Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #119: The Four Faces of The Camden Ripper - Part Four "Tony the Maniac"
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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 NINETEEN
This is Part Four 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 Four – Tony the Maniac.
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.
The location of Great Ormond Street Hospital where Anthony Hardy was arrested is marked with a mustard colouiuired triangle. The other three locations, his flat at 4 Hartland and the two bins (one at the rear of the College Arms pub and one on Plender Street) where the body parts were found are marked with purple, black and green triangles. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, 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.
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
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
(Tony) “I hear they’ve given me a name. They’re calling me... The Ripper”.
Within the space of a single year, Anthony John Hardy had murdered his first victim, evaded a lengthy custodial sentence, manipulated his detention in a psychiatric unit and being declared “not a danger to himself or others”, he was released back into the community and to his flat at 4 Hartland. Six weeks later, two more women would be dead with their dismembered bodies scattered across Camden.
Once, he was nothing but an anonymous homeless drunk who was ignored, avoided and abandoned, but now, his dark ambition to become a serial-killer was complete. Only, unlike his eponymous East End hero whose moniker is known the world over, Tony’s place in infamy was yet to be cemented. He was a nobody who wanted to be a somebody... but to achieve it, the next step was out of his control.
So, who was Anthony Hardy? Was he a depressed alcoholic who was prone to manic episodes? Was his mental health real, imaginary, impossible to diagnose or entirely fabricated to suit his needs? Was he a chancer who grabbed at opportunities, or a cunning manipulator with a long-term goal? Did his addictions make a monster, did his isolation craft a killer, or was sadism always part of his personality?
The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, even to himself, as he became a different person to different people at different times. But 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 Four – Tony the Maniac.
Detective Chief Inspector Ken Bell, later said “it was one of the most disturbing cases I have ever been involved with. It has always been the belief of the investigating team that a man in full possession of his mental faculties committed these murders. Hardy is a dangerous, devious and manipulative man”.
In the eyes of the Met’ Police, Anthony Hardy was a sadistic murderer, plain and simple. Following the discovery of the naked and posed body of Sally Rose White in his locked spare-room, there was enough evidence of assault, pre-meditation, an attempt to conceal the body, to clean-up the crime scene, and his convenient loss of memory owing to an alcoholic blackout was without merit. Hardy was guilty.
But with the murder investigation usurped by the bungling of a Home Office Pathologist, their case collapsed and their only suspect was released... but soon enough, the Police would be proved right.
Mid-afternoon on Thursday 2nd January 2003, Tony was sat in an oak-panelled smoking room at Great Ormond Street Hospital, a few streets from King’s Cross Station. Sprawled across a stiff wooden bench, wearing his shin-length coat, black NY cap, loud shirt and amusing socks, Tony smoked a ciggie as he perused the paper. His beard was gone, shaved to a ragged stubble, and although it was bitterly cold outside with a persistently biting drizzle, inside the radiators were reassuringly warm and comforting.
One of London’s largest ever man-hunts was underway, the Police were patrolling the streets, his flat was crawling with forensics and Tony’s face was splashed across every tabloid. The papers would state that this “mentally disturbed” and “highly dangerous man” had been “on-the-run” for three days...
...when in truth, he wasn’t running, he was in no rush at all, as all he had to do now... was wait.
Seven days earlier, on Friday 27th December 2002, Elizabeth Valad and Brigette MacLennan had served their purpose. Their bodies were rotting, flies were swarming and purge fluid was slowly leaking from their bloated corpses as their internal organs putrefied in the heat of his squalid little flat at 4 Hartland.
A total of forty-four sickeningly lurid photos were taken of both ladies; posed on the bed, laying naked with all holes gaping as they fulfilled every facet of his sick disturbing fantasy. Only, with red-headed Brigette three-days dead and her porcelain skin mottled with a livid hue of reds and blues, and Liz’s once slender frame malformed by the warmth of decay into a purple bloated mess with slipping skin, for Tony it was time to dispose of the evidence. Only this wasn’t a race to cut and flush as much human meat as possible before the police burst in, this was slow and methodical for a very specific reason.
In an advanced state of decomposition, both bodies were limp and easy-to-handle as he dragged them from the spare-room into the white windowless bathroom. With the cold tap on and the plug out, the fluids were slowly drained and nothing was flushed down the toilet owing to a risk of blockage.
The bulk of the Friday he spent dismembering the bodies with a small white hacksaw and three kitchen knives with differing blades; some sharp for skin, some tough for bone, some jagged for sinew. But no bones were snapped in haste, as each cut was clean as if performed by a professional butcher.
To become a serial-killer, all it takes is three or more bodies and a gap of at least a month, which any fool with an ounce of self-control or a hectic schedule can attain. But for Tony, this wasn’t only about a sadistic gratification or the full physical control of a woman, here he was creating a myth. There are thousands of serial killers in history; some are famous, some are forgotten, but very few are infamous.
Having left these sixteen bits of limbs, torsos and heads to drain in the bath, at 8:04pm, he re-entered Sainsbury’s on Camden Road to buy more bin-bags; where he aroused no suspicion, he didn’t disguise his face from the CCTV and having made a purchase he remembered to collect his Nectar Card points.
The next day, with a roll of bin-bags, a set of red handled scissors and a reel of duct tape, each part was bagged and sealed in his more spacious spare-room. He cleaned the bathroom so it was white once again. And then he showered, scrubbed his nails and popped on some fresh clothes. The flat was cold having opened the windows, but it was free of flies and the only smell was bleach and incense.
Next-up: disposal. Conveniently the bin-store at Hartland was in-front of his own front door, only this wasn’t about speed, as where and how the bodies were dumped was a key part of his myth-making.
At 2:08pm, on the busy corner of Plender Street and Camden Road, Tony dumped a large black bag filled with an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot into the bin, having stopped, turned and grinned up towards the CCTV camera directly overhead, and calmly walked away. One street up from his home, he slung a second bag bulging with a pair of ladies’ legs. On the floor of his spare-room, he left Liz’s headless and limbless torso, all parcelled-up, having locked the door and blocked up the gap below with her grey tracksuit bottoms. And then, somewhere nearby - maybe in a bush, down a drain or in the nearby Regent’s Canal - he disposed of the rest; three feet, two arms and both heads.
On the morning of 30th December 2002, with a large police presence at the back of the College Arms pub, he shaved off his beard, packed-up a small bag, and calmly, he left his flat at 4 Hartland forever.
With three women dead, their bodies scattered and his myth-making finally complete, as his infamy could never guaranteed, Tony would have to wait, as the final piece of his legend was yet to be written.
So, where did the Camden Ripper begin? Well, his homicidal sadism didn’t start with Sally Rose White, Elizabeth Selina Valad or Brigette Cathy MacLennan. It actually began with his first victim... his wife.
Anthony John Hardy was born on 31st May 1951 in Winshill, a coal-mining parish east of Burton-upon-Trent in Staffordshire, to Kathleen a housewife and Cyril a welder at the Swadlincote Colliery. As the fourth youngest alongside Barry, Terry, Christine and Brian, it’s unsurprising that (like most bullies) Tony would unwittingly model himself those he feared the most; as his father was a large stout man with a short fuse, a furious temper and a thirst for drink and women. Raised a Christian, as a boy, the seeds of this serial-killer were sewn, as Tony was quiet, bright and charming, but lacked any empathy.
From 1956 to 1970, Tony was schooled at Abbott Beyne Grammar in Winshill, where he fostered a love of girls, a passion for mechanics and a deep desire to flee his working-class roots. And although he could be chatty and pleasant to his fellow pupils, he despised his teachers, often dismissing their questions with a vacant look, very few words and a need to feel superior over these authority figures.
Gifted with practical hands and a methodical mind, from 1970-to-73, Tony studied engineering at Imperial College in Kensington, West London, where Tony met and fell in love with 22-year-old Judith Dwight. To Judith – having fallen for a tall, well-built man, who was described as a perfect gentleman – in the spring of 1972, they married at Westminster Registry Office.
In 1975, they moved to Bury St Edmonds in Suffolk where Tony worked as a factory engineer for British Sugar, Judith as a secretary, and their four children (Sam, Ben, Emma and Tom) soon followed, with the Hardy’s seen as nothing more than a typical middle-class family living a good life in a nice home.
In 1978, with Tony offered a great opportunity, the family uprooted to Hobart in Tasmania. This should have been a stepping-stone to an even brighter future, but struggling to cope with the stresses of life, he smoked, he drank, he womanised and the sadistic seeds of a fledgling serial-killer began to spawn.
Described as “like a Dr Jekyll and a Mr Hyde”, for Judith, it was like living with two different husbands. As swinging wildly from high manias to low depressions, violent outbursts to utter blankness, Tony’s mood was unpredictable. To curb it, he drank heavier, had many affairs, used sex-workers and (yet to be diagnosed with onset diabetes) his unruly erections required harder sex to maintain his large libido.
Losing his job, for the sake and safety of their marriage and children, Judith got Tony to see a doctor, but as his anger and mania grew, misdiagnosed, he was incorrectly prescribed with anti-depressants.
It was then that – being neither drunk, low or elated - Tony would plan and execute his first murder.
On 5th April 1982, at 6:30am, as the family slept, Tony opened the fridge. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty, as all he could think about was his wife’s impending death. In his eyes, he had planned it to perfection, as with no murder weapon found, he knew he would evade justice. Having read in a true-crime novel about an assassin’s dagger made of ice, he adapted the idea and froze a plastic water bottle used as a cooler for picnics. After the attack, it would defrost and be indistinguishable from any other rubbish.
As he swung the two-litre bottle, almost two kilos of hardened ice smashed Judith repeatedly over the head as she slept, it shot intense pains down her body and rendered her stunned and semi-conscious.
Dragging her limp body to the bath, filling it, Tony thrust his wife’s head under the water in an attempt to drown her, but as she fought back; she kicked, she punched and struggled to yank out the plug. The attack abruptly stopped when their six-year-old son Sam saw his dad attacking his mum and screamed.
Judith was taken to hospital with cuts, bruises and shock... but thankfully, she survived.
The murder had failed, the weapon was found, the victim recovered and the attack had a witness. So, whether Tony’s failure informed his further attacks is unknown. Did the sound of his neighbour’s bath at Hartland trigger a manic flashback? Were his last three victims – Sally, Liz and Brigette – simply him enacting what he wanted to happen to his wife? And was his manipulation of their bodies (in life and death) an act of revenge because he couldn’t obtain hers? That is unknown, but many key elements which shaped the Camden murders and his evasion of justice would stem from this very moment.
Upon his arrest, Tony stated “no comment” to the Police’s questions, and only spoke to flag-up his alcoholic blackouts, his depression and his need for psychiatric help, knowing that if he was sectioned, he would be declared “not responsible for his own actions” and would avoid a long custodial sentence.
On 6th April 1982, Tony was sectioned at Brisbane’s Park Centre Psychiatric Unit. Like his admission to the Mornington Unit, once inside, with the charges dropped, his suicidal urges ceased and as a model patient, he was declared “not a danger to himself or others” and discharged after just ten days.
Tony walked free with a great sense of superiority having beaten the system. But as would happen in the Cardigan Ward, he wasn’t diagnosed with depression or bipolar, but suffering from a cyclothymic reaction, meaning his violent moods weren’t owing to mental illness, but were part of his personality.
Two weeks later, in another unprovoked attack, Tony held his wife hostage in a hotel room, but having asked him to let her go for the sake of their kids, she filed divorce papers and moved back to England.
And although the Decri-Nisi was served... his violence towards his soon-to-be ex-wife didn’t stop there.
In August 1985, as they still lived together owing to their dwindling finances, Tony tortured Judith with his petty torments; he soaked her bed with water, he broke her secretarial typewriter, he stole all her money and for the last three nights before she left, he turned the radio up full so she couldn’t sleep.
In November 1986, on the grounds of domestic assault, the divorce was issued and a Restraining Order was put in place meaning that Tony could not contact his ex-wife and children in any way. He broke the terms, served two months in prison and (losing his job) he focussed on making her life a living hell.
(Montage). 8th December 1986, he harassed Judith with phone-calls, day and night. 11th December, while the Police were installing alarms in her home, they found microphones hidden in the vents. 14th December, he made more abusive calls. 2nd January 1987, he followed his wife’s car to London. 3rd January, he removed a pane of glass from her front door. 5th to 11th January, more abusive calls. 12th January, within five hours of changing her ex-directory number, more menacing calls. 19th January, she got a postcard, it read “Is there a chink in your armour, I wonder? Tony”. 27th January, he slashed her friend’s car tyres. 28th January, he left a voicemail saying “if you persist in refusing to talk to me, you’ll be sorry”. March to May he called ten times. 8th June, he bricked her window and slashed her tyres. 9th July, he broke into her home at night, leaving a cigarette stub and her tyres slashed. 13th July, another window bricked and a note attached stating “This brick was chosen with care. I hope you like it. T.”. The same day, five cars on the street had their tyres slashed and she received another note stating “To the stars or to hell? The choice is yours”. And on 21st July 1987, he broke in to her home, boarded up the garage, jammed the front door, stole her friend’s car, changed the number plates and used it for a spot of illegal mini-cabbing and to harass and stalk his ex-wife as he tried to live her life.
On 16th September 1987, he was sentenced to one year in prison for contempt of court having ignored the Restraining Order. While on remand in Norwich Prison for car-theft, a psychiatrist from the Norvic Clinic assessed Tony and found “no evidence of major mental illness” and that his violence towards his ex-wife resulted from as “intractable personality trait”. He wasn’t mentally ill, this was who he was.
Having served his sentence, on 2nd January 1989, he stole the car of his ex-wife’s boyfriend, and while high on alcohol and cannabis, he organised a belated New Year’s Eve party for a group of sex-workers, which ended in a high-speed police chase down the A134 and crashed into a road-block at Thetford. Upon his arrest, he refused to give a specimen, repeatedly stated “no comment”, he caused criminal damage to the cell and was sentenced to a further six-months in prison. (Sounds from Part One).
(Tony) “Hello. My name is Tony and I am an alcoholic”.
And this was where we began, in the Summer of 1989 as a Tony drove a battered Ford Sierra through the back streets of the King’s Cross. Within a year, he was unemployed, homeless and diabetic. Losing contact with his ex-wife and kids, over the next thirteen years, he was arrested, evicted and sectioned on countless occasions. The few pounds he scraped together fuelled his addictions of drink, drugs and sex. And having nothing of his own, he had learned to manipulate the system to get what he wanted, whether a bed, a meal, an income, a flat, or the freedom to walk free having got away with murder.
With three women dead, their bodies scattered and his myth-making finally complete, as his infamy could never guaranteed, Tony would have to wait, as the final piece of his legend was yet to be written.
On Monday 30th December 2002, just shy of 3am, as the urban foxes prowled behind the College Arms pub - hungry and shunned, seen as vermin by an uncaring society - another nameless scavenger foraged in the council bins for food. Only what he found shocked him to the core. “I thought they were two big fish, like two big salmon, I opened a bag and there they were, a pair of woman’s legs”.
The press would later claim that Tony was only caught because the rubbish collection was a day late, but as anyone who lives in Britain knows, every Christmas it’s late. This discovery wasn’t a mistake, it was deliberate, as how could Tony become an infamous serial-killer if no-one knew about his killings?
At 9am, the man carried the reeking bin-bag to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases on Capper Street. At 9:45am, Detective Chief Inspector Ken Ball was alerted to reports of “suspected human remains”. At 10am, the rear of the pub was sealed off. And seeing the commotion from the comfort of his own flat; Tony calmly packed a bag, grabbed his pills, shaved off his beard and left Hartland forever. There was no rush, no panic, no fear, and knowing his moment had come, he probably even stopped to watch.
At 11am, at St Pancras Mortuary, an autopsy by Dr Freddy Patel confirmed their worst fears; the legs were human, female, recently dismembered and more than likely belonged to more than one woman.
A murder investigation was set-up, the estate was cordoned off, bins were emptied, residents were questioned and rubbish collections were stopped, although tonnes had already been taken to landfill. No other body parts were initially found, but when the neighbours were asked, the same name kept cropping up; “it’s Tony”, “flat 4”, “he’s weird”, “a loner”, “strange man”, “you know about Sally, right?”
When the Police arrived, it was as if he had been expecting them, as the front door was open and the hall light was on, but Tony was nowhere to be found. Initially it looked like a false lead, as although clean but cluttered, it resembled the flat of a depressed alcoholic who was blamed for everything.
To experienced detectives, these seemingly innocent items rankled their nerves; like the rubber Devil’s mask, the occult symbols, the stack of sickening porn, the creepy childish daubings with hints at other victims, a scattering of scrawled letters written to sex-workers, escorts and S&M magazines alluding to his depraved cravings, and a painted glass jar immortalising that first murder of Sally Rose White.
But most of all – beyond the bleach and incense – they were hit by the recognisable and unforgettable festering reek of decaying flesh, so pungent it permeated the grey tracksuit bottoms which blocked the gap and lingered in their nostrils. And once you have smelled death, the stench never leaves you.
Having forced the door, the spare-room was as Tony had left it, a treasure trove of irrefutable evidence connecting him to the crime to the victim; on the table were spare bin-bags, a roll of duct-tape, some scissors, a pair of Marigold gloves and carefully positioned on the red rug - neatly wrapped, sealed and with the tools of her dissection placed on top - lay the headless and limbless torso of Elizabeth Valad.
The hacksaw held jagged nicks of flesh, the knives were still bloodstained, luminol confirmed the areas of death, dismemberment and disposal and the only fingerprints found were the victims and Tony’s.
The next day, the search expanded to the canal, landfill and the neighbouring estate, where in a green council bin on Plender Street, an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot was found. Brigette MacLennan was identified by her DNA and Elizabeth Valad by the serial-numbers of her breast implants. And although an exhaustive search was conducted, their hands of heads remained missing.
Tony was the Police’s prime suspect. With one of London’s largest man-hunts set-up, the newspapers were given his photo and a description, and – knowing his reliance on medication for his depression and diabetes – St Pancras and St Luke’s hospitals were alerted, but they had already missed him.
Tony was gone. Having lived for a decade as an invisible vagrant on London’s streets, it wasn’t difficult for him to vanish without trace. He slept rough, ate hot meals in charity-run kitchens, had those forty-four lurid photos of Liz and Brigette’s corpses developed in a local lab, and having shaved off his beard - less to evade the Police and more to avoid a public lynching – his days were spent reading the trashy tabloids who slathered over the grisly details of his murders, dubbing him with a series of luridly salacious names, whether the King’s Cross Killer, the Camden Slasher or the “Bin Bag Maniac”.
Tony knew his moment of infamy was soon, very soon... but until then, he would wait.
In the mid-afternoon of Thursday 2nd January 2003, Mike Burrowes, an off-duty policeman was sitting with his son in the wood-panelled smoking room at Great Ormond Street hospital, when he spotted a large stout man in a shin-length coat, a black NY cap, a loud shirt and a set of amusing socks, smoking and reading the newspaper. Mike whispered “You see him? Doesn’t that look like the bin-bag man?”.
And that was it. Security was alerted, the Police arrived and upon his arrest (although many articles falsely claimed that he fought his way out, with one constable losing an eye and another stabbed, in truth) he was calm and polite. The wait was over, his moment had come and as the officers led him away, Tony grinned and said “I hear they’ve given me a name. They’re calling me... The Ripper”. (End)
Taken to Colindale Police Station and questioned by DS Alan Bostock and DCI Ken Ball, their evidence against him was irrefutable but their focus was more humane. When the DCI asked “I want to recover the heads, not for me, for the families. What can you do for me Tony?” Being a sadist with a hatred of authority and a need to furnish his myth, as he did with every question, Tony replied “no comment”.
On Tuesday 25th November 2003, at The Old Bailey, 52-year-old Anthony John Hardy pleaded guilty to the brutal murders of Sally Rose White, Elizabeth Selina Valad and Bridgette Cathy MacLennan, and was sentenced to three life sentences. In May 2010, this was extended to a whole life tariff.
No-one knows why Tony pleaded guilty. It’s unlikely he did it to spare the families the agony of hearing the evidence. More likely, is that with an insatiable press perched in the gallery, he knew the little they heard, the more a mystique would surround this infamous British serial-killer known as The Camden Ripper, as he entered the notorious pantheon of sickening sadists alongside his own eponymous hero.
Very little has been written about his case, a public inquiry requested by Liz’s family was dismissed by the Home Office, and although the supposedly “accidental death” of Sally Rose White was overruled and the pathologist Dr Freddy Patel was dismissed, the most conclusive public review of this case was into the treatment of Anthony Hardy, as a mental health patient under the care of Camden Council.
Held at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison and later transferred to HMP Frankland, he sought a biographer to write his story, he asked Christie’s to auction his macabre souvenirs and he even requested (in the belief that a chilling waxwork of himself would be made) that his clothes should to be sent to Madame Tussauds so his effigy could stand in the Chamber of Horrors, next to Dr Crippen and Reg’ Christie.
On 26th November 2020, Anthony John Hardy died of sepsis in prison. His face is hardly known, his crimes are rarely discussed, there are very few biographies or documentaries in his name, and (having died two weeks earlier) his demise was usurped by a vastly more infamous serial-killer, The Yorkshire Ripper. So, as much as he craved infamy, alive or dead, The Camden Ripper has been almost forgotten.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
That was the final part of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper and the final episode of Murder Mile for 2020. Across the next eight to ten weeks I shall be researching the new season and I hope to return at the end of February 2021. But if you’d like to know more about this case, stay tuned for some extra tit-bits, as well as a quiz, a biccie and a final cup of tea with me.
Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nick Ashworth, Dawn Ackrill and Natasha Terner-Swift, I thank you very much, I hope you liked your goodies and that you’ll enjoy the new goodies which all Patreon subscribers will be receiving in January and February. Ooh. Plus a thank you to Lucy Barr and Darren De Rosa for your very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop, I thank you, I have spent in on booze. And a hello to my boaty neighbour Heather who I bumped into the other day. Only you know where I am currently moored-up for Christmas, so keep it a secret.
Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
Thank you for listening and sleep well.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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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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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