unusually pronounced, Qassim told Abd of the rumour that he was protected by Persian bodyguards and carried a gun. In a momentary lapse in judgement, being desperate to depart this loathsome little man, Abd denied both and opened his jacket to prove it.
February 1972: Qassim organised yet another urgent meeting, only this time with Aga Jaffar; an Iraqi businessman who Abd had already met, and yet, as pointless as this meeting was, Qassim’s mind wasn’t on business, or politics, or even Iraq. Instead he steered the conversation towards more trivial matters about Abd’s life; where he shopped, what he ate, who he drank with and how he travelled. And when asked why he wanted to know, Qassim simply stuttered “nothing, nothing, nothing”.
As a solid judge of character, Lamya (Abd’s wife) instantly took a dislike to Qassim, and being desperate never to share the same space as such a devious and weasily little man, she asked Abd never to invite him to their home, or if he did, she would need to be elsewhere.
The first assassination attempt on the life of Abd al-Naif took place on Monday 14th February 1972 at 3pm. Or it would have done, had Qassim not been so awkward, odious and inept.
That afternoon, as if the city’s decrepit old sewers had been blocked by a steamy stinking cesspool of human waste, a bad smell returned to 35 Bryanston Square. And dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the stuttering rambling shambles of Qassim slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.
With a crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, but with this being the early 1970’s, an era long before video intercoms, this call was strictly audio only, and having no idea who it was, the General let out an audible groan when he heard the nasal whine of “Abd? It’s Qassim”. Abd was too tired for this, too fed-up, too bored and too frustrated. In essence, their conversation broke down like this:
Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things. Come on down, we’ll go to the Portman Hotel, have coffee, tea, my treat”, Abd: “We? Who’s this we?”, Qassim: “We? You? Me? And… some people. You must come”. At which, feeling uncomfortable by the vagueness of the details and with his patience tested, Abd replied “no”.
A long silence ensued, and although Abd couldn’t be certain, he swore he heard the scuffle of feet and the mutter of frustrated voices, as Qassim piped up with “come down here then, we can talk here”, as persistent as ever. But even from all the way up on the sixth floor, Aba smelled a rat.
“No” Abd replied, “No, I think I won’t, I’m busy, maybe next week, okay?”, but Qassim said nothing. There was another crackle of static, another mutter, another scuffle, followed by a series of stuttering statements as Qassim insisted that what he had to tell Abd was vital, urgent and too secret to be said over an intercom. And knowing that this persistent pest would buzz about his ear like a blood-hungry mosquito – with Lamya (his wife) being out – and with an air of reluctance, Abd invited him up.
For an interminably long minute, through the spy-hole of flat 21, Abd hesitantly watched as the needle of the sixth floor lift slowly crept up; from ground floor, to first, to second, to third, then it stopped, then it restarted, to fourth, to fifth, and then (ping) to sixth. Behind his thick wooden door, as the art-deco gates of the lift spread aside, into the hall, Abd spied the solitary shambling mess of Qassim. His wrinkled face grimacing an awkward grin as his wizened old hand knocked on the door, which Abd cautiously (and reluctantly) opened, and – once again - Qassim had invited himself into the flat of the exiled Iraqi Prime Minister, unaware that his presence was rarely (if ever) welcome.
For fifteen minutes, they sat, sipped tea and chatted; nothing urgent cropped up, nothing important was discussed, and - once again - Abd denied he has any political plans, any revolutionary ambitions, and simply wanted to live with his family in peace. And with that, Qassim wished him well and left.
Having lived in a constant fear of being killed for the last four years, maybe the stress had got the better of him, Abd had thought? Maybe he was seeing threats where there weren’t any? As if the Iraqi Ba’ath Party were going to send an assassin, why would they send Qassim? The idea was ludicrous.
But as inept as it seemed, this wasn’t an aborted attempt to assassinate Abd al-Naif, this was just a dry-run for the real thing, which would occur just four days later, but first…
(Phone rings) Wednesday 17th February 1972 at 7pm, Abd received a phone-call. Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things”, Abd: “What things?”, Qassim: “Just things… too secret to say over the phone”. And so it was agreed that they’d meet, the next day, at 4pm, in Abd’s flat. (Phone hangs up).
On Friday 18th February 1972, at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple – known locally as Abd & Lamya – strolled along the chaotic bustle of “Little Beirut” on the Edgware Road; their senses tantalised by the sharp tang of freshly brewed coffee, the fruity waft of shisha pipes and the spitting spice of lamb shawarma, as excitable café owners lured prospective patrons in with the promise of falafel, baklava, kofta, manakeesh, grilled halloumi, fattoush and - a delicacy of Iraq - Masgouf (a slowly cooked carp seasoned with lemon and pickles).
And as much as Lamya inhaled those beautiful familiar smells from her homeland, Abd’s eyes and ears were elsewhere. Was it his imagination, or was he being watched, was he being followed, were there a lot of Iraqi men milling about on Edgware Road, or was he seeing threats where there weren’t any? He looked at his watch, it was 3pm, he’d have to head home for his meeting with that irritant Qassim.
(Phone rings) Thursday 18th February 1972 at 3:30pm; Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “Our meeting…?”, Abd: “4pm, in my flat, I haven’t forgotten”, and then there was a pause, Qassim: “Hmm, let’s meet on the ground-floor, you come down”, Abd: “Down? Why?”, Qassim: “I’m worried about the lift. What if there’s a power-cut?”, Abd: “There’s no power-cut”, Qassim: “What if it’s broken?”, Abd: “I just used it, it’s not broken”, Qassim: “What if it breaks?”, Abd: “Use the stairs”. And with his patience wearing very thin, Abd said something to the effect of “here, 4pm, be there, or don’t” (phone hangs up). And with that, the assassination of Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was set.
At 3:40pm, three men exited 4 Hyde Park Place and took a brisk nine minute walk over Edgware Road to Bryanston Square; two of them are a mystery. Described as men of Middle-Eastern appearance, of average height, weight and build, aged in their 20’s or 30’s, dressed in dark plain clothing, and with no scars, tattoos or redeeming features of any kind, it’s almost as if they were trained to blend-in and disappear, as of everyone who saw them, no-one can remember anything about them.
Where-as the third man? There was no mystery as to who he was; as being a short shambling rambling mess, dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the only real mystery was why 58 year old Yahya Qassim (Yay-yah Cazim) was even hired.
At ten minutes to four on Friday 18th February 1972, Qassim and his two mysterious assassins slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.
With a sharp crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, hearing a slight scuffle Abd asked “Are you alone?”, with a nervous stutter Qassim replied “Yes… alone”, and with an electric buzz and a metal thung, the black front door of 35 Bryanston Square opened.
Which was most convenient for 72 year old Millicent Harris, resident of flat 8 on the second floor, as with her arms weighted down with shopping bags, one of the nice young men held the door open for her, and – with a sense of good manners, often absent with today’s youth – they let the lady into the lift, as they stood side-by-side; Qassim, Millicent and two highly trained Iraqi assassins, in one hand they held black balaclavas and in the other 9mm Browning revolvers.
With all four squeezed into the slightly compact lift, as the mysterious man nearest the panel prodded the button to the sixth floor, Millicent politely asked “second floor please”, but the man ignored her. She asked again “second floor please”, but once again he ignored her, they all did (which was odd as Qassim was fluent in English), so believing these reprobates were either foreign, ignorant or rude, she jabbed at the button herself, and scowled at the naughty men with her most withering look.
On the sixth floor, Abd watched as the lift’s needle stalled four floors below. Behind him, busy in her kitchen, Lamya prepared dinner. With Qassim closing in, normally she’d be out, but having finished her chores and with no reason to leave, she stayed, as Abd promised to keep the meeting brief.
Suddenly, the needle of the sixth floor lift restarted, and slowly crept up from second floor, to third, to fourth, to fifth and finally (ping) to sixth, but Abd had no sense of trepidation. Qassim was more of an ass than an assassin and only thing he was likely to kill was time, air and brain-cells. But as the lift’s art-deco gates opened wide and the solitary shambling mess of Qassim stepped out… he froze in fear.
There was no awkward grin on Qassim’s wrinkled old face and no wizened old hand knocking on the door. As (unlike ever time prior) the ever-cautious Abd wasn’t peeping through the spy-hole, waiting for the very last second to open his heavy wooden door. Instead, he was standing in front of it.
Qassim tried to warn his co-conspirators, but with his wibbling lips only able muster a stutter, and a crazy compilation of consonants hardly being helpful to these hired assassins, as they strolled out of the lift – their black balaclavas off and their revolvers not cocked – sensing his immediate danger, Abd bolted backwards and slammed the door shut, as a volley of 9mm shots ripped through the wood,
Behind the splintered door of flat 21; amongst the shrill screams and the choking tears, Lamya could be heard sobbing “my husband is killed, my husband is killed”, as the assassins fled, their booted feet thundering down the stairs, but gripped with fear, Qassim simply stood motionless and stared.
Hearing the shots, Ernest Taylor, the caretaker of 35 Bryanston Square, bravely attempted to grapple with the fleeing assassins, but with both men being young, fit and swift, they easily dodged passed the elderly gent, dashed into the quiet residential street and disappeared forever.
Unsure whether his mission was successful, Qassim (always being a bastion of tact) telephoned his victim’s flat and calmly asked “Lamya? It’s Qassim, what has happened?” To which (seeing blood pour from a bullet-hole in her body and her husband slumped on the floor) she screamed “you have killed my husband, you have killed me”, and then, he promptly hung up.
Unlike the spry-assassins, the 58 year old, five foot three inch Yahya Qassim was easily collared by the mansion block’s caretaker - Ernest Taylor, questioned by the Police, of which he denied all knowledge, and with both guns and masks found nearby, on 28th February 1972, Qassim was formerly charged…
…but not with murder. You see, so inept was Qassim and his assassins, that nobody actually died.
With the door slammed shut and unable to see their target, of those five shots fired; one hit the hall skirting board, one hit the bedroom doorframe, two hit the door, and with all five shots entirely missing Abd - who’s military training had told him to drop to the deck and stay low – one bullet had hit Lamya in the right shoulder. But after just two weeks in hospital, Lamya had made a full recovery.
Yahya Qassim was tried at the Old Bailey on 19th June 1972 and charged with the attempted murder of Abd al-Naif and with intent to cause grievous bodily harm to Lamya al-Naif. He pleaded not guilty to all charges and the jury (unanimously) found him… not guilty. With no gun on his person, no bullets in his pocket, no mask on his face, no fingerprints anywhere at the scene and no witnesses able to confirm whether Qassim had fired (let alone held) a gun, he was found innocent and walked free.
Six years later, on Sunday 9th July 1978, outside of the five-star Intercontinental Hotel on London’s Park Lane, as the exiled Iraqi General hopped in a taxi and headed home to his beloved wife, he was cut down by a hail of bullets, one of which blasted a hole in the back of his head, and he died the very next day. This time, his Iraqi assassins were professionals, and his death sentence having been (reportedly) ordered by the ambitious Vice-President of Iraq, whose name was Saddam Hussein.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Killafornia Dreaming and Targeted. (PLAY PROMOS)
A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susie Brace, Lina Cho, Roger M, The Quiet One and Gunga-Dun. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook.
Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, so everything you hear is original and true.
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive.
A full track listing follows:
Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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".
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.