Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #124: Signed in Blood (The Deadly Dilemma of Amarjit Chohan) – Part One
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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 TWENTY-FOUR:
This is part one of a two-part episode. Today’s episode is about Amarjit Chohan; a loving father, a devoted husband and a loyal businessman. Being successful both at home and at work, although he lived for business, he loved his family above all. But when a deal went bad, Amarjit would be forced into a deadly dilemma.
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 CIBA Freight Services UK in Southall, the business owned by Amarjit Chohan and where he was last seen alive is marked with a lime green cross. 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 knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
This episode is primarily based on news articles, some of which are below.
Trouble Brewin - A True Story of Sex, Murder, Love and Betrayal by Belinda Brewin
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
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 and beyond the West End.
Today’s episode is about Amarjit Chohan; a loving father, a devoted husband and a very successful entrepreneur, who he lived for business but loved his family above all. But when a lucrative deal went bad, Amarjit would be forced into a deadly dilemma.
Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 124: Signed in Blood (The Deadly Dilemma of Amarjit Chohan) – Part One
Today I’m standing on the Market Trading Estate in Southall, TW5; one mile west of the suicide of child-rapist Arnis Zalkalns, three miles south of the deadly drugs trial at Northwick Park Hospital, and just two miles north-west of the family home of Amarjit Chohan – coming very soon to Murder Mile.
Situated off the busy M4 motorway and under hectic Heathrow flightpath, the Market Trading Estate is an industrial complex full of cash n carry’s, car washes and warehouses. Laid in a T-shaped cul-de-sac, it’s flanked by fifteen brown-brick and grey-steel warehouses, with roller-shuttered stockrooms on the ground, office space above and outside a hive of forklifts stacking pallets of goods into trucks.
The only difference between this and any other trading estate is that – being a place where many fruit-and-veg empires bloom, and the Mango Mogul, Kumquat Queen and Prince of the Quinces reigns supreme – past the mangled mopeds and dodgy Datsuns often sits a boss’s Bentley. Shiny-bright and bird-poo free, many have personalised plates like ‘K1W1’ (with 1’s instead of I’s), ‘MANG0’ (only with a zero), ‘CHERR135’ (ending 135) and - for those who deals are less fruitful, if you’ll pardon the pun – ‘BANANAS’ (which features no letters what-so-ever, just an 8, three 3’s, a 5 and some badly bent 7’s).
These are business-to-business distributors, where deals in dates are done by the tonne and tamarinds are shipped by the truckload. They do sell bananas, but should you wish to buy a bunch, expect to be pitied and patted on the head, laughed-at and lampooned, or advised to “shop elsewhere” and that “you are frivolous squanderer of time” whose “father is unknown” – or some such variation there-of.
Back in 2003, Units 7-8 were occupied by CIBA Freight, a specialist importer of Kenyan and Ugandan foods which was co-owned by Amarjit Singh; a man who exuded entrepreneurial spirit but remained humble, kind and polite. Through hard-work, he had built a great life for himself and his family, but when a business deal went sour, his skills in negotiation would make the difference life and death.
As it was here, on Thursday 13th February 2003, that Amarjit Chohan left for a business meeting. He was never seen ever again... and yet, his last days alive would be the toughest of his life. (Interstitial)
It is said that a humble man is often born out of humble beginnings.
Amarjit Singh Chohan was born in the Punjab of India on the 5th March 1957. With imperialist British rule having ceased, its once-bounteous lands all raped and plundered, and India now independent but also part of the Commonwealth, once Britain was gone, the aftershocks of our tyranny would remain with the people of India and Pakistani for decades (and almost certainly centuries) to come. A nation was fractured, as religions split and pitted Hindus against Muslims against Christians against Sikhs.
Amarjit was raised amid a turbulent time of terrorism, civil war and famine. And although today, India is one of the fastest growing nations, with bribery and corruption endemic (having adopted many-a-bad practices from its former Colonial masters) the economy was paralysed as disease ran rampant.
But as a Sikh, even in his own homeland, Amarjit was not safe. Following the annexation of Sikhism in 1973 and the assassination of Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by her own Sikh bodyguards, this escalated an already-fervent hostility against Sikhs, as well as igniting persecution, riots and slaughter. It was never said why Amarjit left India, but his safety was certainly a serious enough reason to flee.
In the early 1980s, being barely thirty, Amarjit moved to the UK. Like many immigrants, there is very little evidence about his early life in England, but being educated and skilled, he survived by hard work.
With a thick mop of jet-black hair on his chubby round face, accentuated by arched eyebrows and a thick broad moustache, Amarjit was the epitome of pleasant - a man who was good inside and out. And although he had an insatiable drive to thrive and a desire to never be poor, he was always humble.
A bad businessman often ‘wears his wealth’ - dressed in a shiny-suits so slick when they ‘switch in the smarm’ they ooze right out of it, with wrists jangling in chunky ‘gold’ chains (cast from tin which turns green as they sweat) and with Bluetooth earpieces forever flashing from their lugholes (even though they haven’t done a hard day’s work since the dole office opened) - but this was not Amarjit.
Amarjit was a down-to-earth man who dressed casually in trousers, a shirt and a jumper. His business style was easy but savvy. He was never Mr Chohan, always Anil or Neil. Everyone who worked for him, liked him. And being a Sikh, he didn’t drink, do drugs or gamble, but he did get his thrills from business.
Even at his most affluent, he lived in a modest little bungalow not far from his warehouse and he drove a five-year old blue Ford Escort, an economical little runabout with enough seats for his family.
His life was not totally blameless. When his first marriage failed, being unable to divorce owing to his faith and affairs frowned-upon, he would live bigamously but continued to support his wife and family. In 1996, with a reckless streak and habit for cutting corners, having been sentenced to three years in prison for tax evasion, he was released after eighteen months and swore to always do better.
In August 2000 - having found his rock - 47-year-old Amarjit married 25-year-old Nancy, and although half his age, within three years, together they would build a business empire and a happy loving family.
Amarjit had come from nothing, but through hard graft and raw grit, he became a success; a respected businessman, a loving husband, a doting father and very humble millionaire. His life was good...
...but by February 2003, everything would be taken from him, in the stroke of a pen. (Interstitial)
On 9th August 2000, with his wife Nancy as co-director, Amarjit opened CIBA Freight Services UK at a double-wide warehouse on the Market Trading Estate. Being close to Heathrow Airport and the Asian and African communities of Hounslow, it was the perfect location to import fruits, such as bananas, passion fruit, jackfruit and mangoes, but also papaya, pawpaw, mongogo, devil’s claw and even khat – a mildly hallucinogenic narcotic, banned in Europe and the USA but legal in the UK, which predates coffee and tobacco but is a common and popular stimulant among the Somali community. With his business booming, within three years, CIBA Freight had an annual turnover of £4.5million per year.
That same year, following the birth of their first son Ravinder, Amarjit & Nancy moved into a bungalow at 35 Sutton Road in Heston; a very modest single-floored, four-roomed house in a lower middle-class suburb. It was practical and simply decorated but with no extravagances. And unlike many homes in the area, there were no tacky stone tigers standing guard, no fake Doric columns beside the door, and no super-shiny over-waxed Beamer or Merc’ glistening on the drive, just a cheap blue Ford Escort.
This didn’t look like the home of a millionaire with a thriving import firm, a bulging bank account and (as landlord) a portfolio of five properties worth £2.5million. But then again, that was the whole point. The family lived simply and safely; they had everything they needed but they were never without.
In December 2002, being a full-time mum to a boisterous three-year-old, Nancy gave birth to a second son, a little cheeky-faced angel called Devinder. To Amarjit – whose own parents and siblings seem to have been oddly absent in his life - his new family was everything, and at the centre of it all was Nancy.
As a Punjabi Sikh, even though her blood-family lived on opposite sides of the world, with her mother (Charanjit Kaur Pan) in India and her brother (Onker Verma) in New Zealand, distance meant nothing. In late January 2003 - as Nancy was unable to fly home to India, as having applied for British Citizenship her passport was held by the Home Office - Charanjit flew four-thousand miles to be by her daughter’s side, and every day without fail - sometimes two-or-three times-a-day - Nancy phoned her brother, as he and his family were due to arrive on the 18th February, to see his nephew and support his sister.
Encased in a protective family bubble, although Amarjit was a slightly nervous man who kept his cards close to his chest, he knew he could rest easy knowing his family were safe. So, with extra mouths to feed and two sons who he hoped – one day - would inherit his empire, Amarjit was looking to expand.
Always pushing to do better, as a savvy businessman and a shrewd negotiator, Amarjit had a keen ear for a golden opportunity and always on the look-out for a good deal, his eyes were always open.
In 2002, one such deal came up, and that is how he met a businessman called Kenneth Avery.
Introduced to Amarjit by Michael Parr, one of his partners who co-owned CIBA Freight, as a trained HGV driver Kenneth Avery had begun working for Amarjit and the two men had become friendly.
Being four years his senior, a lot of similarities could be seen between Amarjit and Kenneth; both were roughly the same age, both were a little chubby, both came from modest working-class roots and as two men who always dreamed big, they both had a burning desire to take risks and reap the rewards.
Looking less like a hard-nosed trader and more-akin to a second-hand car-dealer, Kenneth was a pale, fat and jowly man, with fair-hair on top and grey clumps along the sides, and being dressed in casual jeans and an old rugby-top, his modest look matched Amarjit’s. And hardly a spring-chicken himself, being in his early fifties, he was clearly keen to learn from his new pal, and still hungry to succeed.
In January 2003, Kenneth had a money-making deal he knew that Amarjit would love. Aided by an old friend, Belinda Brewin – an elegant and successful PR exec’ with a solid reputation and some serious celebrity clout – Kenneth proposed a £3 million deal to build a McDonald’s franchise at Hatton Cross, a key-location between Heathrow Airport, Fleet Motorway Services and the Great South-West Road.
Sadly, the deal collapsed, owing to planning permission. But Amarjit wasn’t unnerved. Not every deal was a success, but seeing that (like himself) Kenneth Avery was not averse to cutting a few corners – unlike so many other supposed businessmen - Amarjit could see that Kenneth wasn’t full of hot-air.
Being a gruff impatient man, Kenneth was bitterly disappointed having potentially lost millions...
...but undaunted by the deal, he knew that – very soon - his pay-day would come.
The morning of Thursday 13th February 2003 was as regular as any other. As devout Sikhs, the Chohan family awoke a few hours before dawn, and they bathed and prayed before sitting down to breakfast. Their bungalow was busier than usual, as Charanjit (Nancy’s mother) wasn’t due to leave for two more weeks, but – as a softly-spoken 51-year-old teacher who was never without her holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib – she was a calming influence on a modest home with a new baby and an excitable boy.
At roughly 8am, dressed casually in a navy-blue jumper, black trousers, socks and shoes, Amarjit kissed his wife and kids, popped on a coat as it was cold and hopped into his blue Ford Escort. It was a dull cloudy day, and with the traffic on Heston Road being busy, it took twenty minutes to drive to Southall.
At 8:30am, he parked-up in his regular spot, outside of CIBA Freight. A forklift was unloading a truck in the loading-bay, as fruit and veg needs a fast and careful turnaround to ensure its freshness. Amarjit entered the first-floor mezzanine which overlooked the warehouse; he greeted his staff, checked his post and casually told his co-partner Michael Parr “I'm off to do a deal”, but gave very few details.
This was not unusual as Amarjit was often secretive, a risk-taker who (some said) ran his company chaotically, but no-one ever queried this as the business was booming and _above all - he was the boss. Always seeking new ventures, he would often disappear for hours and even days on end, but he could always be contacted on his mobile; replying in English to his staff and in Punjabi to his wife.
Nothing else was said about the meeting, except that Kenneth had secured a “possible buyer for the company”, the meeting was “now” and the buyer was “Dutch”. Only that wasn’t Amarjit’s only secret, as although he was wealthy on paper, being in serious financial trouble (for whatever reason) and had syphoned off £50,000 from the business to his own account, using three company cheques.
At roughly 9am, Amarjit left CIBA Freight, but from that point onwards, the details get rather vague.
With a licence-plate of S840 LJH, a network of traffic cameras would later track his blue Ford Escort travelling 76 miles, at a steady pace, across the next 1 hour and 20 minutes. He exited the Hayes Road at Bull’s Bridge, travelled south along The Parkway, south-west on the M4 and M3, joined the A303 at North Waltham in Wiltshire, but being a rural area, the cameras lost him somewhere near Stonehenge.
The exact time and place of Amarjit’s meeting with the Dutch buyer is unknown; as he didn’t own a diary, he didn’t tell his staff, and although he and Nancy had texted on-route, their messages (written in Punjabi) were loving but nothing special, just the standard reminders between husband and wife.
As for what we do know, the details may seem odd, but either Amarjit was unfazed or desperate.
It is unknown why he agreed to meet a stranger somewhere as secluded as a lane near Stonehenge - the infamous Neolithic monument of two vertical rings of 25-tonne stones – but having travelled from Holland, the ‘Dutch buyer’ may have been sightseeing? Perhaps the buyer had relatives or was staying in a hotel nearby? Or maybe this was just a recognisable place to meet before moving on? All we do know is that - wherever they met - it was isolated and remote, as no-one witnessed Amarjit or his car.
At an unknown time, possibly in-or-around 10:30 or 11am, a white transit van pulled up. Again, this may seem suspicious, as why should a potential buyer of a multi-million-pound business empire arrive at a meeting in a locally-rented van with the hire company’s name and number down the side? But then again, maybe as an importer, the Dutch buyer had made a few purchases to take back to Holland? And besides, Amarjit’s modest little motor was hardly the stylish wheels of a wealthy tycoon?
Stranger meetings have happened, but for every odd detail, Amarjit must have seen a logical reason...
...except the deal didn’t exist, the buyer wasn’t Dutch and this wasn’t a meeting, it was an ambush.
(Fuzziness) Drugged with a rag soaked in Gamma-Hydroxybutyric, the date-rape drug known as GHB, as a devout Sikh who religion didn’t permit him to drink, do drugs or stimulants like coffee or tobacco, the effect on Amarjit was instant, as his body was rendered silent and motionless by the intoxicant.
With his face, hands and feet tied with brown parcel tape, Amarjit was slung in the back of the van by two men, maybe three; with one definitely driving, another in the back and maybe one following in his Ford Escort. Maybe they were masked, or maybe they weren’t? Maybe they were armed, or maybe not? Maybe he knew them, or possibly not? He didn’t know, but he knew none of them were Dutch.
Driven cautiously, the white van and blue Ford crawled 6.2 miles south along the isolated field-flanked roads from Stonehenge, down the quiet A360 to South Newton; a quaint little village surrounded by a few sparse farms, thousands of acres of crops and a single solitary pub - an odd choice for a hideout.
Both vehicles then entered Forge Close, a small L-shaped cul-de-sac with two cottages on either side, allotments behind and at the end stood a small terraced bungalow made of brown bricks and white sills with a neat little lawn - the kind of place an elderly widower might retire to live out his final days.
With barely enough space, the van reversed along the side wall of the bungalow to the left and parking close to the side gate, in broad daylight, the doped tied hostage was dragged inside by the three men.
As a kidnapper’s safe house, 3 Forge Close looked harmless, being a small assisted living space with a bedroom, a kitchenette and a sitting-room with a telly, an armchair, slippers to one side and on a side table, a few photos, some bills and a copy of the Racing Post. Like Amarjit’s own home, it was humble, but he didn’t know its owner - Roy Regen, an elderly widower who had lived there for forty years and supplemented his pension by working as a cleaner at Salisbury train station – and he never would.
...but he did know Roy’s son.
Of the three kidnappers, Amarjit didn’t recognise William Horncy known as ‘Bill’; a small sickly-looking 52-year-old with a receding hairline and a vacant stare. He thought he knew Peter Douglas Rees, a 38-year-old with a crap moustache and a bad mullet, having previously adopted a Dutch accent on the phone and laid the mezzanine floor at CIBA Freight, just a few weeks before. But the main man Amarjit definitely recognised was his friend and potential business partner – Kenneth Avery.
Only Avery wasn’t Avery. His real name was Kenneth Roy Regen. He was a bad man with a bad name and a very bad temper, who had earned his fearsome reputation and ill-gotten fortune as a forger, a conman, a drug-smuggler and (as Hampshire Police believed but could never prove) a very violent and sadistic killer. But having lost the lot – over the last two years he had learned everything he needed to know about Amarjit’s life, work and finances - he wanted it all and he wouldn’t stop until he got it.
Still drugged, with one of Amarjit’s wrists secured to the floral armchair, before him on a small coffee table lay a pen and a stack of blank sheets of headed paper emblazoned with the logo of CIBA Freight. Pointing, Kenneth barked “Sign them”, but with his mouth muffled by parcel tape, Amarjit refused.
“No” was not a word that Kenneth liked to hear, so without warning, Amarjit was violently beaten, as a fast volley of fists pummelled his head and face. With the curtains closed, the kidnapper’s assault had some privacy, but with allotments behind and the bungalow’s walls wafer-thin, he had to be quiet.
“Sign them” Kenneth growled as his hostage bled, but with his director’s signature on a stack of blank sheets of CIBA Freight paper, Amarjit knew that Kenneth could do anything to his business. Everything he had worked for would be gone, but this wasn’t about his present, it was about his family’s future.
Amarjit knew how to negotiate with businessmen, but this was different, and as much as he struggled and refused - “Sign them!” - over the next few hours and into the next day, the beatings continued.
Kenneth knew how to break him – with drugs, beatings and threats – only without a signature, he knew he’d have nothing. But being both a psychopath and a sociopath, Kenneth Regen had overlooked a small (and he thought) insignificant little detail which was irrelevant to his plan – Amarjit’s wife.
(Phone ringing) Several times she had texted, but got no reply. Calling his mobile, it went to voicemail. And with day becoming night becoming day, hearing no news, a frantic Nancy called Michael Parr, his partner at CIBA Freight. Rightfully panicked and anxious, unable to reassure her that “he’s probably fine, you know Anil”, he called the one man he knew Amarjit had said he was with... Kenneth Regen.
The plan had changed. “Say it!”. He still needed his signature but first he needed his voice. “Say it!” If this failed, the Police could be called and arrests would be made. “Say it!” So, armed with his own phone, Kenneth sped back from Wiltshire to Southall, and to the little bungalow of Nancy Chohan.
In the sitting-room, as Charanjit tried to get the two screaming boys to sleep, Kenneth reassured Nancy that everything was fine; Amarjit was good, the deal with the Dutch went well, very well in fact, so he had popped over to the Holland to seal the deal, but his phone was playing up. Nancy didn’t believe a word of this, so Kenneth pulled out his phone and proved it. The message was unmistakably Amarjit - (Voicemail) “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay. I’ll be back tomorrow” – he sounded well and chirpy.
As Nancy burst into tears, less through worry and more through exhaustion and relief, with his victim’s wife now pacified, Kenneth drove back to Wilshire... and once again, it was back to business. “Sign it!”
For two days, Amarjit was beaten, drugged and starved. Weakened by exhaustion and with GHB making him euphoric, even at his most vulnerable, he continued to resist. “Sign it!”
But sometimes, the simplest of torture methods can be the most brutal.
With his ankles and wrists tied to the armchair and a red scarf gagging his voice, the brown parcel tape was wound tightly around the front and back of his head. Only, the thick plastic film didn’t just cover his chin, his lips and his cheeks, it covered his eyes and formed a seal right across his nose too. Unable to pull it off or inhale a single breath, this brown plastic mask rapidly bulged and dented, pulsing in sharp hot bursts as he struggled for air, as the rest of the tape’s reel dangling at the back of his head.
Each time he passed-out, Kenneth awoke him, and did it again, and again, and again. As in Kenneth’s mind, this business empire wasn’t Amarjit’s, it was his... and the signature was only paperwork. (End)
For Nancy, the recorded message had brought her a little comfort, as that night, she was able to sleep, even if it was just for a bit. But as she began to calm down and to rationalise the events of the day, there were a few details which only the wife of Amarjit Chohan would know didn’t make any sense.
If her husband’s phone had stopped working, why didn’t he use Kenneth’s to call her? If Kenneth had an audio message from her husband, why didn’t he send it electronically, instead of driving 80 miles to hand-deliver it? He had told all the staff at CIBA Freight that Amarjit had flown to Holland to seal the deal, but Nancy knew that wasn’t possible, as he would never leave the country without telling her first, and with her application for British Citizenship still being considered, Amarjit’s passport was held by the Home Office - he couldn’t leave the country if he tried. And finally, that message - “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay. I’ll be back tomorrow” – although the voice was definitely Amarjit’s, the words were not, as with English not being her first language, they always communicated in Punjabi.
Nancy knew that something seriously wrong, she just didn’t know what.
In the sitting-room at Forge Close, exhausted from two days of beatings and torture, Amarjit remained stoic. As a shrewd businessman, even against someone as brutal and ruthless as Kenneth, he still knew how to play hardball, even when his odds looked bleak. By that point, there is no denying that Amarjit Chohan knew that he was going to die, but his death would leave him with a deadly dilemma – ‘give up his company and risk his family’s futures, or refuse to sign and risk their lives’? There was no way he would put his family in jeopardy, so the only way for Kenneth to win... was if it was signed in blood.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
The final part of Signed with Blood continues next week. As always, if you like tea, cake and waffle, as well as learning a few titbits about this case, please join me after the break. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may be your audio equivalent of what Eva is to me. Urgh!
A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom have received exclusive goodies, such as badges, stickers and key-rings, as well as Patron-only podcasts such as Walk With Me and Deadly Thoughts. Oooh. They are Kate Wakefield, Jo Wood, Laura Workinger-Harden and Cat Stewart. I thank you all.
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.
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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