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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-SIX
Episode Forty-Six: On Sunday 25th July 1965, in Goslett Yard in Soho; world champion light-heavyweight boxer, film star and club-owner Freddie Mills was found dead, shot in the head. But was it a suicide, or murder? This is part one of a two-part episode.
THE LOCATION
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46 - Who Killed Freddie Mills? – Part 1 - The Theories
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 London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the death of Freddie Mills; a boxer, a celebrity and a businessman, whose untimely death in a Soho alley is shrouded in so much mystery, that parts of it have become myth. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features 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. Episode 46: Who killed Freddie Mills? Part One Today I’m standing in Goslett Yard; a dark, drab and gloomy dead-end street, secreted off the choking fumes of Charing Cross Road, and just a stone’s throw away from the Lyon’s Corner House tearoom where deluded dreamer Jacques Tratsart gunned-down his siblings, Denmark Place where one of Britain’s worst mass-murders occurred, and the former Meax & Co Brewery where eight people drowned in a tidal wave of one and a half million gallons of beer – coming soon to Murder Mile. Being barely 80 feet long by 16 feet wide, but going nowhere, Goslett Yard truly no purpose; as with no houses, no shops, no cars and no people, only a backdoor to Starbucks, the bins for Borderline, a sea of swirling litter and several steamy lumps of doggy dumps, it’s almost as if Goslett Yard was made by mistake. Even the now-defunct pub called The Royal George (literally built in the middle of the street) looks like it was delivered it to the wrong address, and the postman thought “ah sod it”. Formerly, on the right-hand side of Goslett Yard was the former Cross & Blackwell warehouse, which loomed six-storeys high, as half a block of dark and imposing Gothic architecture left the yard in eternal shadow. And what was once merely a quiet place to park-up at the back of Freddie Mills Nitespot, has now been bulldozed and reduced to rubble, with the only sound being the drone of diggers, the tremble of trucks and the eternal grunt, fart and belch as six workmen stand around staring as one man digs a hole, with fags in their gobs, bacon sarnies on the go and one hand scratching their butt-cheeks, before they all take another well-earned tea-break - a job well done. And yet, it was here, on Sunday 25th July 1965, in the ominous quiet of Goslett Yard, that (boxer, actor and celebrity club owner) Freddie Mills either committed suicide… or was murdered? (Interstitial) So who was Freddie Mills? Frederick Percival Mills - known by everyone who loved him as Freddie – was born on 26th June 1919, as the youngest of four children to two doting parents, Thomas James Mills and Lottie Hilda Gray. As a working-class family living under the shadow of the First World War, life could have been rough, but being instilled with a solid work ethic by his scrap-dealer father, a sense of pride by house-wife mother, a love of play by his adoring siblings, and all within the fresh air of Bournemouth, a small seaside town on the English south coast, Freddie’s life was good, and at the centre of it all – always - was his family. Gifted his first set of boxing gloves aged eleven, Freddie quickly fell in love with the sport and with his family’s encouragement and full support to fulfil his dreams, he’d regularly spar with his older brother Charlie (already a semi-professional boxer) and – whilst earning his keep as a milkman’s assistant – he was trained by the brother and boxing partner of Welsh former lightweight champion Gordon Cook. Freddie was a good boy with a big heart, a beaming smile, a loving family and a passion for boxing. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a poor kid raised in a slum, who used his fists to fight through the mean streets of gangs, drugs, guns and (ultimately) his death… because it isn’t. By the tender age of sixteen, Freddie had gone professional, and having honed his skills as part of Sam McEwan’s Boxing Booth; a fairground attraction where local men could fight professional pugilists, here he learned not only how to fight, but also how to win the hearts and minds of the crowd, as Freddie became both a professional boxer and a talented showman. Between 1936 and 1939; although he was a middleweight boxer, Freddie fought middle, light-heavy and heavyweight boxers, and across sixty-four professional fights; he drew seven, lost nine and won forty-eight, three he won by a knockout. And although he wasn’t a very skilled fighter, with a dogged mix of pressure, persistence and an uncanny ability to take a pounding, so beloved had he become amongst boxers, promoters and crowds, that he was blessed with the nickname of “Fearless Freddie”. In 1939, he was the Western Area champion. In 1940, he beat the Eastern Area champion. Having enlisted in the Royal Air Force as a physical training instructor, to serve his country during World War Two; in 1942 Freddie won the British and Empire light-heavyweight titles, beating the reigning champion Jock McAvoy on points and knocking Len Harvey (dubbed the “Prince of Boxers”) right out of the ring. By 1948, at the age of 29, Fearless Freddie became the world light-heavyweight champion, a national hero and was one of Britain’s greatest boxing idols in the post-war era. Freddie was a dedicated athlete, a charismatic entertainer, a winner, a hero and a gentleman. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a punchy pugilist, whose fall from grace sees him used as a hired goon for an East End gangster, whose death was to be expected… because it isn’t. Having wisely retired from boxing at the peak of his success, Freddie Mills was one of the few sporting icons to break into television. And although - with a broken nose - he had a face like a melted matinee idol; being blessed with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a childish sense of fun, Freddie became a family favourite, presenting the music show Six-Five Special, being a quiz show panellist on What’s My Line and appearing in several British films such as Carry-On Constable and Carry-On Regardless. Freddie Mills was a loveable character, a charming personality, a trusted celebrity, and he absolutely loved it. But don’t think that this is going to be a story about a famous face who smiled for the cameras, and yet, deep down, he had a dark and twisted side… because it isn’t. Freddie was a boxer, an actor and a businessman, but – first and foremost - he was a faithful husband and a doting father. As having married Christine Marie (also known as “Chrissie”) on 30th September 1948; not only did Freddie become the proud dad of two daughters – Susan and Amanda – but he also raised Chrissie’s son Don (from a previous marriage) as his own, and all of whom he adored. For Freddie, life was perfect. And there was nothing he loved more than his family. And yet, at a little after 1am, on Sunday 25th July 1965, in the backseat of his silver Citreon DS19, with a single bullet wound to the head, forty-six year old Freddie was found dead. (Interstitial) But how and why? The afternoon of Saturday 24th July 1965 was sunny and bright, as under a cloudless sky, Freddie stood in his back garden, skimming the leaves off his swimming pool and smiling with delight as his beloved daughters – Susan (aged 13) and Amanda (aged 7) – played and giggled in the garden. He’d made a good life for his family; they were healthy, happy and wholesome; living harmoniously in a newly built two-storey detached house at 186 Denmark Hill, in a middle-class part of Brixton, South London. And as he soaked up the sun’s warmth, dressed in a pair of shorts, as a 46 year old man, he was still in good shape, and unlike many ex-boxers, he’d still got his health, his life and a livelihood. At 4pm, having struggled to sleep properly for several weeks - being burdened by the usual worries of a businessman, still recovering from a bout of pneumonia and with his sleep-pattern having gone-to-pot since he’d opened his own Soho nightclub called Freddie Mills’ Nitespot just two years earlier - whilst Chrissie and the girls went out shopping, Freddie popped upstairs for a mid-afternoon nap. By 7:30pm, having barely slept a wink, as an all-consuming headache he’d had (on and off) since 1948 raged in his brain, Freddie slugged back a cup of coffee, as he snugged on the sofa with his girls, giggling at the loony antics on The Morecambe & Wise Show. And as much as Chrissie pleaded with him to take the night off, he couldn’t, as being a film star, a boxing idol and a showman with a solid work ethic, Freddie had a club to run, a family to provide for and a legion of fans he would never disappoint. At 9:40pm, as per usual; being dressed in a smart dark suit, a crisp white shirt, black polished shoes and a stylish chequered tie, Freddie kissed his girls goodbye, having made plans to meet Chrissie and his 26 year old step-son Don at the club, at around 1am, and hopped into his silver Citreon DS19. The journey from his home at 186 Denmark Hill to his club at 143 Charing Cross Road, in Saturday night traffic, took forty-five minutes, and he arrived at roughly 10:30pm, having taken no detours. And although, he would usually park-up outside of his club on Charing Cross Road, his car being keenly watched by Robert Deacon the doorman, that night, with his head furiously thumping, Freddie pulled off the bright lights of the busy city street, as he crept his car into the silent darkness of Goslett Yard, which he had done many times before. So far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. With co-owner of the club Andy Ho not arriving until 11:15pm, and Freddie being less of a manager and more of a famous figurehead, whose role was to compare the cabaret, shake hands with the fans and pose for photos, Freddie knew he wouldn’t be needed until midnight. So, suffering from a blinding headache and having asked the doorman to wake him in an hour, with his car secreted in an unlit, secluded but peaceful passage, Goslett Yard was the perfect place for a little nap. As instructed, at 11:45pm, with the cabaret band tuning-up, Robert Deacon sauntered down Charing Cross Road and turned right into Goslett Yard, ready to wake Freddie. With structures on all sides; a row of brown-bricked work-sheds to the left, two black-fronted garages ahead and the tall white rear of a vague office space to the right, as the night had almost no moon, and with a single street-lamp too far away, the eerily silent dead-end was plunged into blackness. At the end, diagonally parked, with its bonnet facing the far-right corner and its boot to the street; with its engine off, lights out and being barely visible amidst the gloom was Freddie’s silver Citreon. Being only three weeks into his job as the club’s doorman, 23 year old Robert Deacon approached the car cautiously, as although Freddie was a real gent; with him feeling unwell, being the boss and having had a few drinks to pacify his pounding head, he knew it wasn’t his place to be too pushy. As Robert’s feet clomped along the cobblestones, he sidled up to the passenger’s side of dark-lit silver Citreon and saw the unmistakable stocky silhouette of Freddie; sitting bolt upright, with both hands flat on his lap and his head slumped slightly forward. And yet, oddly, he wasn’t sat in the driver’s seat, but in the back behind the passenger’s seat, totally still and ominously silent. Eager to wake his boss, with the rear window open, Robert called out “Mr Mills” as his knuckles rapped on the car door, but Freddie didn’t move. He hollered again, “Mr Mills”, but still there was no reply. Opening the left-rear door, Robert shook the big fella’s thick broad shoulder and barked “Mr Mills, it’s time”, but – unusually for a man with lightening quick reflexes - there was no reaction. Smelling the booze on his breath, seeing his comatose state and spotting a froth of saliva form around Freddie’s mouth and nostrils, Robert thought nothing more of it, and went back inside the club. Roughly forty minutes later, with the cabaret delayed and the crowd getting restless, the club’s 47 year old head-waiter Henry Grant entered Goslett Yard. And being familiar with his boss’s occasional need to nap, but his insistence on never missing a performance, Henry vigorously shook the ex-boxer’s left shoulder, shouting “Freddie, wake up”, as with a firm hand, he sharply slapped Freddie’s face. But Freddie didn’t blink, wince or budge an inch. Dashing back inside the club, Henry alerted Andy that the boss didn’t look well and tried to telephone Freddie’s wife, but with Chrissie being on-route to the nightclub, she couldn’t be reached. At a little after 1am, Chrissie and her 26 year old son Don arrived at the club, but there no time to drink or dance, as – with a great sense of urgency - the club’s short and portly co-owner Andy Ho ushered them both outside and took Chrissie’s arm as he frog-marched them both to Goslett Yard, nervously mumbling “I think Mr Mills is very ill and his car is somewhere around the back, I’m told”. Sidling through the yard’s dark gloom, up to the ominous silence of the silver Citreon, as she saw the familiar silhouette of her seemingly dozing husband, Chrissie gently cooed though the open rear window “Freddie? Freddie?” hoping to wake him, but – as before – he didn’t answer. Eager to rouse him, Chrissie moved round to the rear driver’s side door and calmly sat on the backseat; a tender arm reached around Freddie’s broad shoulders, as she shook him, cooing “Freddie? Freddie?” but again, he didn’t budge. And although the yard was dark and inside the car was even darker, being seated next to Freddie, at his feet Chrissie spotted a .22 rifle (propped against the seat in front with its muzzle upright) and down his crisp white shirt she saw a slowly spreading pool of blood, which trickled down his cheek from a bullet hole in his right eye. Clutching Freddie towards her, Chrissie cried “Andy, Freddie has shot himself, call an ambulance” as she held him close, his blood staining her blouse, but already (with help on its way) his face was cold. The ambulance arrived at 1:39am, but on arrival at Middlesex Hospital, Freddie was pronounced dead. So, where’s the mystery? What we’re dealing with here is surely a suicide? A lone businessman suffering from depression and riddled with debts, who has a few drinks to quell his headache, parks his car in a dark secluded dead-end at the rear of his own nightclub, and with a .22 rifle pointed at his head, he shoots himself dead. There was no sign of a struggle, no screams nor shouts; no suspicious characters were seen, no drugs or poisons were found in his system (just a moderate level of alcohol), only his fingerprints were found, there were no threats on his life and he had no known enemies. Even his own wife was heard to cry out “Freddie has shot himself”. And after a thorough Police investigation, on 2nd August 1965, the coroner recorded this as “death by suicide”, confirming that Freddie Mills had taken his own life. It all seem simple enough, right? Well, not quite, you see there are elements to this case which don’t make a lot of sense. For example: No-one saw or heard anything, not even a gun-shot. No fingerprints were found on the gun, not even Freddie’s. Unusually for such loving family man, there was no suicide note. That night, he had made plans to meet his wife Chrissie and his step-son Don at the club, and had expressly asked Robert Deacon the doorman to wake him just prior to midnight, ready for the cabaret. And finally, Freddie was shot - not in the head or the heart - but in the eye, which (based on his injuries and the lack of powder burns to his lid) suggests that his eye was open at moment he fired the shot. All of which could easily be explainable, but there are also elements which are not. Such as: The alcohol: Chrissie confirmed that Freddie had only drank coffee at home, we know he didn’t take a detour on his forty minute drive from his home to the club, nobody at the club served him, no bottle was found in the car, and yet, Freddie’s blood had 37 micrograms of alcohol per 100 millilitres. The seating position: Freddie had supposedly shot himself in the face, and yet, if he had, why was he sitting in the backseat of his own car, why was he still sitting upright, and why – if he had been holding the rifle, with the muzzle aimed at his head – were both of his hands found flat on his lap? The timing of his death: Freddie parked in Goslett Yard at 10:30pm, Robert Deacon struggled to wake him at 11:45pm, as does Henry Grant at 12:30am, and Chrissie at a little after 1am. And yet, even though Freddie was clearly in medical need, no-one called for an ambulance for one and a half hours. The bullet-holes: there were two; one bullet was fired from the rifle into Freddie’s right eye, and the other was fired from inside the silver Citreon into the base of passenger’s side door. And even stranger is the weapon itself: firstly, if Freddie had shot himself, with the incline of the rifle’s muzzle aimed at his head, having pulled the trigger, surely gravity would cause it to fall towards him? But it didn’t, it fell away, and was found leaning against the driver’s seat in a very neat upright position, almost as if it had been placed there. And secondly; Freddie didn’t own a gun, no-one had ever seen him with a gun, and yet, the gun which ended his life wasn’t your average lethal weapon? It was an FN self-loading .22 calibre Belgian repeater rifle, the kind used to shoot targets at a fun-fair. And if that’s not strange enough? Answer me this; why did the police not investigate the scene until several hours after the body was found? And why was the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle) moved from the scene of the crime before the Police had even arrived? Within eight days, the Police, the pathologist and the coroner had concluded that Freddie Mills had committed suicide, a verdict which his family openly disagreed with, and the case was closed. But was this a suicide, or was it a murder? The facts just didn’t add up. And as those who knew Freddie started to talk, details started to emerge, and alternative theories began to form. Was Freddie really just a depressed ex-boxer who was secretly struggling with crippling headaches and depression? Was he a businessman who ended it all over a series of bad debts? Was he a loving family man who made a snap-decision to kill himself, without saying goodbye to those he loved? Or did Freddie Mills (the charming, fun-loving gentleman) have a secret dark side? Was he in debt to the Mafia? Were the Triads trying to muscle him out of his Soho club? Did he pay the infamous gangsters known the Kray Twins to end his life? Was this married man a secret homosexual who was depressed after the death of his gay lover? Was this all part of a Police cover-up to disguise a bungled investigation? Or was Freddie Mills; the light-heavyweight champion boxer, beloved film star and all-round family man, the sadistic murderer of eight prostitutes whose bodies were left ripped and naked across West London? Was Freddie Mills the infamous maniac known as The Hammersmith Stripper and is this the shameful secret he took to his grave? The only way to know is to find out who killed Freddie Mills? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to tune in next week for part two of who killed Freddie Mills? And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for more extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Out of the Shadows and Dumb and Busted. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom will get to find out who killed Freddie Mills days before the whole world and who all get free ebooks of the Murder Mile scripts. Ooh. As well as more goodies coming soon. It’s like a veritable murder Christmas. These lucky people are Dena Siegert, Jessica Shannon, Tracy Armstrong, Nina Colliver, Beth Kelley and Olivia Wallis, Thank you ladies, you are all truly amazing. 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. Ep47 – Who Killed Freddie Mills? - The Facts 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 London’s West End. Today’s episode is part two about the mysterious death of Freddie Mills; was it a suicide, or a murder, involving debts, threats, depression, a bungled investigation, a secret sexuality, or was he a sadistic serial killer with a guilty conscience? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features 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. Episode 47: Who killed Freddie Mills? Part Two In the early hours of Sunday 25th July 1965, in the darkest corner of Goslett Yard, an eerily silent dead-end just off Charing Cross Road, Freddie Mills (the champion boxer, wholesome celebrity and beloved family man) was found dead. There were no gunshots heard, no fingerprints found, no threats on his life, no witnesses, no suspects, and exactly how, when and why he was shot is unknown. The crime-scene was simple: Freddie had sat alone, in the left rear seat of his own silver Citreon DS19, for one and a half hours, to sleep-off a raging headache and the alcohol he had consumed. Its engine was off, its lights were out, the rear windows were open and the car was in complete darkness. And having suffered from insomnia, depression and being crippled by escalating debts, using a .22 calibre rifle, Freddie shot himself in the head. The gun was found in his car, the bullets matched the gun and with the Coroner ruling his death as a “suicide”, eight days later the case was closed. But several elements of the case just didn’t make sense… According to those who knew and loved him, not only was Freddie a fighter, a winner and champion, who rolled with the punches and always got-up when he was knocked down, but as a loving father and doting husband who was so full of life, fun and joy, who loved his family above everything else, if he did kill himself in a fit of depression, why was there no suicide note? These are the elements that are in question: if he had been drinking, where was the bottle? If this was Freddie’s car, why was he sat in the left rear seat? If this was the gun which killed Freddie, where did it come from, who owned it, why was it found neatly propped against the seat in-front, and why was he shot using a fairground rifle? If he had shot himself, why was he still sitting upright with both hands flat on his lap, and why had he been shot in his right eye? And – more bafflingly – why did the Police delay investigating the crime-scene for several hours, and why was the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle itself) removed before the Police had even arrived? After his death, several theories started circulating suggesting that Freddie had a dark-side. Five deep secrets that (for many years) he had kept hidden from his friends, family and his legion of fans, which linked him to debts, gangsters, police corruption, a secret life as a bisexual and a sadistic past as the depraved slayer of eight women in West London, known as The Hammersmith Stripper. What makes each theory stick is the fact that they are all plausible, so let’s look at them a little closer: Theory One: Freddie Mills was murdered by Chinese gangsters who were trying to take over his club. It’s true; Freddie was the co-owner of a Soho nightclub with his Chinese business partner – Andy Ho; two years prior the Freddie Mills Nitespot had been a Chinese restaurant, which was situated just one street away from Chinatown, an area ruled by the Triads, who (during that era) were rapidly expanding their criminal empire through extortion, blackmail and murder. But with no threats on Freddie’s life, no known association with the Triads and no evidence that the actor, chef and the club’s co-owner Andy Ho (who was Freddie’s friend and business partner for more than two decades) was himself a Triad? If this was a murder used to force an unwilling businessman to part with his club; why didn’t they kill Andy Ho, why didn’t they kill Chrissie (who was also a co-owner) and why would they make - this incredibly powerful message - look like a suicide? Theory Two: Freddie Mills committed suicide over the death of his gay lover. It’s true; Freddie was distraught at the death of his close friend Michael Holliday, a popular singer with chart hits in the 1950’s and 60’s. And being a fragile man with drug issues, a history of mental illness and a secret sexuality, on the 29th October 1963 - having headlined at the Freddie Mills Nitespot (a cabaret situated in Soho - the homosexual capital of the West End) - Michael Holliday tragically overdosed, just two years before the mysterious death of Freddie. But were Freddie and Michael gay lovers? No. Freddie was a big-hearted happily-married man, who loved and cared for everyone, who feared for his friend’s mental health and had tried and failed to prevent Michael’s suicide. And although the press tried to paint Freddie as a secret homosexual who – they claimed – had been arrested in a public lavatory and charged with indecency (a charge for which there is no evidence); Ronnie Kray, the openly bisexual East End gangster who knew Freddie and dated Michael Holliday, stated before he died “Freddie was a real man's man, he wasn't that way inclined”. Theory Three: Freddie Mills was either murdered by, or his suicide was staged by the Kray twins. It’s true; Freddie Mills knew the infamous East End gangsters Ronnie & Reggie Kray; who had a history of violence, regularly frequented his club, both had access to guns, were in London at the time of his death, and in the following years, both Ronnie & Reggie Kray were convicted of murder. So did the Kray twins murder Freddie Mills? No. Of course they didn’t. Not only was every club in 1960’s Soho frequented by gangsters, and not only was Freddie not a threat to them, but as ex-boxers themselves, Ronnie & Reggie Kray were in awe of Freddie and considered it an honour to drink and chat with the former light-heavyweight champion of the world; a man they called their “friend”. Two years after Freddie’s death, when his wife Chrissie asked Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard 'Nipper' Read - the man who made it his mission to bring down the Kray twins – to re-examine the case, even he had to reluctantly state that there was no evidence that the Krays were ever involved. And besides, the idea that Freddie’s death was either a murder or a staged suicide, simply doesn’t make any sense. As why would Freddie pay someone to stage his suicide or murder? And even if they did, why would they shoot him in the eye, using a fairground rifle, and not leave a suicide note? And yet, if you still truly believe that Freddie was murdered, by being shot, in the eye, with a fairground rifle? Ask yourself this; why would a hired assassin choose to commit a murder using fake bullets? Yes, fake bullets, which weren’t made of lead, they were made of clinker; a stony residue made from burnt coal which is designed to fragment when it hits a wooden target, just like it would, at a fun-fair. Theory Four: the Police (deliberately) bungled the investigation into the death of Freddie Mills. It’s true; the Police delayed a full examination of Goslett Yard for several hours and the body of Freddie Mills (and the rifle itself) was removed from the crime scene before the Police had even arrived… …but the investigation wasn’t bungled. When (the ambulance drivers) Leslie Rowe & Thomas Spalding arrived at 1:39am, the alley was so dark they had to use torches, as did the Police, who preserved the scene by sealing off the street and didn’t conduct a thorough examination of Goslett Yard or the car until after sunrise at 4:31am. And why was Freddie’s body removed from the scene? Simple, because he wasn’t dead. Having been shot sometime prior to 11:45pm, although Freddie was motionless, unresponsive and bleeding, having detected very faint signs of life, Rowe & Spalding (the ambulance drivers) transferred Freddie to Middlesex Hospital and they took charge of the rifle so the doctor could determine what type of gun and bullet his patient had been shot with - all of which was standard practice for a suicide. And Theory Five: Freddie Mills was an infamous serial-killer known as The Hammersmith Stripper. It’s true; between 1959 and 1965, in West London, eight young prostitutes were strangled by a serial sexual sadist who dumped their naked bodies in or around the River Thames, and according to Chief Superintendent John Du Rose (who headed-up the investigation) his prime suspect was a “respectable married man and an ex-boxer, in his forties, who had committed suicide in mid-1965”. Even Michael Litchfield, reporter for tabloid newspaper The Sun confirmed that Mills had met with John Du Rose, a fellow freemason at the West End’s masonic lodge, and Freddie had confessed to the murders in return for a reduced sentence - a devastating confession which Du Rose secretly recorded. So was Freddie Mills (the world champion boxer, the beloved film star and devout family man) secretly the brutal slayer of eight prostitutes in the 1960’s, who was known as the Hammersmith Stripper? No. Of course he wasn’t. This theory, like all of those we’ve just discussed, is complete and utter dog-shit. And here’s why: Freddie was not a sexual sadist with a hatred for women; he was never cruel, mean or spiteful; he was a good man with a big heart, who (above everything else) loved his family. Freddie had no criminal record; not one charge for assault, indecency, soliciting, harassment, peeping, prowling or public lewdness, all of which you would expect from a serial sexual sadist. Of the seven thousand men who were interviewed by the Police in connection with the Hammersmith Stripper, whose cars were seen curb-crawling in the area, a silver Citreon DS19 with the licence plate DLR610 does not appear in the Police database, and Freddie Mills was never questioned. Freddie doesn’t match the Identikit image of the Police’s primary suspect, who was a short, slim, elfin-faced youth with a long straight nose, beady little eyes and sticky-out ears. And even if you exclude the fact that Chief Superintendent John Du Rose confirmed that Freddie Mills was never a suspect, at any point, in any part of the investigation into the Hammersmith Stripper? This taped confession which Michael Litchfield claims exists… has never been seen, has never been heard, and even in John Du Rose’s own autobiography, it is never once mentioned or referenced. So how did this theory begin? It began with a simple misunderstanding; Chief Superintendent John Du Rose stated that his prime suspect in the investigation was a “respectable married man and an ex-boxer, in his forties, who had committed suicide in mid-1965”. A description which perfectly fits Freddie Mills and his very public death which – across Britain - was front-page news. Only Du Rose wasn’t talking about Freddie at all, he was talking about Mungo Ireland; a mid-forties, ex-boxer and happily married man who worked as a security guard on the Heron Trading Estate in Acton (an area synonymous with prostitution and where the body of the Hammersmith Stripper’s last victim was found) and having become the Police’s prime suspect in the murders, Mungo Ireland left a note which read "I can't stick it any longer… to save you and the police looking for me I'll be in the garage", where his dead body was found having gassed himself. So if Freddie Mills wasn’t murdered by the Triads, if his death wasn’t staged by the Kray twins, if the police investigation wasn’t part of a masonic cover-up, and if he wasn’t a sadistic serial killer with a guilty conscience? Was he really just a former boxing idol, a fading film star and a failing businessman, who was wracked with debts and - in a booze-fuelled fit of depression - took his own life? What really happened that night? To understand Freddie’s death, we have to go back to 1948, when he was at the peak of his success. On 26th July 1948, Fearless Freddie fought the American boxer Gus Lesnevich in-front of a 46000 strong crowd in West London’s White City stadium. And although Freddie wasn’t a skilled fighter; with a dogged mix of pressure, persistence and an uncanny ability to take a pounding, as Lesnevich launched a brutal attack in the 12th and 13th rounds, Freddie went the distance and won on points, to become the world light-heavyweight champion, a national hero and one of Britain’s greatest boxing idols. Freddie was at the top of his game, with nowhere to go, but down. Two months later, Freddie was set to defend his title against Lesnevich, but the fight was cancelled, as having been diagnosed with a misaligned vertebrae at the base of the skull, Freddie was crippled with migraines and dizziness – symptoms which would plague him for the rest of his life. In November 1948, Freddie beat Johnny Ralph in Johannesburg for the Empire heavyweight title, breaking a metacarpal in his right hand. In June 1949, Freddie fought Bruce Woodcock to retain the British, Empire and European title, but was floored four times and knocked out in the 14th round. And in January 1950, having lost three teeth and with his gums imbedded in his upper jaw, Fearless Freddie lost his world light-heavyweight title to Joey Maxim who knocked him out in the 10th round. Once month later, Freddie Mills retired from boxing. Making full use of his celebrity status; being blessed with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a childish sense of fun, Fearless Freddie made the move into television and quickly became a family favourite. But as the fifties made way for the sixties, and his crippling migraines started affecting his memory, his speech and had developed into facial tics, acting work for Freddie Mills had begun to dry up. Freddie was no dummy, he knew his career as a boxer and an actor was short-lived, so being eager to provide a stable future for his beloved family, Freddie had invested his winnings in several properties and businesses in and around London. In 1946, four years before his retirement from boxing, Freddie and his friend Andy Ho opened the Freddie Mills’ Chinese Restaurant at 143 Charing Cross Road, where – having wisely used his celebrity status to pull in the punters - it remained as a profitable and popular business for almost twenty years. And although, in the 1940’s, Chinese restaurants were a rarity, by the 1960’s they were commonplace. So being eager to regain his success, in May 1963, Freddie invested £12000 (which is a quarter of a million pounds today) and converted the premises into a cabaret and nightclub called the Freddie Mills Nitespot, which was instantly a success… for four months… and then it closed. Faced with tough competition, spiralling overheads and with Freddie’s celebrity status almost non-existent (except amongst 1940’s boxing aficionados like the Kray twins), as the nightclub sunk deeper into debt, Freddie was forced to sell-off his other properties simply to stay afloat, and although, in September 1963, the Freddie Mills Nitespot was up for sale, no-one would buy it. Being a born fighter with an uncanny ability to take a pounding, Freddie re-opened the Nitepot in August 1964… but again, the club struggled and Freddie was taken to court for non-payment of bills. And then; being crippled by migraines, dizziness and bedridden with pneumonia, on Friday 23rd July 1965, just two days before his death, at Marylebone Magistrates Court, Freddie (and Andy Ho) were found guilty of keeping an illegal fruit machine and fined £68 each. With his finances laid bare before the court, it was only then that Chrissie (his wife) learned how dire their situation was – that Freddie Mills (the world champion boxer, actor, businessman, devoted father and loyal husband) was broke. With his cheeky smile and that infamous twinkle in his eye now gone, as he secretly struggled to cope with depression, having been trained (as a boxer) never to show any weakness, Freddie fought on. And although, never once in Freddie’s life had he ever given up, here he had reached rock-bottom. On Tuesday 20th July 1965, Freddie drove to the home of 58 year old Mary Gladys Ronaldson, an old friend from his fledgling days as a semi-professional pugilist at Sam McEwan’s Boxing Booth, who was currently working at the nearby Battersea funfair. Under the pretence that he had been hired to open a charity fete in Esher that week and that he wanted to dress as a cowboy, he asked Mary for a gun. The gun she offered him was an FN self-loading .22 calibre Belgian repeater rifle, the type used to shoot targets at the fun-fair. Mary had no issues loaning him the gun; she knew Freddie, she trusted him and with the unloaded rifle having been removed from the shooting gallery as it was old, faulty and “prone to misfire”, she knew it would be perfect as a prop and harmless as a lethal weapon. With no other option – unable to confide in his friends, too ashamed to tell his family and knowing that most gangsters are gossips - Freddie accepted her offer and returned on Thursday 22nd July 1965 to collect the rifle. That day, he seemed anxious, stressed and after he had left, although the faulty rifle was unloaded, of the five bullets that her son had left on the mantelpiece… three were missing. Exactly what happened that night, only Freddie knows, but the most logical theory is this. On the evening of Saturday 24th July 1965, the night that Freddie was shot; being gripped with depression, a migraine, pneumonia and chronic insomnia, having kissed his beloved wife and daughters goodbye, Freddie hopped into his silver Citreon DS19 and drove to Goslett Yard. Freddie was a champion, a fighter, a winner; who had achieved greatness and (to many) was an idol, who once had it all, but now it was gone; his fame, his health and his wealth. Being trained to hide his weakness, Freddie sat alone, in the darkness of his car, a loaded rifle in his hands, barely a few feet from an off-licence, a pub, and the half-empty nightclub which (every second it stayed open) it bled him dry, as with just £387 to his name, within the week, he would be bankrupt. And to the family who he truly adored, with his life insured, Freddie knew he was better off dead. Freddie was a man torn, as – having returned the gun once before, written no suicide note, and yet he had made plans to compare the cabaret and to meet Chrissie and Don - for almost an hour he sat alone; mulling over his life, with alcohol in his blood, a throbbing pain in his brain and tears in his eyes. Having test-fired the rifle – and seeing the dense ‘clinker’ almost penetrate the steel base of the passenger’s side door - as the faulty rifle worked fine, and seeing no other way out, closing his eyes tight, Fearless Freddie put the muzzle of the rifle to his forehead. No-one would see anything, as the car was hidden in a dark dead-end. No-one would hear anything, as a fairground rifle wouldn’t make a bang, but a muffled pop. (POP) And with the crime-scene being a chaotic mess of distressed relatives and friends, all concerned for Freddie who wasn’t dead, but dying, it’s clear to see how, where and why the confusion began. So who moved Freddie and sat him upright with his hands on his lap? Well, before the ambulance men had arrived, four people clearly stated that they had moved Freddie; Robert Deacon the doorman shook him (“Mr Mills, it’s time”), Henry Grant the head-waiter shook and slapped him (“Freddie, wake up”), Chrissie had hugged and cradled him (“Freddie? Freddie?”), his blood staining her blouse, as did his step-son Don. And for at least an hour and a half after he was shot, Freddie wasn’t dead. So who moved the rifle and where were the fingerprints? Well, according to the Police, as guns are oily, usable fingerprints are only recovered in less than 5% of all cases. And again, in their own witness statements, three people admitted to moving the gun; Leslie Rowe & Thomas Spalding (the ambulance men) and Freddie’s step-son Don who stated “I’m certain I put it back in roughly the same place”. So why was Freddie shot in the eye? Well, it’s entirely possible that the faulty gun didn’t go off? That he only opened his eyes to wonder why he wasn’t dead, that he only moved the gun from his forehead to see what was wrong, and with the rifle being “prone to misfire”, a light thud may have dislodged the firing pin, accidentally shooting a lethal blast of clinker into his eye and into his brain? Although, what really happened that night, only Freddie truly knows. Freddie Mills was a good man; he wasn’t a gangster, a secret homosexual or a serial sexual sadist, he was a devoted family man with a cheeky smile, twinkling eyes and a big heart, who struggled alone, with injury, debts and depression, and – for the final time – lost a brave fight. And although, a series of shallow self-serving cowards have fabricated a series of scandalous tales and rumours simply to make themselves a name, some cash, or to boost their ratings, Fearless Freddie did not deserve to be treated this way. So let us remember him properly; here’s to Freddie Mills, the world light-heavyweight champion boxer, film star, businessman, loving husband, doting father and legend. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to tune in next week for the start of Murder Mile’s huge eight-part series into the untold story of one of Britain’s most terrifying serial killers. Who is it? Find out next week. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for more extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Obscura and Asian Madness. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom will get to find out who my new multi-part series is about days before everyone else. Ooh. So thank you to M.J. Maccardini and Hannah Mirza. And to Thomas Wiedemann who donated to save Murder Mile from poverty. Thank you folks, you are truly amazing. 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
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.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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