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The rear of the former College Arms pub on Royal College Street where Anthony Hardy disposed of vaious pieces of his victims
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN
This is Part Three of a four-part series into The Camden Ripper. The truth about may never be known, as it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. By viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Three – Tony the Sadist.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
There are two locations here. The lime green triangle is the back of the former College Arms pub and the purple triangle is the corner of Camden Road and Plender Street, there are the locations of the green bins where the body parts were dumped. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two locations to go with the episode. Left is the corner of Plender Street and Camden Street in the exact location where Anthony John Hardy (The Camden Ripper) dumped the dismembered body parts of Brigette Cathy MacLennan and Elizabeth Selina Valad in the council's green metal bins. The bins have since been relocation but the security camera which captured the footage of Hardy disposing of the bags is still in place. Right is the rear of the former College Arms pub at 1 Royal College Street where some of the body parts of Brigette MacLennan and Elizabeth Valad were dumped by Anthony John Hardy, the Camden Ripper.
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
SOURCES: The main source was the Independent Review into the treatment and care of Anthony Hardy by Camden Council, which also includes detail about the murder investigation, as seen in this PDF. http://nomsintranet.org.uk/roh/official-documents/IndependentReview_AnthonyHardy.pdf
MUSIC:
SOUNDS Salvation Army - https://freesound.org/people/Walter_Odington/sounds/32366/ Café Noise - https://freesound.org/people/alistair.i.macdonald/sounds/156909/ UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Tony) “I feel like I’ve wasted the last few years, I’ve wasted my whole life and I’ve achieved nothing”. To the world around him, by the winter of 2002, 51-year-old Anthony John Hardy was little more than a sexually-defunct diabetic with bipolar disorder. He eked out a living on a disability allowance, he had been bounced from hostels to hospitals to prisons, he was dependent on a cocktail of medications, drink and drugs, and the only relationships he maintained was with a series of anonymous sex workers. As a clinically-depressed alcoholic, at best, his life would be an endless circle of therapy sessions, drug tests and relapses. At worst, he would sink into a pit of depression, arrests, sections and homelessness. He was a nameless nobody who had achieved nothing, and would be ignored and avoided by others. Only, deep down in his sadistic little soul, Tony harboured a dark ambition. Feeling a supreme sense of superiority over the system he had manipulated and the experts he had duped, having murdered his first victim, he had evaded justice and a lengthy prison sentence receiving only a few months in hospital. With his second lying dead in his space-room, his evil obsession was just days away from completion, and seeking a third victim, soon he would be as infamous as his hero. The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, as his memory and details were deliberately vague and his many illnesses masked a sadistic truth. He was a different person to different people at different times for a very specific reason. And only by viewing this story from his perspective is it possible to see the four sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Three – Tony the Sadist. (Tony) “The last five years, I could have spent in a job or training at college. Instead I spent it drinking tea in day-centres and alcohol on the streets. Don’t get me wrong, the therapy, the alcohol sessions and the counselling has helped, but with no fixed address, it’s impossible to achieve any real goals”. With phrases such as this, Tony had secured himself the tools he needed to fulfil his life’s ambition; everything from a secluded flat, to the funds to pay for his sex-workers, to the freedom to walk the streets and (left to his own devices) he could satisfy his sadistic obsession... and become a serial-killer. Tuesday 24th December 2002. Christmas Eve. Not a flake of snow fell on the soggy litter-strewn streets of Camden, instead a cold wet drizzle wafted the cheesy chirp of festive hits as it drifted on the breeze. From the window of his brightly-coloured living-room, the big bearded figure of Tony stared out onto Royal College Street, like a demented Santa Claus in a garish Hawaiian shirt and a set of Mr Men socks. With his tree up, his baubles dandling and his greeting cards hanging on a string, there was a real sense of excitement. For everyone, it was about Christmas. But for Tony, it was about infamy. Chosen by Camden Council simply because it was available and suited a single man, it’s ironic that the flat they chose at 4 Hartland would be so perfect for the sickening whims of a prospective serial-killer. From the outside, being situated on the ground-floor corner of a council block, flat 4 had no immediate neighbours. Fully surrounded by a street, two stairwells and a passageway, it sat by itself; with a few frosted windows in the communal areas, a thick front-door facing no others and the four windows to his living-room, bathroom and spare-room were all set six-feet off-the-ground. Above, his neighbour with the leaky-tap still lived, but the matter was resolved and since then, they hadn’t talked. The path was used by residents, the road was thirty feet away and this was not a place for tourists or shoppers. On the ground-floor was a thin grey stairwell, illuminated by a single bulb which infrequently worked, and as it led to nowhere but the other flats, unless you lived there, you had no reason to be there. As the only entrance or exit, opening the black front door which had no glass pane, just a spy-hole and a clumsily chalked ‘four’, should anyone peep inside, they would see nothing but a thin vague hallway. There were no carpets or furniture, just a few childish daubings and the flat fronts of four closed doors. To the left was a white windowless bathroom with a bath, sink and toilet, and nothing but a nailbrush, a mop, the name Sara in red paint and two self-shot snaps of semi-clad ladies sunning it up in the park. Second right was a small messy kitchen with a fridge, a hob and some unwashed plates, which (like all the other rooms) resembled the flat of a depressed alcoholic. So, should the council inspect it, to the uninitiated it needed a good clean and a paint-job, but there would be nothing of concern to report. In the brightly-coloured living-room, besides the cheap Christmas tree and the string of greeting cards, you’d see a stack of books on Jack the Ripper, not an odd fixation with deaths. You’d see three tellies, not a shrine to hard-core porn. A line of blank VHS tapes, not hours of simulated and real rapes. And an assortment of sticky spillages from a clumsy alcoholic, and not the mopped-up bloodstains of his last victim. Perhaps having rejected his generous offer of a spare-room, with sex as payment for rent? Of course, the spare-room was a perfect trap to lure in any vulnerable female lodger, as it was warm, dry and almost free. With a double-bed, a locked door and a single window which opened a few inches, although silenced by brick-walls on all sides, the neighbours were used to the sounds of seedy sex-acts coming from this room, and besides, the lodger wouldn’t be left alone, as Tony had a spare key. Only now, the offer would be off-the-table, as although he had masked the ominous stench of putrid decay with an endless supply of incense and her grey tracksuit bottoms blocked the base of the door, Liz’s body remained. Five days dead and slowly decomposing, she was his to do with as he pleased. A passive woman who would never say no, would never flee and would never mock his unruly erections. On the surface, this was not the home of a crazed psychopath, this was just a stepping stone for one of the council’s most in-need residents. Oddly, although it was filled with art, the walls featured not a single image of nudity, sex, bondage or death. There was no cruelty, no blood and nothing unnerving. But under this childish veneer of fishes, rainbows and smiling faces, everything he had painted was born out of a deeply personal frustration or a dark sadistic secret. Some were spiritual and religious symbols, such as moons, stars and Celtic crosses. Some were aspirational, such as a doodle of a waving Tony cooing “hey little lady”. Many were names like ‘Sara’, ‘Sandra’, ‘Jayne’ or ‘Tracy’. Others were only initials. But others were specific, as beside his bank of tellies was a painting of lady’s face; her nose replaced with a capital A, a single red tear pouring from her eye, and her look unmistakably Sally. His flat was not only his home, it was perfect place to undertake his sadistic crimes in absolute privacy. But should it be taken away and he be forced back into hostels, his dream of infamy would collapse. Released on 14th November 2002, Tony played the part of a typical (if flawed) out-patient perfectly; he attended his therapy sessions but missed a few as many alcoholics do, he was an active and well-behaved participant at the Diorama art group, and (as requested) he enrolled in a photography and IT course at the Milton Skills Centre, with his plan to one day get himself a regular job. ...or so he would say. Barely a month before Sally’s death, Tony had taken a precautionary measure to ensure that no-one would unearth his dark ambition. In an unusual step, he requested that his weekly meetings with his care co-ordinator occur in a café around the corner, rather than in his flat, and given the fact that she was female and he had a history of violent sexual assaults, it seemed a sensible measure for her safety. As seen during his sectioning, his sadism could bubble to the surface at any point without warning. In 1992, Tony was once again evicted from the Arlington House hostel in Camden. Only then, it wasn’t for drunkenness but a particularly savage trick he had a cruel fondness for, which earned him the eery nickname of ‘The Bone Crusher’. Creeping-up behind a resident, he would trap them in a bear-hug and squeeze them tight till they passed out, causing bruises, fractures and asphyxiation. Even back then it was said “he got a kick out of stopping someone breathing”. Every serial-killer has to start somewhere, for some, it’s fire or animal cruelty. For Tony, it was crush asphyxiation. If indeed, this was the start? Tony’s sexual sadism stemmed back into the 1970’s with his increased need for sex-workers. The more he used, the less his addiction was satisfied and the rougher the sex that he craved, all of which led to strangulation, manipulation and the full physical and psychological control of another human-being. Wary of his sadistic desires, many girls refused to see him again no matter how desperate they were, but many later stated that he would brag “you mark my words, one day, I’m going to be famous”. His sense of superiority over authority figures also stemmed back to that same era, after his first brush with death and detention in Australia, only this thrill of controlling others wasn’t sexual but mental. It excited him to cripple the Police investigation with his vagueness “I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I don’t know how much I drank. I blacked out”. To manipulate the courts “Mr Hardy appears downcast, depressed and suffering with suicidal thoughts” which miraculously vanished. To project a sense of grief without ever admitting his guilt, by telling his psychiatrist “thinking of Sally is like waking up in a nightmare... if I did believe I was responsible, I would kill myself”. And even showing a false gratitude to those in charge “I want to thank you for the work you’ve done for me over the years”, having set him up in his own flat and giving him the last piece of the puzzle to complete his perverted purpose. Tony had played everyone, and he had played them well... ...so, it seems strange that (although he was a highly volatile man prone to manic episodes, whose whole plan was almost scuppered owing a leaky tap) that he’d told no-one of his plan. And he hadn’t. The nearest anyone got to the truth was in the casual chats in a café with his old pal Maureen Reeves. Friends for ten years, there was no love or longing, they were just two likeminded people who enjoyed each other’s company and regularly chatted over a cuppa. To Maureen, Tony was charming and smart, with no hint of anger or violence. If anything, he was a gentleman with a big heart and a kind soul. But then, Tony was a different man to different people at different times, like a Dr Jekyll and a Mr Hyde. She enjoyed their chats, but with no knowledge of his past, she was unaware that (being comfortable in her presence) he was unwittingly laying out his plan before her. Being obsessed with the East End serial-killer ‘Jack the Ripper’, Tony could talk for hours about ‘Jack’; about his skills, his methods, his motives, his infamy and his legend. To some, it may seem odd, but everybody has a pastime and many have an obsession with true-crime. Besides, it distracted him from drinking and getting depressed. Only Tony’s plan wasn’t without its mistakes and the biggest wasn’t a body, but his upstairs neighbour. On the night that Sally’s corpse was discovered in his spare-room, sweating and shaking, Tony’s arrest wasn’t the main reason for his nervousness, but that his plan had stalled before it had even begun. In a moment of uncontrolled mania, in which previously he had slashed his neighbour’s tyres, bent her wipers and posted her an abusive note, having attacked her door with spray-paint and acid, a key-issue concerning his discharge from hospital was the risk Tony posed to his neighbour and the other residents at Hartland. Rightfully fearful of their safety, Camden Council started the eviction process. On 4th July 2002, as an in-patient at the Cardigan Ward, Tony received a Notice of Possession informing him of his imminent eviction. Incarcerated and helpless, his model behaviour was not only vital to get himself discharged but also to rally the doctors in his fight to save his flat. When asked, Tony would state “I feel like I’ve wasted the last few years. Don’t get me wrong, the therapy has helped, but with no fixed address, it’s impossible to achieve any real goals”. To allay their fears, he said of his neighbour “I have no ill-feelings towards her. It wasn’t her. It was the drink”. With their permission, he returned to 4 Hartland three times and there was no incident. With the eviction delayed, the doctors stood up for their patient, rightly declaring “Mr Hardy’s accommodation causes great concern... there is nothing at present to convince us that detention in hospital continues to be necessary. He has a natural human right to be treated in the surroundings which encourage and support his own efforts”. Hostels were considered, but it was clear that “Mr Hardy’s stability by living independently cannot be overstated”. With his eviction caught in a legal dispute, on 14th November 2002, Tony returned to his home at 4 Hartland – it was a perfect little flat for a prospective serial-killer – but his future there was uncertain. Whether the threat of homelessness ignited a fire in his belly is unknown. Whether his hospitalisation caused his bottled-up urges to burst is uncertain. Or whether his urgency was owing to a sick sense of unfinished business, a macabre anniversary or as a Christmas gift to himself, no one will ever know... ...but two innocent women would die in the space of a week, with his third of particular significance. On 6th December 2002, from a stall in Camden Market, Tony purchased a set of Mr Men socks featuring the grinning yellow face of Mr Happy. Either this was Christmas shopping, or it was pre-meditation? On 14th at 6:34pm in the Sainsbury’s on Camden Road, he bought a large black roll of heavy-duty bin-bags, the kind used for house-clearances or gardening, only Tony wasn’t moving and he didn’t own a garden. On 18th, he severed his ties with the Alcohol Advisory Service by writing them a Christmas card in which he scrawled “I don’t need you any more, thanks for all your help”. And on the 19th December, at an unspecified time by King’s Cross station, he met Elizabeth Selina Valad... and murdered her. Bludgeoned, strangled, posed and photographed – as no-one had seen, heard or reported her missing – her murder was as perfect as possible. Being on his best behaviour, there was less chance of the police disturbing his sadistic desires. And as if, having cunningly evaded a lengthy custodial sentence, Tony was back exactly where he had been eleven months earlier; in the same room, on the same bed, with the same plan, only – this time - she was his to do with as he pleased... for as long as he pleased. On Friday 20th, the next day, sensing a moment of mania rising inside him and (as before) fearing that it could all be ruined by an angry outburst over something as trivial as a leaky tap, Tony went to church. Telling the Rector that he was at an “emotional rock bottom”, the cleric prayed for his immortal soul and noticed (but never questioned) that around his neck Tony hung a key to a locked room in his flat. Later, he returned to the Cardigan Ward to collect his medication, the mania passed and as he walked among the Christmas shoppers, he headed home to his tree, his cards and his corpse. All the while mulling-over who would be next. It didn’t matter who she was, what was significant was her number. Brigette Cathy MacLennan was born on 31st August 1968, as the youngest of five children to Roderick, a civil servant and their mother, a housewife. Born in the tranquil peace of New Zealand, aged five, the family uprooted to the smoggy rain-sodden streets of London. Cut from hearty Irish stock, Brigette was a flame-haired, pale-skinned and cheeky-faced young girl who loved to laugh and to dance, and being a real beacon of brightness and warmth, she illuminated even the gloomiest of rooms. Only just like her lovely smile, it masked a short life which would be tinged with struggles and sadness. Barely out of her teens, she met a man, she fell in love and together they gave life to a little baby boy, but with deep frictions in their box-fresh relationship, it fell apart and the father left. In 1992, aged 24, she met a Moroccan decorator called Salil Abdel Amzil; one year later they married and two years later another baby boy was born, but by 1998, the marriage had collapsed and Salil had moved out. Gripped with depression and living on benefits with two boys to raise alone, Brigette struggled. To lift her mood, she was prescribed anti-depressants, but when that failed, illicit drugs followed. For a while, she was coping, with friends describing her as lovely, great fun and a really good mum, but infrequent drug-use quickly consumed her life, and being addicted to crack, she sold sex to feed her habit. By the winter of 2002, being evicted from her fifth-floor council-flat in Camden following a drugs-raid by the Police, hopelessly addicted to crack and with convictions as a King’s Cross sex-worker, she had no home, no life and her two little boys had been taken into care. The bright bubbly Brigette was gone. In her place stood a gaunt hollow shell, all rough and ragged, like a faint ghost with a painted-on smile. On the night of Tuesday 24th December 2002, as the world wrapped their presents, Brigette was seen by King’s Cross station. It was Christmas Eve, but to this sullen shivering lady, who was 34 but looked nearer 50, it was another night in need of a fix, with another sex-obsessed stranger, another squalid flat, another thirty quid for an uncomfortable fuck on a grimy bed, and in another doorway she would cook-up those caustic little rocks to forget her sadness and dull her pain... for a short while at least. How they met is unknown, but just like the others, no-one saw or heard her as she entered 4 Hartland. Inside Tony’s flat, the radiators warmth would have been reassuring, as was his Santa-like beard, his twinkling tree and his offerings of mulled-wine and a mince-pie. In the air hung an overpowering smell of incense, which masked the unholy stench of decay, but then the cinnamon suited this festive theme. The oddly obsessive ‘girl-based’ art on the walls, the discarded pair of women’s grey tracksuit bottoms blocking the base of the locked spare-room and even the putrid whiff of Liz’s slowly decomposing body after five days in a warm flat couldn’t have unsettled her, as there were no screams, no signs of struggle and at 8:45pm, a neighbour said they heard the rhythmic sounds of sex... and then nothing. That night, like a sick twisted Christmas treat to himself, Tony fulfilled his sadistic fantasy, as (perhaps with his hefty bulk crushing her tiny chest, at the point of his climax) he strangled Brigette to death. Her name meant nothing to him, unlike her number, as being his third victim, Tony had achieved his grisly goal by graduating from the forgettable level of a ‘murderer’ to the infamous and exclusive rank of a ‘serial-killer’. Only with infamy never guaranteed, he knew that his dark ambition was incomplete. On Christmas Day, within the sweaty recesses of his spare-room, Tony played in his own little toy-box, as on his bed lay two life-size dolls, both stark naked and spread-eagled. One was a pale-skinned red-head with fuller hips, natural boobs, a ligature mark on her neck and a black NY cap to disguise her reddening and irrelevant face. The other was once an olive-skinned beauty with short dark hair, a stunning smile and an expensive boob job, only now her blue mottled legs were topped-off with a set of Mr Men socks and her purple bloated head was hidden behind the red rubber of a devil’s mask. Brigette and Liz were his to do with as he pleased. To dress, to undress, to kiss and to violate. And as Boxing Day passed, he posed both ladies with their heads cocked coyly towards him, snapping his camera to capture a sick souvenir to be tugged-over, as the two luscious but anonymous lesbians now lured their sexual saviour to bed. And once those 44 photos were taken, their purpose was served... ...but his infamy was yet to be cemented. With no hint of mania, on Friday 27th December, Tony collected his meds from the Cardigan Ward, where his mood was described as calm and stable. At 8:04pm, that same night, back at the Sainsbury’s on Camden Road he purchased another large black roll of heavy-duty bin-bags. And returning to the quiet of his Hartland flat, he began the slow and methodical disposal of their bodies. Detective Chief inspector Ken Bell later said “Hardy dismembered his last two victims with considerable skill, whether this was part of his gratification or an attempt to hide his crime, we will never know”. (End) Wearing a pair of yellow Marigold gloves, one-by-one, Tony dragged their bodies into the small white sparseness of his bathroom. With the cold tap running, he used only what was lying around – three kitchen knives and an old rusty hacksaw – as he severed their limbs at the weakest point - the joints. Each cut was clean and unrushed, with no rips, tears or slashes. As if he was filleting a fish, he took his time, slicing through each ball, socket and vertebrae, so when these neat orderly pieces of dissected women were stacked together, it was hard to tell which part belonged to who. With two dismembered heads, four feet, four hands, four arms, eight bits of four legs and two torsos cleanly cut into halves across the rib-cage, in neatly wrapped bundles (like the grisly little gifts of a crazed Santa) Tony placed each part in a black bin-bag and sealed it tight with duct-tape. On Sunday 29th December, wearing his usual long black coat, gaudy shirt and that same black NY cap, acting as casual as anyone else putting out their rubbish over the festive break, in broad daylight, Tony disposed of the lumpy black bin-bags in the council’s green metal dumpsters for public waste. On the corner of Camden Road and Plender Street, just one street from his flat, at 14:08pm, an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot was dropped in amongst the rat-infested mess of food waste and empty bottles. Shortly afterwards, in a similar dumpster he slung a pair of legs at the back of the College Arms pub, just a few doors down from his home and directly opposite the Mornington Unit. He was once a nameless nobody who had achieved nothing, but now, Anthony Hardy’s dark ambition was finally complete, as with three sex-workers dead and their body-parts scattered about the London streets, just like his hero, he was officially a ‘serial-killer’. But to achieve the true infamy he desired, this next step was beyond his control, and – worse still – to get it, he would need to wait. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The final part of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper continues next week. But to know more about this case, stay tuned till after the break. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who Ruth Scannell, Kristen Parrish, Darren Scott, Tom Davies, Donna DeBrino and Erin Howe, I thank you all very much and I hope you enjoyed the special photos and videos which go with this series. Plus a thank you to Selina Dean and Mette Kongsted for your kind donations via the Murder Mile e-Shop. My belly is now full of custard tarts. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 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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