Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #57 - The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place - Part Ten (John Reginald Halliday Christie)
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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 Fifty-Seven: On Friday 20th March 1953, Reg Christie left 10 Rillington Place forever and entered Rowton House at 1 Calthorpse Street, a lodging house for homeless men, but being a wanted serial-killer, what was his big plan to escape?
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Ep57 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Ten – John Reginald Halliday Christie
INTRO: Shame. An emotionally-driven outcome of our own sense of failure, as having been unable to conform to a physical, mental or moral standard (mostly of our own making), we re-evaluate ourselves in a very negative way, and are left feeling guilty, distressed, powerless and worthless.
Shame can be a powerful motivator; it can guide us to greatness, wealth, power and success as the raw emotion we originally felt returns, causing our hearts to pump, muscles to tense and nerves to tingle, even decades later. But the outcome entirely depends on the person, as even what seems like a meaningless moment of shame, can trigger a personal crisis which can shape us for the worst.
On Friday 20th March 1953, Reg Christie left his ground-floor flat at 10 Rillington Place, never to return, having left behind a wealth of evidence, a thigh bone, a skull and six rotting corpses. During a decade long reign of terror; seven women, one man and a baby had died, but their killer had never been caught, and with most of the victims having gone unreported, nobody knew that one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers lived in Ladbroke Grove. And now, he had disappeared.
Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part ten of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place.
SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on the T-junction of King’s Cross Road and Calthorpe Street, WC1; one mile south of the Regent’s Canal where the body of Sebastiano Magnanini was dumped, parts of Paula Fields were found and the mortuary where Glyndwr Michael was reborn as a war-hero.
To my right is the Mount Pleasant postal sorting depot and… that’s it. There’s a flat, a shop and a pub, but no people. No-one comes here. It’s dead. Even the postal sorting depot is being demolished, as they turn it into – yes, you’ve guessed it - posh-flats for over-paid tosspots, who won’t stay here, but are willing to fork-out four grand a month so they’ve got somewhere to dump their dirty pants; hide their hummus, quaff quinoas, shag their secretary and all as a tax right-off. How romantic.
Anticipating this rejuvenation, at 1 Calthorpe Street they’ve built the Crowne Plaza; a four-star hotel with restaurants, a gym, a spa and a swimming pool. Ooh. With tourists on the inside and homeless on the outside, the only people in this area are hobos or hoity-toity, vagrants or Volvo owners, tramps or fans of taramasalata and drifters or dullards who only live for the latest dross on Netflix. Urgh.
Before its demolition, on this site stood Rowton House. Built in 1892, it was one of five lodging houses in London built by Lord Rowton providing a bed, warmth and food for London’s low-paid and its down-and-outs. Being six-stories high, with bright red bricks and sharp turrets, it looked more like asylum than a hostel, but with 678 beds, at a cost of one shilling a night, for many men, it beat sleeping on the street.
And yet, it was here, at Rowton House, that bald bespectacled man in a brown trilby hat and a fawn raincoat would spend his final days of freedom. (Interstitial).
Born on 8th April 1899, in Black Boy House in Ackroyden near Halifax, John Reginald Halliday Christie, nicknamed “Reggie” was the second youngest of seven children; with one older brother, four older sisters and one younger sister, born to Mary Hannah Halliday, a loving housewife and over-protective mother and Ernest John Christie, a working class carpenter with a haughty demeanour, an explosive temper and a burning desire for respectability.
Therefore, it’s ironic, that as much as Reg claimed to despise his father, he would spend most of his life trying to emulate him and – when shamed by his own sense of failure – Reg would lie.
As an officious man with a senior role in the Methodist Church, the Conservative Association and later the Town Council, having passed his St John’s Ambulance exam, as the only person in the factory trained in first-aid, Ernest was nicknamed “Dr Christie”; a name he loved as it alluded to him being a man of higher status in a middle-class profession. But to his son, Reg knew had a lot to live up to.
Unlike Ernest; Reg was small, skinny and slight; a shy boy with pale ginger hair and a limp handshake, and even being adored by his mother and protected by his sisters, he would become quiet, withdrawn and supressed his anger, as – being beaten for even the smallest of reasons – he hid in his father’s shadow and lived in fear of his wrath. In fact, the only time they spoke was while gardening; a hobby they loved, giving Reg with a rare moment of peace with his father, which he would cherish.
In 1910, aged eleven, as a good student who never got into trouble, kept to himself and excelled at maths, Reg won a scholarship to Halifax Secondary School. Being bright but timid, like his father, Reg threw himself into extra-curricular activities, singing in the All Souls Church choir and rising to the lofty position of King’s Scout and Assistant Scout-Group Leader in the church troop. And yet, for all his hard-work, his mother lavished him with love, but the praise never came from his father.
As a hobby it may have seemed innocent enough, having achieved a high-status position in the scouts, but more importantly it instilled in Reg the importance of rank, uniform and status in winning over the trust and confidence of others, and this knowledge would shape the rest of his life.
If the statements of Reg Christie are to be believed, there were three key moments in his upbringing which lead him on the path to becoming a rapist, a serial killer and a necrophile:
First; in 1911, as was a Victorian Methodist custom, the body of his maternal grandfather – David Halliday – was laid-out for the family to view prior to burial; having been petrified of this stern-faced bully, he realised this motionless corpse could no longer hurt him and Reg became fascinated by death.
Secondly; raised in a female household during a sexually repressive era where nudity was taboo, Reg would deny he ever engaged in the sin of self-pleasure, but during his childhood, he claimed he caught a brief glimpse of his sister’s stocking top, and this brief thrill, brought about strange feelings.
And thirdly; as a sexually inexperienced sixteen year old virgin, Reg and two friends went an infamous lover’s lane in Savile Park, known as the ‘Monkey Run’. Having paired-off with a young lady who he later described as “a mill girl of loose morals”, although his chums easily copulated, Reg stood there, trembling and ashamed, his limp penis in his hand, as the girl mercilessly mocked him. As did his friends. As did anyone who knew him. As (at least in his eyes) across his hometown, his failure was marked with a chorus of kids chanting “Reggie no-cock” and “can’t get it up Christie”.
Reg wouldn’t love his virginity for at least another year, and for the rest of his life, he would fear sexual failure, hate morally loose woman and bottled-up inside him would remain this shame. (Interstitial)
As a teenager, Reg seemed like an upstanding boy who graduated with a school certificate, worked as a projectionist at Green’s Picture Hall and as a warehouse boy at a bootmakers called John Foster & Sons. But inside, being raised as a repressed Methodist, Reg was a mess of deep moral conflict.
As a staunch teetotaller, Reg denied that he drank and yet he was a regular in most pubs. As a wannabe ladies-man, he only spoke to women, never men, and yet he loved football. And as a bumptious prig, he exuded good morals, but was a liar, a cheat and a thief, obsessed with sex and death.
On 19th September 1916, aged 17, two years into the First World War, Reg enlisted in 52nd Nottingham & Derbyshire Signal Corp and was posted to the Redmires Camp in Sheffield. With a rank, a role and a uniform, the Army should have been his making, but he was never promoted (yet he claimed he turned it down three times), he never excelled (yet he claimed he won many marksman competitions) and during his sixteen months of service, he was charged twice for going absent without leave having snuck off base to visit prostitutes. Women of loose morals, who he claimed to despise, and yet, (in his eyes) they were the only women who wouldn’t mock him, having been paid to be submissive to his needs.
Having been mobilised one year earlier, on 1st April 1918, the 52nd Signal Corp was posted to Flanders, on the Belgian front-line, barely quarter of a mile from the German troops, dug deep in their trenches.
After four years of brutal conflict, the lush fields were a mess of muddy bogs, bomb craters and jagged reels of barbed wire, on which hung the festering corpses of fallen comrades; as shells burst eardrums, bullets blew faces apart, boots sloshed in a sea of blood and the acrid air was thick with the stench of decomposing bodies. In total, Reg saw active duty for just eleven weeks, but (in that short traumatic period) he saw enough death to last a lifetime. Or so you would think?
On 28th June 1918, Private Christie was injured when a mustard gas shell exploded near him, having knocked him unconscious, plumes of the lethal chemical weapon swirled about him, chocking him to death, as if - lying there helpless and vulnerable - an overpowering force gripped his throat.
Having miraculously survived, when Reg awoke, the gas would render him blind for five months, mute for three and a half years and – although hospitalised for 32 days - his voice never the same. For his injuries, Private Christie was granted a weekly disability allowance of eight shillings, and for his bravery, he was awarded the British War & Victory Medal. At least, that was the story he told.
In truth, his medical notes confirm he had no blisters on his skin, lungs or throat; he was never treated for an eye injury, and that, having been diagnosed with Functional Aphonia (an injury caused not by gas inhalation but by fright), after a three week course of a mild mist expectorant for Catarrhal Laryngitis, there was no known medical reason why his voice remained as a soft whisper. And yet his injury proved invaluable to illicit sympathy from women and to aid his story as an injured war hero.
On 22nd October 1919 Private John Christie was demobilised from the Army. That day, he lost his role, his rank, his uniform and his wage; and with no skills, a small disability allowance and an insatiable thirst for sex-workers, Reg started work at Sutcliffe’s Woollen Mill, began dating Ethel Simpson and on 10th May 1920, in Halifax Registry Office, she became Mrs Ethel Christie.
As an educated, intelligent, skilled, attractive, warm, moral and decent woman, she was too good for him, but – for whatever reason – she supported him no matter what.
During those first few years of married life, Reg was shamed by three incidents, all of his own undoing; first, only able to become aroused by sexually submissive prostitutes, he failed to get Ethel pregnant; second, being regularly unemployed and convicted twice of theft, he had failed to provide as a husband; and third, having failed to live up to his father’s high morals, he was disowned by the family.
Feeling deeply shamed, Reg left his hometown of Halifax, moved to London and abandoned Ethel for nine years. But his new life would start badly and descend deeper into despair and debauchery.
In 1924, one year later, whilst cycling in the West End, Reg was hit by a taxi, knocked unconscious and suffered minor injuries to his right shoulder, left knee and head. That same year - being unemployed, homeless, broke and hopelessly addicted to sex – Reg was found guilty of two counts of theft, having stolen a bicycle, money and cigarettes, and was sentenced to a further nine months hard labour.
For the next eight years he tried to go straight, but being unskilled, he drifted between jobs, until – once again – he was sent back to prison. But this time, his personality had taken a darker turn.
On 1st May 1929, after six months of co-habiting with Maud Cole in her ground floor flat at 6 Almeric Road in Battersea (South London), being fed-up with Reg leaching off her, Maud asked him to leave, as she and her son ate a meal of fish & chips at the kitchen table. Silently, Reg got up, as if to leave…
…but having swiped her son’s cricket bat, he smacked her hard across her head; everything went black, blood poured from the gaping wound and Christie forced his fingers into her throat, as she screamed ”don’t let him get me, he’s trying to murder me”. Maud survived the attack needing only five stitches. Two weeks later, Reg was tried at South Western Magistrates Court and having claimed this viscous and unprovoked assault was an accident, the Magistrate branded him a “liar” and a “coward”, and Reg Christie was sentenced to six month’s hard labour in Wandsworth Prison.
But was this a regular assault, his first attempted murder, or a hint at dark things to come?
In November 1933, whilst serving three month’s hard labour in Wandsworth prison for stealing a car, a priest convinced Christie to break his self-destructive cycle and turn over a new leaf. Convinced that the only good thing in his life was his wife, Reg asked Ethel to take him back, and with her affair to Vaughn Brindley over and faced with the shame of divorce, they gave their marriage one last go. So, in December 1938, The Christie’s moved into the ground floor flat at 10 Rillington Place. (Interstitial)
From 1943 to 1953, nine people would die: Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Beryl Evans, Timothy Evans, Geraldine Evans, Ethel Christie, Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan. A death toll which (in any other era) would raise an eyebrow, but having occurred during the London blitz and the post-war chaos; as he preyed on the homeless, the penniless, the sick, the poor and the pregnant, offering money, food, clothes, a bed or an abortion, and having coerced a simple man to plead guilty to his crimes, for a whole decade, a serial killer walked the streets of London, murdering with impunity.
And although, on the outside he exuded the arrogance of a man who was getting away with murder, on the inside, having been raised as morally decent, his ailing body was riddled with shame.
Between 1937 and 1952, Reg Christie made 174 visits to the surgery of Dr Matthew Odess in Coleville Square being plagued by fibrisitus, diarrhoea, headaches and piles. And although as a hypochondriac, who craved sympathy through exaggerated and imaginary illnesses, and visited his doctor at least once a month for those fifteen years, the pattern of his sickness has an eerie regularity.
From February to August 1949, six years after the murders of Ruth Fuerst and Muriel Eady, being in regular work and good health, Reg made no visits to Dr Odess. That September, having been told that his attractive 20 year old co-tenant Beryl Evans was pregnant, his nervous diarrhoea returned.
On 19th November 1949, ten days after Beryl & Geraldine’s murder and the disposal of their bodies, Reg returned to Dr Odess complaining of fibrisitus in the left lumbar muscles of his back. At his trial, Dr Odess stated it was caused not by stress, but by physical strain, having lifted something heavy.
From January to March 1950, across the trial and the execution of Timothy Evans, having complained of violent headaches and (coincidentally) memory loss, Reg was signed off work with depression. Two months later, Reg was fit, well and didn’t return to Dr Odess for almost a year. And then, in the eight months prior to Ethel’s death and his last killing spree where he would murder Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan in quick succession, he would visit Dr Odess thirty-two times.
Very little makes sense in the final year of Reg Christie; in April 1950, he asked to be rehoused owing to ill-health, even though there were two bodies buried in his back garden. In May 1951, he took-out life insurance on himself and his wife, but there would be no pay-out, if she was missing or murdered. And on 6th December 1952, days before her death, Reg quit a well-paying job at British Road Services, for no reason - and with no disability allowance or savings – he stopped his only regular income.
Being broke, on 17th December, he sold her 22ct gold ring and gold wrist watch at Barnett Pressman’s Jewellers in Shepherd’s Bush. On 8th January 1953, he sold most of his furniture to Robert J Hookway for £12, all except for his flea-ridden mattress. On 27th January, he emptied Ethel’s bank account of £10, 15 shillings and 6 pence having falsified her signature, and – being two months behind with his rent – on Friday 20th March 1953, having rented-out his flat (which he didn’t own) to Mary & John Reilly at a cost of £7 and 13 shillings, wearing a brown trilby hat, a fawn raincoat, clutching three suitcases and with Judy on her lead, Reg Christie left 10 Rillington Place… forever.
And yet, there’s was one more death to come at the hands of Reg Christie.
That day, having visited Ernest Jacobs at 132 Clarendon Road in Ladbroke Grove, handed over five shillings, produced his dog licence and shown her badly infected eye to the vet, even though she had been his faithful mongrel for twelve years, Judy was placed in the lethal chamber and put to sleep.
By 8pm, having walked five miles from Rillington Place and checked into a six storey lodging house in King’s Cross called Rowton House; here he gave his name, address, ID and paid for one week but only stayed for three nights. And as he lay on the itchy woollen sheets of a single bed in a dormitory full of fifty scratching hobos and snoring tramps – where-as once he was a war-hero, a police constable and a married man – now Reg Christie was nothing, with no family to turn to and no friends to trust.
And with no plan, every day he walked aimlessly, slept in cinemas and chatted to lone women in cafes.
Mary & John Reilly had a sleepless first night in their ground floor flat of 10 Rillington Place, as the trains thundered by and lice scuttled along the walls, but what kept them awake was the smell, and having cleaned thoroughly and opened all the windows, still a feted rotten stench lingered in the flat.
Four days later, on Tuesday 24th March 1953; Beresford Brown, a tenant in the second floor flat, who was expecting a baby with his wife Louisa and was due to move into the ground floor flat (as Reg had illegally rented it out to The Reilly’s) was given permission by the landlord to renovate the kitchen.
With his work cut-out, as Beresford washed, wiped and stripped the filthy stinking kitchen to make it habitable for his impending family, eager to nail-up a set of brackets for his wireless radio, as he tapped the rear wall, it gave a reassuringly solid thud, but four feet to the left, the wall sounded hollow.
Given the shape of the room and with its wooden door nailed shut, Beresford thought it was an old coal cellar, so – eager for more storage space - as he pulled away a six inch strip of hastily stuck-up wallpaper off the corner, with a small torch, he peered inside the darkness of the kitchen alcove.
Alerted by Ivan Williams (a tenant in the first floor flat), PC Leslie Siseman of Harrow Road Police Station secured the crime scene until the arrival of Chief Inspector Griffin.
Prying open the alcove door, the Police were greeted by the macabre sight of a naked woman kneeling, her bare back to the door, her feet folded under her buttocks and sitting upright as if she was praying, her dirt-covered body was kept erect by her bra which had been secured around a ceiling hook. Her body all cold, mouldy and stiff. But as they moved her… they saw, she wasn’t alone.
In total, the bodies of three unidentified women were found in the alcove; all had been bound, raped and strangled; and with their knickers missing, their pubic hair removed and overcome by near lethal levels of carbon monoxide, all had been asphyxiated with either a stocking, a tie or a length of rope.
Taken to Kensington Mortuary, their identification would pose no problem; as having been reported missing by her landlady Hannah Rees, the next day, on 25th March 1953 at 6:30pm, Mae Langridge of 80 Ladbroke Grove identified the body of her sister - 25 year old Rita Nelson. At 7pm, a local prostitute known as “Kitty Foley” identified 26 year old Kathleen Maloney. And having found in the bin; a sports jacket, cufflinks and a driving licence belonging to Alexander Pomeroy Baker, at 8pm, Donald & Robert MacLennan identified their sister - 27 year old Hectorina MacLennan.
The crime scene was simple; and with the ground-floor flat being small and most of the furniture sold, the search was swift and thorough. Noticing another strong rotten stench emanating from the front room, as he wrenched up a loose floorboard, Chief Inspector Griffin discovered a fourth body. With her wedding ring missing, her bank account empty and all of the neighbours stating she was either in Sheffield, Brighton, London, Northampton or Reading, at 4:30pm, that same day, Henry Waddington identified the body under the floorboards, as that of his sister - fifty-four year old Ethel Christie.
And yet, 10 Rillington Place still had more secrets to reveal.
Two days later, when Police lifted up an old metal dustbin in the rear corner of the garden, the bottom fell away and out fell fragments of burnt and broken bones. Digging two feet deep, they found the skeletal remains of two unidentified females, but having been buried almost a decade ago, with no facial features, fingerprints or ID, and with one skull missing and the other smashed into 92 pieces, a positive identification would be next-to-impossible. Except…
…with the second skeleton matching a missing person’s report dated 4th Nov 1944 and the severed 2nd and 3rd vertebrae matching a skull found in a bombed out house at 133 St Mark’s Road which was held at Kensington Mortuary, the body was positively identified as 32 year old Murial Eady. And having painstakingly reconstructed the badly smashed skull and spotted an unusual metal crown in her upper-right molar, having identified this as the work of an Austrian dentist called Dr Heinrich Blascke, twenty-three years earlier, the first skeleton was positively identified as 21 year old Austrian refugee Ruth Fuerst - the woman whose thigh bone was holding up the garden fence.
And yet, 10 Rillington Place still had even more secrets to reveal.
As the Police searched a rubbish pile in the garden, among the burned papers and charred clothes, they spied a small metal box of Lewis & Burrows ‘Gees Linctus’ Pastilles. Every lozenge had been eaten and the box was empty, except for four matted clumps of pubic hair. Having exhumed her corpse in Gunnersbury Cemetery, it didn’t match Beryl Evans. Having checked her body in Kensington Mortuary, it didn’t match Ethel Christie, and although three of the matted clumps matched Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan, the fourth clump of pubic hair was never unidentified.
With six bodies found, the Police had just one suspect… and he had completely vanished.
The grisly murders at 10 Rillington Place were front page news, the name on everyone’s lips was John Reginald Halliday Christie and his photo adorned every paper, emblazoned with the words “will the killer strike again” as Britain was gripped with the terror that a sadistic serial killer was on the run.
Only… he wasn’t exactly on the run. Having left Rowton House, dossed in cinemas and ate in cafes, as he slept by day and walked by night, the most he disguised himself was by keeping on his trilby hat.
On Tuesday 31st March 1953 at 9:10am, Police Constable Thomas Ledger was patrolling the south bank of the River Thames, just shy of Putney Bridge, when he noticed a dishevelled man in a crumpled fawn raincoat leaning over the embankment wall as he idly watched a river barge being loaded. Growing suspicious that the unkempt man was a vagrant, PC Ledger questioned him:
(PC) “What are you doing, looking for work?” (RC) “Yes but my employment cards haven't come through?” (PC) “What’s your name and address?”, (RC) “John Waddington, 35 Westbourne Gardens”, (PC) “Have you anything on you to prove your identity?”, (RC) “No, nothing at all”. Not believing the man’s story, PC Ledger demanded “Remove your hat”, which the man dutifully did. And being five foot eight inches tall, fifty four years old, with a very recognisable bald head, thick-lensed spectacles and false teeth which slipped, PC Ledger stated “You're Christie”. Reg nodded. PC ledger said “You’d better come with me”, which Reg Christie did, with no fight or furore, and that was that. (END)
At 10:45am on 31st March 1953 at Putney Police Station, Detective Inspector Kelly charged Reg Christie with murder and it was then, when prompted by overwhelming evidence, that he gave the bulk of his statements. Of the few items he had on his person was his marriage certificate and a photo of his wife.
Having been declared sane, and confessed to the murder of Beryl Evans but not Geraldine, the trial of John Reginald Halliday Christie began on Monday 22nd June 1953 in Court One of The Old Bailey. Tried on a specimen charge for the murder of Ethel Christie, when asked how he pleaded, Reg replied “not guilty” and although he remained calm throughout, his memory of the murders was patchy.
At the end of the four day trial, on Thursday 25th June 1953, having deliberated for just one hour and twenty minutes, the jury returned and unanimously found John Reginald Halliday Christie guilty.
Transferred to Pentonville Prison to await his execution, although his grey prison fatigues were the only uniform in his life he despised wearing, he adored the notoriety of being an infamous serial-killer.
Confined to the condemned man’s cell, Christie wiled away his final days playing dominoes, reading books, cutting out newspaper articles about himself and he would happily discuss the details of the trial with his guards, comparing himself to infamous murders like John George Haigh and relishing the fact that tabloid newspaper - The Sunday Pictorial – offered him £27000 for his life story.
Although he was described as neat, friendly and quiet; an unassuming little man who spoke fondly of his wife, doctors concluded he was a conceited ego-centric with no remorse for his victims, and – as witnessed by prison officer Joseph Hornsby – he was a deluded sexual predator, as when he guided the prisoner to the toilet to urinate, Christie turned to the prison guard, held his exposed penis in his hand and said “the ladies love this”.
On the morning of Wednesday 15th July 1953, in the execution chamber of Pentonville Prison, where three years earlier Timothy John Evans had been hung - having had one last whiskey and said no final words - at 9am precisely, with his execution meticulously rehearsed so it caused no unnecessary distress, Albert Pierrepoint swung open the twin trap-doors, the prisoner plunged a seven foot and a six inch drop, and with the dislocation of his 3rd and 4th vertebrae, Reg Christie was dead.
Unlike his victims, he felt no pain, his death was instantaneous, ironically he was strangled by a length of rope, and as a man who struggled with impotence it was his hanging which caused him to ejaculate.
With new evidence having come to light, the murders of Beryl & Geraldine Evans were re-evaluated, Timothy Evans was found not guilty and – with the British Establishment rocked by the revelation that an innocent man had been executed - in 1965, the Death Penalty was abolished. One year later, Tim was granted a posthumous royal pardon and his remains were re-buried on consecrated ground.
The body of John Reginald Halliday Christie remains, to this day, buried within the walls of Pentonville Prison. And as much as his name is infamous in the annals of true-crime and his ghastly deeds have gone down in infamy, let us not forget those ten names who history has cruelly consigned to being mere footnotes in his dirty little life. They were Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Beryl Evans, Timothy Evans, Geraldine Evans, Ethel Christie, Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney, Hectorina MacLennan, all of their unborn babies and his mongrel dog Judy. And this was their story.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
That was the final part of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place, and (because it was quite a complicated case) I will be rolling out an omnibus edition of the series, next week, with all of the waffle taken out. As well as a special Q & A episode, so if you have any question, contact me. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some mindless waffle after the break, as well as some important news about the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. No, not that news, new news. but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week; which is Rusty Hinges. (PLAY PROMO)
A big thank you this week to my new Patreon supporter Sarah Terrell and those brave souls who are helping fund the next step in Murder Mile and the exciting new podcasts. Ooh. So thank you Sarah, you are the jam in my Battenberg. Yummy.
Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with a special cameo by Police Constable Arsenal Guinness, 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 tor 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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