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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.
Episode Forty-One: On Friday 19th September 1947, two bank robbers - Christopher Geraghty and Charles Jenkins - were executed having killed an innocent bystander whilst in pursuit of a robbery, as no-one could prove which man had committed the murder. It's a trial which brought about the abolition of the death penalty in the United Kingdom. But who was the real victim?
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
Ep41 – The Forgotten Truth about the Charlotte Street Robbery
(Quick) Hello. This is episode 41 of Murder Mile. So, basically, three guys called Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt robbed a jewellers on Charlotte Street, beat-up its owner, did a runner, some bloke got shot and because no-one knew which robber had killed him, as a deterrent to any criminals, all three men were found guilty of murder, one was imprisoned, two were executed (even though only one of them had fired the fatal shot), and this case sparked a big old hoo-hah which eventually lead to the abolition of the death penalty in Britain. Okay, that’s it, well, thanks for listening. Bye-bye. (white noise)
What? Why are you still there? Oh, you want to know more? Oh, well, that’s strange, you see, normally – when this story is told - people only focus on those three little details; how young the robbers were, how their double-hanging failed to deter any future gangsters and how the execution of at least one innocent man sparked a debate which put an end to capital punishment, in our country, forever, so I really don’t know what else I can tell you… except the truth… and all of the pieces, that every article, ever written, about the case of Geraghty, Jenkins & Rolt has failed to tell you about this whole bloody case, and I warn you now, it’s a lot. So strap in.
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio… (voiceover) “no-no-no, fast-forward this shit, we’ve no time for waffle, yup, yup, yup, guided walk, blah-blah-blah, yup there may be bangs, there might be rude bits, yaddy-yaddy-yah, okay here we go”
RECORD AS NORMAL: …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 The Charlotte Street Robbery; a bungled theft, an escape, a death and a double execution, and how one vital detail in the case is always overlooked. Murder Mile contains shocks, surprises and moments of satire, as well as loud and 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. (Fast forward off)
Episode 41: The Forgotten Truth about the Charlotte Street Robbery.
Today I’m standing on the corner of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street in Fitzrovia, W1; four streets north of the Corner House café where Jacques Tratsart slaughtered his family, five streets west of Margaret Lowe’s home, where she became the third victim of The Blackout Ripper and two roads…
“You know what? Bollocks to this bit too. (Fast-forward) It’s basically just me, a Brummy, pretending to be posh (which I’m not), telling you how dull Fitrovia is (and it is), in a snarky sarcastic way and at a coma inducing speed. In essence, Fitzrovia is drab, grey and boring-as-hell; Charlotte Street has a nice bit and a crap bit, we’re in the crap bit, and even though the murder location at numbers 73-75 has been bulldozed into dust… twice, I’d still normally waste precious time waffling on about how the new building looks like its architect had a seizure whilst shoving stickle-bricks up his arse and how it’s now home to a sexual health clinic, which is a piss-poor excuse for me to insert several euphemisms for botts, foofs, plums and todgers), but not today. Right! That’s the bollocks over with, here’s the story…” (Fast-forward off)
As it was here, on Friday 29th April 1947, at Jay’s the Jewellers on the corner of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street, that a bungled robbery would bring the British legal system to its knees (Interstitial)
To get to grips with details of the Charlotte Street Robbery, of the many names you’ll hear in this case, the most important are these four; Geraghty, Jenkins, Rolt and Walsh:
(TYPE) Christopher James Geraghty; aged 20; tall, neat, surly; 5 foot 10, medium build, dark swept-back hair, prone to outbursts of anger and violence; criminal record includes a caution aged 11 for the theft of a torch, 3 years in borstal aged 16 for intent to rob with an offensive weapon, two escape attempts whilst locked-up, and 1 ½ years in borstal aged 18 for violence and robbery. (CLANG)
(TYPE) Charles Henry Jenkins; aged 22; short, scrawny, scruffy, 5 foot 8, slim build, brown ruffled hair, an odd grimace on his face, and an extensive criminal record from the age of 11, including shoplifting, trespassing, and breaking and entering, served 12 months in borstal for theft, 2 years for assault on a policeman and 15 months hard labour for shop-breaking and theft of a motor vehicle. (CLANG)
(TYPE) Terence John Fraser Rolt; aged 17; small, slim and baby-faced, curly brown hair, a short criminal history including being bound over for two years for shop-breaking and stealing cigarettes, and 18 months in borstal for loitering with intent to commit robbery and the theft of several pencils (CLANG)
(TYPE) And William Henry Walsh; aged 37, stocky, squat, talks like a proper Cockney gangster but lives in Plumstead (south east London), married with two children, a heavy-smoker, a teetotaller and a keen billiard player, with prior convictions for receiving stolen goods. (CLANG)
Four criminals; Geraghty, Jenkins, Rolt and Walsh; with Walsh as the fence, Rolt as the impressionable easily-led youth, and Geraghty & Jenkins being two petty hoodlums eager for some quick cash having been released from borstal barely one week prior. A few days later, three of the men would be charged with murder. So how did such a simple robbery go so badly wrong?
Well, you see, Jay’s the Jewellers at 73/75 Charlotte Street wasn’t their intended target; where things went awry was two days prior, at a very different jewellers 2 ½ miles west in Bayswater.
It was the afternoon of Wednesday 25th April 1947; the sky was thick, murky and grey, as dark formless clouds loomed large over Bayswater, and with Queensway being a semi-affluent street stretching from Hyde Park to Paddington with four storey townhouses, cafes and shops on both sides, as dull drops of good old British drizzle sprinkled the sparse throng of shoppers, parked across the street, three masked men were sat in a stolen Morris 10.
Their target was A B Davis Ltd, a small independent jewellers at 91 Queensway, tucked to the side of Bayswater tube station; they knew when to hit, what to grab and how to escape. And with the shop having been cased by a stocky Cockney two days before, this robbery was planned to perfection.
By 3:25pm, with the schools letting-out, the streets would be empty. Being staffed by just two men in their mid-to-late fifties, the jewellers had next-to-no security. Having stolen their getaway car less than one hour prior, even the owner didn’t know that his Morris 10 was missing. And being dressed in masks, gloves and dark vague clothes, the robbers would leave nothing behind to identify them.
The shop was tiny; 21 feet wide by 14 feet deep, with two long glass counters left and right, chock full of watches and rings; to the left was a watch-maker’s bench, at which sat 52 year old Herbert Colpus who chatted to Albert Barron, an engineer who was fixing the phone, to the right was the safe, and serving two customers - William & Betty Thompson (who were buying an emerald ring) – was 58 year old Stanley Coleman. And although the shop was busier than usual, as robberies go, this was only a three-man-job; with one to cover the staff, one to clear to cabinets and one to clean-out the safe.
Bursting through the double-doors, three armed men with their mouths masked by handkerchiefs and gripping black automatic pistols instantly turned the tranquil peace of this tiny jewellers into a chaotic noisy cacophony of shouting, shoving and confusion. ADD NOISES: “get over there”, “get down”, “you, against the wall”, “you, here”, “open it”, “open the safe”, “faster”, “hands up”, “don’t move”, “face the wall”, “stay where you are”, “you, shut it”, “don’t look at me”, “get the cash”.
Being terrified, William & Betty Thompson faced the wall, eyes-shut, heads-down. Albert Barron kept his hands held high, hoping to dear God he’d make it out alive, as with a rage-filled robber losing his rag, Herbert Colpus was violently shoved hard into a cabinet, smashing the glass - ADD NOISE “no, don’t shoot him” – as obeying the armed robber’s every word, Stanley Coleman opened the safe. With their bags filled, someone shouted “come on, come on, let’s go”, and just like that… they were gone.
And that was it; they were in and out in less than three minutes, no shots were fired, nobody died, no-one was seriously hurt and none of the robbers were identified. An hour later, a Morris 10 saloon, registration plate DDE750 was found abandoned on Bishop’s Bridge Road, by the Paddington arm of the Regent’s Canal. Its owner (Mr Harold Jackson Sandercock of Moscow Road, W2) was unaware that it had been stolen. And its three masked occupants simply vanished, having hopped on a number 36 bus and headed south to Victoria, with their fellow commuters being none-the wiser.
It was the perfect robbery… and although it wasn’t a big score; having nabbed twenty-six rings, four bracelets, one brooch and seventeen watches which totalled just over £4500, for three desperate men (barely out of borstal) and a stocky Cockney with a gambling problem, split four-ways, it was enough.
Except it wasn’t split four-ways, it was split two-ways, with Walsh taking half. The robbers had been robbed, by one of their own, and with three criminals being victims to a crime, who were they going to call, the Police? So being broke, hungry and furious, having been swindled out of their fair share of the loot; Geraghty and Jenkins set about robbing another jewellers, with Rolt, only this time, instead of remaining anonymous, this robbery would escalate their names into infamy. (INTERSTITIAL).
The plan was hatched in The Billet public house in Bermondsey (South London) on the morning of Friday 27th April 1947, just hours before the robbery itself, and although a bit rushed, the set-up was the same as before; Jenkins covers the staff, Rolt clears the cabinets and Geraghty cleans-out the safe.
With handkerchiefs as masks, a stolen get-away car and all three packing a revolver which Rolt had stashed in a bombed-out house on Fair Street, having swiped two 32’s, a 38 and a 45 from Frank Dyke & Co, a gunsmiths at 10 Union Street the Sunday before; the deal was done, the loot would be evenly split three-ways, and the boys went check out the target, which Jenkins said “was an easy job”.
At 12pm, all three men departed Shadwell tube station and took a westbound District line train, then a northbound Northern line train and arrived at Goodge Street tube station just shy of 1pm. As before, being eager to dump the getaway car and escape amongst the mass of commuters on the London underground, they’d already purchased three return tickets to Shadwell for six pence-a-piece.
Next-up, they needed a getaway car; and having found a suitable black Vauxhall 11 saloon, registration plate KPK 525, left outside of 56 Whitfield Street, just one road away, Rolt had no problem stealing it as in an less-security-conscious era before the roll-out of unique car ignition keys, Rolt knew that almost all Vauxhall 11’s were started by a single key marked as MRM11, which he had in his pocket.
And having briefly cased the joint, eyed up the loot in the window (worth about five grand) and swiped a brown-paper bag from a local grocers to stash their sparkly goodies, seeing that the shop was a little bit full of lunchtime punters, and feeling a tad peckish; Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt popped into a greasy-spoon café on Tottenham Street, to wait a while with a cuppa tea and a bacon sarnie.
The plan was simple; as before, they’d get in and out in less than three minutes, with no shots fired, no-one injured, nobody dead and none of the robbers identified.
Their target was Jay’s the Jewellers at 73/75 Charlotte Street, a diamond merchant and pawnbrokers on the junction of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Street, just a two minute walk from Goodge Street tube; and although they’d never set foot inside the store before, had no knowledge of the layout, the safe, the staff or the security, by rehashing the Bayswater plan, they guessed it would be okay.
By 2:30pm, with the schools still an hour away from letting out, the streets were packed with parents. Being staffed by six people - some old and decrepit, some young and fit - the jewellers had more-than-adequate security. And being dressed in a bizarre array of brightly coloured masks, caps and coats, although we’ll never truly know who-was-who in this whole debacle, the robbers were easy to identify.
In short, Rolt was dressed in dark clothes; bafflingly Geraghty decided to commit an armed robbery wearing a bright blue overcoat with fetching red checks, a cheeky blue cap and a delightfully white silk handkerchief over his mouth; and although Jenkins’ cap and mask was as equally florid – more importantly – he wore a fawn coloured raincoat. So, as Rolt parked the getaway car on the corner, when Geraghty & Jenkins separately burst in, via its two entrances… instantly, everything went to pot.
The shop was a chaotic mess; as being spread over two floors, split into two separate rooms, both of which were subdivided into several separate sections; with its staff spread far and wide; with every cabinet locked, every door barred, every window alarmed and confusion being a big part of the store’s security as having been robbed on a regular basis, this time, the jewellers were prepared.
In the first room, the pledges department, nothing was on display; no gold, no silver, no bronze; just its 70 year old shop-manager – Mr Bertram Keates – sat inside a steel cage, behind by a wall of bars, and oblivious to the masked man stood in the doorway, as he was half-blind and almost totally deaf.
Next door, the sales department was no better; as although its gleaming cabinets were crammed full of watches, rings and sparkly things, here stood the bulk of the staff; youthful sales assistant Ronald Grout, two mid-twenties salesmen Alfred Ambrose and William Hazell and its owner Alfred Stock. And as both Jenkins and Geraghty stopped, gasped and recoiled, the plan went out the window.
Geraghty, with a gun in each hand, pointed his rusty .32 calibre Bulldog revolver at the startled staff, and – to get their attention – he fired a warning shot with his obsolete and antiquated Eley Maxim .45 calibre pistol, blasting a thumb-sized hole in the roof, as he dived over the glass counter, totally failing to spot that 17 year old Ronald Grout, had slipped out, and dashed into a nearby café to call the Police.
And once again, for the second time in two days, a West London jewellery store descended into chaos; ADD SOUNDS “hands up”, “don’t move”, “get down”, “don’t make a sound”, “shut it”, “open it now”, “stay down”, but amongst the sea of swirling confusion, it was the staff who had the upper-hand.
Having shoved the barrel of gun into Mr Keates’ wrinkled and rather bemused face, having screamed “open the cage” at the top of his lungs, with a dull buzz, Mr Keates let Jenkins in; and although he was rather old, mostly deaf and practically blind, Mr Keates fought back, and pummelled the masked man with his fists and feet, as in the ensuing scuffle, somewhere in the shop, Jenkins lost his gun.
An ear-splitting siren wailed as the staff hit the alarm. In panic, Geraghty fired a shot, narrowly missing the salesmen and blasting out a glass panel between the both rooms, and (seizing the chance) with the cabinet keys in hand, Ambrose and Hazell dashed out, into the safety of the New Scala restaurant.
The robbery was a total shambles; as with an unarmed Jenkins being duffed-up by an deaf pensioner, the cabinets locked, the keys missing, the staff scarpered, thick crowds having formed on Charlotte Street, all eager to get an eyeful of the criminal commotion, as having refused to open the safe, Geraghty angrily beat 64 year old Alfred Stock about the head with the thick metal butt of his gun.
And although, once again; the robbers were angry, bruised and empty-handed, hearing sirens, from the doorway, Rolt shouted to his comrades “come on, let’s go”, as the three masked men fled into their getaway car to make their daring escape. Or they would have done… had the car started.
Being notoriously unreliable, even with the right key, as Rolt struggled to turn over the ignition of the Vauxhall 11; with horns hooting, fists shaking and distant Police sirens growing ever louder, the street began to swell with the throng of angry people. And after several seconds of sweating, thumping and colourful curse-words, by the time that the stuttering engine finally fired-up, not only had a ten-tonne truck blocked the fleeing bandit’s escape, but as they tried to reverse, a second truck pulled up behind. Being trapped, they had no choice… but to run.
As Jenkins and Rolt bolted east down Tottenham Street, Rolt was roughly grappled to the ground by two passers-by, as behind him, having left Geraghty to fend for himself, an angry mob circled the heavily armed robber, wielding whatever came to hand, whether bricks, brooms or bottles. And as the shop’s bloodied owner - Albert Stock – staggered into the street screaming “Help! Police!”, his finger pointing to Geraghty; being swarmed by revving trucks, hooting buses and looming locals, as he tried to flee, roaring up Charlotte Street, a bright red motorbike blocked his path.
As Rolt kicked himself free by booting the heads of his grappling pursuers, although the sharp shock startled him, Rolt fled and didn’t look back, as behind him… he heard a loud bang.
One street over, on Torrington Place, Jenkins and Rolt darted into Brook House; stashed Jenkin’s black gloves, brightly coloured cap and easily recognisable fawn coloured raincoat behind a partition in a second floor storeroom, and hopped on a bus to the Strand, where Rolt flung his gun into The Thames, and both men disappeared into the crowded darkness of the London underground. And although he was pursued on foot, even Geraghty managed to escape, as the angry mob had dispersed, just seconds after he had shot a motorcyclist in the face. (END THEME)
The robbers had vanished; nobody saw their faces, nobody heard their names and nobody had left a fingerprint, so the Police investigation ground to a halt.
Then, eight days later, on 3rd May 1947, Mr Reginald Hyan, caretaker of Brook House in Torrington Place, found an easily recognisable fawn coloured raincoat speckled with blood, inside the pocket of which, the owner had left the tailor’s ticket, which led to known offender called Charles Henry Jenkins, and his known associates, Geraghty and Rolt,
On 28th July 1947, after a six day trial at the Old Bailey, even though (throughout the robbery) each of the accused was heavily disguised, were never identified by witnesses, were unwilling to admit the truth, and as it was impossible to prove who had fired the fatal shot – even though Geraghty had confessed to the murder - 22 year old Charles Henry Jenkins, 20 year old Christopher James Geraghty and 17 year old Terence John Peter Rolt were all found guilty of assault, armed robbery and murder.
Classified as a minor, 17 year old Rolt was detained in prison at His Majesty’s Pleasure, but being just a few years older, on Friday 19th September 1947, as a deterrent to would-be criminals, both Geraghty and Jenkins were executed at Pentonville Prison. An innocent man had been hung, and by 1965, after many miscarriages of justice, the Death Penalty in the United Kingdom was abolished. (END)
(White noise) What? That’s it. Three angry guys robbed a jeweller’s in revenge for having been stiffed by a buddy, and in the course of a bungled robbery, someone got shot, and because the legal system couldn’t prove who had killed him, even though Geraghty was clearly the murderer, a crime which he had confessed to, Jenkins – as an unarmed and innocent man - was executed.
But then, as I said earlier, when this story is told, normally people only focus on those three little details; how young the robbers were, how their punishment failed as a deterrent and how the execution of an innocent man sparked a debate which lead to the abolition of the death penalty. And yet, no matter what way this story is told, Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt always come across as the victims.
But then, who was the real victim in this story? But of the many unnamed victims in this story, there’s one who always gets overlooked. If you blinked, you would have missed him, but if you’ll let me (rewind) I’d like to tell you his story.
On the morning of Friday 27th April 1947 - as three feckless halfwits called Geraghty, Jenkins and Rolt readied themselves to steal from a store because they were too lazy, greedy and thick to hold down an honest job – 34 year old Alec de Antiquis; a former corporal in the Home Guard, a loyal husband to his wife Gladys and doting father to their six children, toiled away in his motorcycle repair shop.
The blitz had destroyed everything; his home, his work, his life, but being eager to put a roof over his family’s heads and food on the table, with limited funds and his own two hands, Alec rebuilt their cramped little home, and in a small structure, made of corrugated iron, to the side of the house, he built a workshop. And after two years of sweat, tears and stress, finally his hard-work was paying-off.
Described by locals and loved-ones alike as a man of excellent character; who was decent, honest and polite, with short dark hair, chestnut brown eyes and an eternally cheerful face, although Alec was barely five foot four, into that little body was packed a barrel-load of bravery. As in that month alone, he’d stopped a startled horse from running over a young boy, and had ran into a burning building to rescue a child, all of which he considered part of his duty as a good citizen.
That morning, having left their home at 186 High Street in Colliers Wood (South London), as a husband and wife team, Alec and Gladys would often ride from showroom to scrapyard across the city, building the business and making sales, with him on his motorcycle and her in the side-car, both dressed in matching leather helmets, but with their youngest son being sick with the flu, Gladys stayed at home.
At 2:32pm, being parked one block south of Jay’s the Jewellers on the junction of Charlotte Street and Scala Street, Alec was sat atop of his flame-red 1930 Indian Scout motorcycle, dressed in black leather boots, jacket and helmet, he had just two more sales to go, and then he would go home.
In the distance, he heard what sounded like a car backfire and thought nothing of it, but out of a two-storey brown-bricked building, one street north, a young boy dashed, his eyes wide with terror.
And then a second bang, from the same direction, swiftly followed by two suited men who sped by Alec shouting “call the Police, we’re being robbed”, as they dashed into the New Scala restaurant.
Slowly, as the traffic thickened, alarms wailed and an armed angry mob loomed large on the north-west corner of Charlotte Street, as three masked men dived into a waiting Vauxhall 11 with its engine stalled and spluttering, behind them staggered the shop’s owner, his face all bruised, his white shirt all bloodied, and his hand-built livelihood ruined by a gang of selfish thieves.
Being blocked by trucks and desperate to flee, with two decent citizens having wrestled one robber to the ground and the taller masked man now ready to run, Alec fired up his motorcycle, roared the bike up Charlotte Street and right outside of Jay’s, cut off the robber’s only space to escape.
Being stood face-to-face and barely four feet apart, although neither man had met before, Geraghty could have easily backed-up, climbed over or pushed by Alec, but he didn’t. As Alec was unarmed, his empty hands spread-wide to block the robber’s escape, and gripped in Geraghty’s hands was a .32 calibre Bulldog and a Eley Maxim .45 calibre pistol, with his plans having gone to pot and still being furious at his mate who’d stiffed him on the Bayswater job, seeing red, Geraghty shot Alec in the head.
Like a coward, Geraghty fled, having left his victim for dead.
Although unconscious and bleeding profusely from a 5 ½ inch oval and jagged bullet wound above his left eyebrow, Sergeant William Meldom attempted to administer first-aid at the scene, until at 2:47pm, when Alec was admitted to the Middlesex Hospital.
Being barely alive, with his blink reflexes absent, his breathing limited to deep raspy gasps and a bloody froth oozing freely from his purple lips, as the .45 calibre bullet had eviscerated his left corpus striatum (a key part of the brain critical for movement), being in a coma, as his brain bled uncontrollably, 34 year old married father-of-six Alec d’Antiquis died of his injuries just ten minutes later.
So angry was the outrage at these callous cowards who had left a decent family bereft of a father, a husband and its sole breadwinner, with Alec’s life insurance policy being a poultry £50, the Carnegie Hero’s Fund and the Daily Mail newspaper raised almost £6000 (roughly £225000 today) to purchase them a more suitable bungalow, Parliament awarded his widow an annual payment of £100 a year with £18 a year for each of his children, for his bravery, Alec was posthumously awarded the Captain Ralph Binney memorial medal, and for the full six days of the trial, at The Old Bailey, dressed in black, sat Gladys, silent and stoic, barely yards from the man who’d murdered her husband.
The real victims of the Charlotte Street robbery were Alec D’Antiquis, his wife and their children; and this was their story. (OUT)
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
Don’t forget, Extra Mile is after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is They Walk Amongst Us (PLAY PROMO)
A huge thank you this week to my new Patreon supporters, who were all very excited by the new Patreon goodies, which now include, badges, stickers, mugs, early access to Murder Mile episodes and a personal monthly video message from me. And so, to Michelle Wezenberg, Paige Spencer, Kim Harrison, Nicola Wells, Maria SlizI, Irena Zablotska, Stephanie Saloka, Jas Pearce, Donna Marie and Susan Atkins, I give you all a big e-hug. Come on, everyone get close. Ah yeah that’s nice. Hey! Who squeezed my bum? That’s not a Patreon goodie… yet.
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
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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