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9 Newport Place is on the left with the Rose n Dale Club above, the infamous doorway in the middle and the Canton on the right, it's still there today
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 SIXTY-TWO (part one)
This is a PART ONE of a TWO part special on the murder of Michael Barry Porter; a twenty-three year old scaffolder from King’s Cross, who was brutally murdered in a disreputable West End club, and yet, strangely, almost none of the forty witnesses could identify his killer.
THE LOCATION
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.
The location of the Rosendale Club at 9 Newport Place is marked with a yellow ! in the middle. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep62 – The Rosendale Murder Part 1 (the crime scene)
DISCLAIMER: This is part one of a two-part episode, but – I warn you now – this is not your usual Murder Mile episode; there are no sympathetic characters, there is no emotional backstory, there is no simple narrative, and there is no-one for you to root for (even the victim), as this is not an episode about an innocent person whose life was cruelly taken - this is a story about lies. The Rose n Dale murder should have been a simple investigation for the Police to solve, as forty eye-witnesses in a small room were all within feet of a brutal murder, and yet, none of them were able to identify the killer. So don’t expect a story about love, loss and sadness; this is a story about how eye-witnesses are accurate, fallible and devious, it’s about the difference between truth, lies and misinformation, and how – against the odds – the Police managed to solve an unsolvable murder. This is part one. 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 a TWO part special on the murder of Michael Barry Porter; a twenty-three year old scaffolder from King’s Cross, who was brutally murdered in a disreputable West End club, and yet, strangely, almost none of the forty witnesses could identify his killer. 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 feature 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 62: The Rosendale Murder - Part One (The Crime Scene). Today I’m standing in Newport Place, WC2; just north of Leicester Square, on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charring Cross Road; two streets south of the Denmark Place Fire, one street east of the empty shop where Nora Upchurch was cruelly slaughtered and barely one hundred feet from the sad and tragic death of Reginald Gordon West – coming soon to Murder Mile. This is Chinatown; a dirty cramped tourist trap bookended by two sets of dragon-emblazoned iron gates (which serve no purpose except to distract selfie-takers while their pockets are picked) across a series of short side-streets all strewn with paper lanterns, gaudy pagodas and stone tigers; amidst the annoying pop of fire-crackers, the fug of cigarette smoke and the stench of MSG, as the easily duped gobble-up “chop-suey”, “fortune cookies” and “sweet & sour sauce” (none of which are authentically Chinese), in a place so false, you half expect the residents to be portrayed (like in those early Charlie Chan movies) by white actors, in silk robes and cripplingly tiny shoes, with bucked teeth and rather racist eye-make-up, all bowing and saying “ah so, number one son most honourable”. God I hate this place… but I do love shredded duck pancakes with plum sauce. Mmm. Sweet irony. Situated at the western end of Chinatown is Newport Place; a recently renovated piazza, 140 feet long by 100 feet wide - which took Westminster Council a year to lay, then one day after completion, they dug it all up and spent six more months relaying it. Why? I dunno, boredom – and although this stone-clad piazza is circled by a mix of modern monstrosities, to the left is Ikkyu, a Japanese buffet at 9 Newport Place; a tall, thin, 300 year old five storey building slathered in white stucco with three tall windows on each floor. And with a mouth-watering array of sushi and sashimi in the ground floor window, as a procession of grinning teeth and rumbling tums enter via an innocuous looking door to the right, no-one is aware that behind this door, was once the scene of a very bloody murder. And although Chinatown has a long history of drugs, sex and death, having tried to investigate murders in this neighbourhood, I’ve been blocked by a wall of silence, and this story is no exception. And yet, it was here, at 9 Newport Place in the notorious Rose n Dale Club on a busy Saturday night, that a man was murdered in plain sight, surrounded by forty witnesses… and yet they saw nothing. (INTERSTITIAL) By Saturday 25th September 1971, London’s long hot summer was over as the first spots of rain sizzled on the steamy streets, and being overcast, the day was grey but the night was cool. With the swinging sixties dead, Hair the musical was half-way through its West End run, The French Connection was soon to be unleashed at the cinema and every stereo pumped to the sounds of Maggie May by Rod Stewart, Get It On by T-Rex and (for those with no taste) Chirpy Chirpy Cheap Cheap by Middle of the Road. It had been a good day for Michael Barry Porter, known as “Mickey”; as being a scaffolder he didn’t work the weekends, as a life-long Arsenal fan he was on top form having watched The Mighty Arse thrash Leicester 3-0 at Highbury, and having tarted himself up in a maroon polo-neck, a blue jacket with a matching handkerchief in his pocket, fawn corduroy trousers and suede shoes, having parted his shoulder length mousey brown hair and smelling like a right dandy with a splash of Brut aftershave, Mickey headed to The Lord Nelson pub on Copenhagen Street, in the shadow of King’s Cross Station. Mickey was a local lad who was easy-to-spot in a crowded room. Being a well-built, six-foot and clean-cut 23 year old with a tattoo of a bird and “mother” written on his left forearm and a dagger and “Mick” written on his right, visually Mickey stood out. Being a bit on the loud side and described as anything from a “happy-go-lucky chap” to “a flash git”, even if you couldn’t see him, Mickey made his presence known, but as someone who rubbed people up the wrong way, he had the scars to prove it. Sixteen months prior, on 29th April 1970, in a dingy boozer called The Phoenix Club in King’s Cross, for whatever reason – whether a word, a look or a mistimed nudge - Mickey made an enemy of a known felon who (although a full four inches shorter) was violent, easily riled and armed with a shotgun. Being blasted from a few feet away, he should have died, but as the modified gun lacked enough punch, amazingly Mickey survived the attack. He was left with a scar on his right forearm, a scar across the right-side of his jaw and - for the rest of his life - gun-pellets remained embedded under his skin. For the Police, it should have been an open-and-shut case; an easily recognisable man, shot in a packed nightclub, surrounded by witnesses who knew him and his attacker, but with Mickey being unwilling to give evidence and the witnesses mysteriously silent, his unnamed assailant was tried on 30th April 1970 at North London Magistrates Court (not for assault or attempted murder but) for the possession of a loaded weapon. He was given a conditional discharge for 12 months and the case was dropped. Mickey wasn’t a grass or a snitch, and as far as he was concerned, this was all water under the bridge. And yet, this brush with death would have chilling echoes of the fate which awaited him. (Interstitial). Saturday 25th September 1971 was an ordinary evening, as married couple John & Ann Kavanagh and their pal Charlie Snookes popped into the Lord Nelson pub for a few jars and a good giggle with Mickey Porter, and as the night went on, the good times rolled. By 10pm, with it still being early, the foursome hopped into Charlie’s red Wolsley automatic, drove to the Horns in Shoreditch till 11:30pm, and with closing time having descended, they headed into the West End to find a late-night boozer. The night was fun, unplanned and uneventful. At a little after midnight, Charlie’s little red car pulled into Newport Place and parked-up next to a few others; the square was dark and sparsely lit and the stone floor was still damp as the rain had stopped. To some, this seedy side-street south of Soho may have seemed intimidating, but as the air was cut by the cheeky Irish banter of Matt Riley – a close pal of Mickey Porter’s, who was tall, thin, with curly brown hair and dressed in a splendid light flowered shirt – he slunk out of his white Mini Clubman and greeted his pal with a friendly “oi-oi”, standing alongside his brother John with his wife Marilyn; as the old and new faces walked across the square to the black front door of number nine Newport Place. A private member’s club called The Rose n Dale. Previously known as The Pink Elephant, the Rose N Dale was a small supper club, open from 10pm till 1am, with a late licence for alcoholic drinks, a space to dance, seats to relax and light snacks to nibble. As the first venture into clubbing by transport magnate Frederick Rosendale and the club’s manager Clifford Perry, the Pink Elephant had acquired a bad reputation, being branded by the Commander of the CID as “a dubious haunt of unsavoury and criminal elements”. So bad that the club’s cabaret artiste Kerri Lane had quit, having witnessed one too many fights and lewd acts by its unsavoury clientele. In May 1970, after a stylish renovation, a strict set of rules and new management, it re-opened as the Rose N Dale, a supper club co-owned by Clifford Perry and his partner Albert Griffith. Albert was a no nonsense manager, and as a stocky man with a stern stare and a droopy moustache like a Mexican bandit, having spent 15 months in prison for housebreaking and passing forged banknotes, although his criminal record had been clean for a decade, Albert knew how to handle himself and any riffraff. As Mickey Porter and his three pals sidled up to the right hand side of a Chinese art supplies shop, stood before a black front door (which was always shut even when the club was not) and as he buzzed the doorbell, they waited. Holding the only set of keys, Albert greeted Mickey Porter and Charlie Snookes, and (as was the rules) they signed-in in a leather bound book, and as personal guests of the members, John & Ann Kavanagh were welcomed in and ascended the stairs… …where less than one hour later, Mickey Porter would be dead. The Rose n Dale was a family business, as that’s the way Albert liked it, as if you create a nice friendly atmosphere, it attracts nice people with good intentions, so as host was his wife Sara, behind the bar was Denise his step-daughter and Marcia (a family friend) was waitress. Eager to repair its bad reputation, the first floor bar (although just forty feet deep by fifteen feet at its widest and barely six feet at its thinnest) had been “sumptuously decorated” in an early 1970’s chic, with plush green carpet and curtains, striped multi-coloured wallpaper and the limited space carefully adorned with three plush banquettes with two knee-high tables at each, three stools, an upright piano in the far corner, a tiny mirror-panelled bar under the alcove of the stairs, as well as the usual; a cigarette machine, a pay phone and ladies and gents toilets upstairs and down, with a small kitchen outback, from which Sara would exit carrying trays of sandwiches to keep the punters perky. Normally, the second floor bar would be open too, but with Clifford Perry feeling unwell, only the first floor bar was open that night, and with standing room only, fifty people would make it feel crowded. As the night rolled on, the people rolled in, and having re-assured her that the Rose n Dale was in safe hands, cabaret star Kerri Lane returned and entertained the small but enthusiastic crowd of old members and new guests with a merry mix of jazz, blues and folk on the piano. As always, according to the signing-in book, first into the Rose n Dale that night was Collin Cooper, Jim Ryan and Noddy; three cheery regulars who had a quick swig and left by eleven. Later, as it filled up, familiar faces could be seen, like; Dave the Tout, Lenny Fields, Lew the Jew, Dancing Charlie, Scotch Bobbie and Little Ted. With Carole and Monica, the hostesses from Maria’s club on Archer Street sat by Kerri Lane on the piano. And a couple of larger groups, like “Playboy Roy” with his wife Coral, their friend Iris, his brother Terry, Terry’s wife Carol and Mr & Mrs Harwood who’d wisely grabbed a banquette, with Peter Goody, Jackie Hunt and their friends Peter & Sheila Kennedy on another. Stood by the bar was a stylish group; with 22 year old Ian Doran; a second-hand car dealer dressed like a dude in a maroon velvet blazer, black trousers and polo neck, colours which accentuated his pale complexion. His pal Terry Haynes, an 18 year old plumber’s mate who (in a snazzy yellow shirt with a dogs tooth pattern and a fawn pullover) was the dog’s bollocks. And Ian’s half-sisters Barbara Ali; a factory worker in a mauve jumper, pink mini-skirt and blonde streaked hair, and June Lawrence, a redheaded barmaid adorning a white woollen jumper, blue hot pants and grey knee-length boots. As well as brothers Matt & John Riley necking beers near the bar with Matt’s wife Marilyn who supped a vodka and lemonade, whilst stood by John & Ann Kavanagh, Charlie Snookes and Mickey Porter. And although most people had signed-in, with exceptions like Matt Reilly who cockily decided he was above that and non-members like Ian Doran who scribbled the name ‘Davies’ as he thought it was funny, although there were barely thirty-five patrons in the club, it was hard to put a name to a face. So far, it was a regular night; and with the lights down, the music playing and the drinks flowing, they drank, they chatted and they laughed… but someone was about to die. 12:50am, from behind the bar, Denise called “last orders”. Having had roughly nine or ten beers, brothers Matt & John Reilly’s hackles were up as John unsubtly insinuated that Matt’s wife Marilyn was seeing someone else. Not wanting to offend her further, John said “outside, not in front of your wife”, and although tensions ran high, disputes did happen and very little notice was taken, so their argument is pieced together by the fragments overheard by others. Stood at the top of the stairs, Matt shouted “leave me alone, I can handle it”, John replied “I’m your brother, stick with your family, not your friends”, to which Matt retorted “you think you’re grown up because you’re bigger than me”, and seeing the Dubliner’s tensions rise, Albert wisely unlocked the black front door and ushered the brothers outside into Newport Place. And for a few minutes, as the club patrons muttered, ogled and giggled, being briefly distracted by the siblings stand-off, there was a spark of excitement… but being flesh and blood, the brother’s tempers cooled as quickly as their beers warmed, and so, with a smile, a hug and an “ah, forget about it”, Matt and John were let back in, Albert locked the door and led them both back upstairs to the club. 12:57am, winding down her musical repertoire Kerri started playing the Anniversary Waltz, Denise poured the last bevvies of the night and Sara served a final round of sarnies amongst the half-starved. The night was over. What happened next is uncertain. According to the witnesses; the club was dark, the room was tight and everyone was otherwise occupied, or so they say, so this too is pieced together from fragments. As Sara exited the kitchen, a tray of sandwiches in hand, she squeezed by four men engaged in “a lively debate” but over the music, she couldn’t hear what was said. By the piano, Norma Bennett said she saw “shoving” and “a fight”, but again, she heard no words. At the farthest part of the bar, Matt Reilly “heard screaming and bottles breaking” and although Ian Doran’s half-sisters stood by the cigarette machine, just three feet away, Barbara Ali later said “I didn’t hear what they were talking about” and yet, June Lawrence swore she heard Mickey Porter say “forget about it, let’s have a drink”. As to who the four men were; two were tall men and two were shorter; one wore a maroon jacket, one a light beige sweater, one a white flowered shirt and one who we know was Mickey Porter. The most reliable account of the night came from Albert Griffiths, the club’s owner, who was stood just a few feet away in the doorway, but even his statements are understandably vague. Having heard a ruckus, Albert said “I saw a fellow in a light blue blazer (who we know was Mickey) rush across the floor screaming “you can have it now you c**t” and I saw he had a broken glass in his right hand”. And as Mickey slashed the jagged glass shard across the pale face of his intended target, as the man’s left cheek bled profusely, a river of blood dripped and disappeared onto his similarly coloured jacket. Standing nearby, in his yellow dog’s tooth shirt, Ian Doran’s pal Terry Haynes feared for his life, as he stated “the next thing I know Mickey was waving a broken glass about. I saw somebody hit the floor”. At this point, Albert intervened “I immediately dived at him, I jumped on him from the back” and in the chaos, someone said someone pulled a knife, and someone said someone pulled a gun. And suddenly, everything went silent. Lew Fisher said he heard a ‘pop’ and saw a ‘flash’. Norma heard four shots, Barbara heard three, Matt only two and Roy heard six, whereas June heard none, and yet across the crowded room, Kerri dived under her piano having heard two loud bangs and a woman screaming “Terry don’t, he’s got a gun”. Terry said “then I heard a bang, I went on the floor, crouched down in case there was any bullets flying about. The gun went off again. I saw a man charging me, it was Porter, he was like a wild man”. Amongst a sea of panicking people who fled the club, the four men dashed into the dark-lit stairwell, swiftly pursued by a seething Mickey clutching a bloodied broken bottle. Albert said “as I jumped on the guy with the glass from behind, I heard rapid explosions, three or four shots, I felt pain in my hand and I spun round and finished up slumped down outside the door. I was dazed for a few seconds. I got up and the fellow I had grabbed ran passed me and down the stairs”. From the stairwell, John Reilly heard the shots and someone said “he’s been done, he’s been done”. Playboy Roy recalled “I saw Albert standing there, looking down the stairs, he was all dazed. I took his arm and pulled him into the club”, as a steady stream of blood oozed from Albert’s trembling hand. As the people panicked, a bottleneck of petrified punters formed by the first floor door, jamming the club’s only exit, as the stairwell rammed full of sweaty screaming faces, as at the bottom, the people banged on the door screaming “open the door”, “let us out”, “where are the keys?” Having been nicked by a bullet fragment, as Sara tried to stem her husband’s bleeding fist with a tea-towel, Albert shouted “Lew, take those keys and open the front door”. Clutching the only set, Lew squeezed down the sweat-soaked stairwell, and with a quick jangle and click, yanked open the black door, and like a violently fizzing cork stuck in a boisterous champagne bottle, a sea of people spilled into Newport Place. Some ran to phone the Police, some sat in shock on the pavement and others simply disappeared. At the bottom of the stairs by the open black door, with his head slumped on the second step and his body slumped on the floor, lay Mickey Porter; belly-down and curled-up, his eyes wide and unblinking, as a steady froth of blood oozed from his raspy lungs, as slowly, his life slipped away. Albert said “I remember someone saying the man was dead and to turn him over. I said leave him, as I had felt a faint pulse in his neck”. It was Lew who called for an ambulance, but being eager to escape, for whatever reason, as he lay dying, everyone stepped over Mickey Porter… even his friends. Having entered through this door barely one hour before with Mickey, Charlie Snooks later said “I saw him lying on the stairs, moaning and groaning”, and John Kavanagh said “I knew he was hurt but I didn’t know he was hurt so bad. I squeezed past with Ann and Snooke and got into the car, where we sat and watched, when the Old Bill arrived, we just had a walk to a coffee shop”. Others there that night, like Matt Reilly exclaimed “I grabbed my wife, and me and John joined the queue for the stairs… when we reached the bottom I saw a man who I can’t describe, lying face down on the floor, there was a lot of blood around him”. His brother John said “I saw Mickey Porter lying on the stairs, I bent down and looked at his face, and saw his eyes were staring, Matt was with me, he said to his wife “come on, let’s go”, we stepped over Mickey and left the club”. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later, although he was rushed to Charring Cross Hospital, at 1:33am, Michael Barry Porter, known to his pals as “Mickey” was pronounced dead. (flat line) Having sealed off the Rose N Dale club and Newport Place, the Police investigation began. Splattered down the multi-coloured walls, the door, floor and stairwell of the club, as well as across the pavement outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, were two distinct blood groups; type A and type O, but being in the era before DNA, an exact match would never be found. On the bar; the stem, base and bowl of a broken and bloodied wine glass was found, but having been cleared away by someone else, part of which had been binned, with a broken glass also found under Mickey’s face, whether this was a weapon, or not, may never be known. And with the club having had a steady flow of punters across the three hours it was open, although the Police had confiscated the club’s signing-in book, even if the punters had all signed-in (which some hadn’t) and used their real names (which some hadn’t), there would be very few usable fingerprints. Police quickly recovered four spent .22 calibre shells found in the club; two in the stairwell, one in the club by main door and one under a stool by the kitchen, where the fight began. And yet, no gun was found, no knife was recovered, there was no motive and no name given as to who killed Mickey Porter. At his autopsy conducted at the Westminster Mortuary, along with an alcohol level the equivalent of thirteen measures of whisky, Dr David Bowen found holes in Mickey’s maroon polo-neck, blue jacket with a matching handkerchief and fawn corduroy trousers, which were consistent with his injuries. With a defensive wound to his right middle finger and a one-inch deep wound to the left-hand side of his back, it was clear that Mickey had been stabbed using a small knife with a single edged blade. With a small wound under his right earlobe, which ripped through his neck tissue, his oesophagus and embedded a bullet at the base of his heart; a small hole in the right hand side of his back, which tore through his right lung and fragmented into two lethally sharp pieces, and a third hole, to the left of his groin, which split his pelvis and embedded in the thigh, three bullets and two fragments were removed from Mickey’s corpse, all consistent with the .22 calibre shells found in the Rose n Dale club. His cause of death was “haemorrhage by bullet wounds to the chest”, meaning that, as he lay there, on the stairs, being stepped over by his closest friends; as his stomach, lungs and chest cavity ruptured, being unable to breathe, 23 year old Mickey Porter drowned in his own blood. For the Police, it should have been an open-and-shut case; an easily recognisable man, shot in a packed nightclub, surrounded by witnesses who knew him and his attacker… but it wasn’t. That night, of the three cars identified at the scene (a red Wolsley, a black Ford Mustang and a white Mini Clubman) two were missing. Of those people who hadn’t fled the scene, more than three hundred witness statements were taken, and most of those were either vague, wrong, misleading or (being unwilling to assist the Police) some eye-witnesses – for whatever reason - refused to talk. The friends who Mickey had arrived with that night were interviewed by the Police but all denied they were even there; John Kavanagh told Police “We did not go to a club called the Rose n Dale. In fact, I have never been to a club called the Rose n Dale”. Ann Kavanagh added “I was not there this evening, nor was my husband or Charlie. In fact, I have never heard of the club before”. And Charlie added “I’ve never been to the Rose n Dale, in fact, I don’t know where it is exactly”. Barbara Ali and June Lawrence, who were standing next to the cigarette machine, barely three feet from the fight itself, stated “we went to the club by ourselves, we saw very little, and left together”, failing to mention that they’d arrived with Terry Haynes or Ian Doran, both of whom were missing. When questioned, Matt Reilly (who’d greeted Charlie Snooke, John & Ann Kavanagh and Mickey Porter in Newport Place before entering the club together) refused to give evidence, and when asked by a policeman if they’d been in the club that night, his brother lied, saying they hadn’t. And although bloodied and dazed having been shot and wounded, Albert Griffith, the proprietor of the Rose n Dale club and his friend Lew Fisher gave possibly the clearest and most reliable eye-witness testimonies of the night, giving a description of two men the Police were eager to trace. Lew stated “…I ran down stairs, and as I stepped over the boy on the floor, I saw two men”, both who he described as five foot eight and early twenties, with one “wearing a fawn coloured top” and a young pale man in dark clothes and a maroon jacket “in a semi-crouched position with blood pouring down his hand and face”. Both men hastily left, accompanied by two girls, a blonde and a red-head. Was this a culprit, an accomplice or another victim? Unable to trace them, the Police didn’t know, but with pools of blood found on the pavement outside of numbers 9, 7 and 3 Newport Place, they knew that someone was bleeding profusely having been slashed with a broken glass by Mickey. (Ending) Albert Griffith was treated at Charring Cross Hospital, and with two bullet fragments removed from his left thumb, he made a full recovery, aided the police and gave a sample of blood for comparison. Penny Porter, Mickey’s mum heard about the shooting on the radio, and even before his name was mentioned, she said “I had a premonition something was wrong… then the Police came, one of them said ‘I have some bad news, your son has been shot’”. That day, she identified her son’s body. And as the investigation continued, the Police were stymied, not only by unwilling witnesses, but also by the intimidation of witnesses by an unknown group, as although Peter Goodey’s testimony was next to useless, his children’s lives were threatened and a Police guard was placed on his home. The Police had a truly monumental task; they had no fingerprints, no weapons, no culprit and with no obvious motive - whether a word, a look or a mistimed nudge – Mickey made an enemy of a known felon who (although a full four inches shorter) was violent, easily riled and armed, and with witnesses being mysteriously silent, once again, the unnamed assailant of Mickey Porter got away. And yet, the autopsy raised one interesting detail. Across the tattoo of a dagger on his right forearm and the right hand side of his jaw, embedded under his skin, were pellets, from a shotgun. For whatever reason, one year before his death, someone had shot Mickey Porter, but why and who? Part two of The Rosendale Murder continues next week. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Christian & Damon’s Amazing Nerd Show & Assassination Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Scott Denny and Carol Wood, with a warm thank you to everyone who has left a lovely review on iTunes or your favourite podcatcher; I read them all, they are hugely appreciated and I thank you. It only takes a few minutes to do but (for small independent podcasts like myself) it really makes the difference. 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
SOUNDS
*** 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 ***
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
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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. 
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