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The former home of Teddy Sieff, and scene of Carlos the Jackal's first (badly bungled) assassination
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE:
Today’s episode is about Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat?
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.
The location of the Teddy's Sieff's former home at 48 Queen's Grove (and where Carlos the Jackal committed his first failed assassination is marked with a light purple 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.
SOURCES: To name but a few...
https://www.nytimes.com/1975/07/05/archives/basque-woman-is-linked-in-london-to-paris-mystery.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/carlos-held-after-20year-manhunt-scotland-yard-may-question-killer-who-is-said-to-have-been-behind-series-of-terrorist-attacks-in-london-1376671.html https://www.irishtimes.com/news/world-s-least-wanted-defendant-1.127090 https://www.theguardian.com/news/2001/feb/26/guardianobituaries https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-39421429 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2018/jan/22/lois-sieff-obituary https://www.thejc.com/news/uk-news/lois-sieff-wife-of-british-zionist-federation-vice-president-jospeh-sieff-dies-aged-94-1.451800 https://www.stjohnswoodmemories.org.uk/content/memories/crime_drama/carlos_the_jackal https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/carlos-the-jackal-faces-new-trial-over-terrorist-attacks-in-france-6258237.html https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Fl88AgAAQBAJ&pg=PA125&lpg=PA125&dq=Teddy+Sieff+Carlos+the+Jackal&source=bl&ots=Mg9Zr14II6&sig=ACfU3U0EfPwhg3e_4bq4ej3yvCAoiYy3IA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjN6_vRpbXnAhVYRxUIHa5GA54Q6AEwCHoECAoQAQ#v=onepage&q=Teddy%20Sieff&f=false https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4308544/Carlos-Jackal-blows-kisses-dock-tirade.html MUSIC:
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 Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat? 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 129: Carlos the Jackal (or Jackass?) Today I’m standing on Queen’s Grove, in St John’s Wood, NW1; three streets north of the elementary murder of William Raven, two streets west of the home of the fallen police hero Jack Avery, four streets north-east of the severed torso of Hannah Brown, and a few bus-stops north from (possibly) one of the first unsolved murders by the Blackout Ripper – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated north of Regent’s Park, Queen’s Grove is posh, very posh. With the average house priced at £3.2 million and with some selling upwards of eight. Many have nine bedrooms, five bathrooms and two kitchens - all for just two people, with not a smile between them – as well as a sitting-room, a drawing-room, a sketching room, an etching room and a doodling room, with a pantry (possibly where they keep their pants), a scullery (to store the skulls of dead servants), a winery (where they whinge about posh things), and they don’t own a telly over fifty inches, as that’s ‘unseemly’ and ‘vulgar’. As a very quiet and private street - far from anything as uncouth as a corner-shop or a vape emporium - with walled and gated homes on either side, this is not the sort of area you might see youths playing footie, unsavoury types imbibing a reefer or spot a set of Ugg boots (perish the thought). No, anyone seen chatting over the back-fence is more likely to be the hired help gossiping while the master’s out. Scandal does happen here; whether affairs with the nanny, an occasional dead butler, or a billion quid syphoned-off to Bermuda, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place where a terrorist cuts his teeth. On the corner of St John’s Wood Road sits 48 Queen’s Grove; a two storey, thirty-roomed house, made of brown bricks, white Doric columns and secured by tall trees, thick walls and a wrought iron gate. Since the 1950’s, this was the family home of Joseph Edward Sieff. As a beloved businessman and a heartfelt humanitarian, Teddy was a good man who dedicated his life to helping others, and asked for nothing in return. Not money, not a name, nor anything as crass as celebrity or fame. And yet, having been placed on a terrorist’s kill-list, his life was spared by the incompetence of his would-be killer. As it was here, Sunday 30th December 1973, in a bid to build his reputation, that Carlos the Jackal would attempt his first murder... only to royally balls-it-up, just as he always would. (Interstitial). It’s easy to create a legend, if you gloss over the failures and mistakes of the truly inept... ‘Carlos the Jackal’ was born Ilich Ramírez Sánchez on 12th October 1949 in Michelena, an affluent rural town on the western border of Venezuela, to a loving mother but an overbearing father. Professing to be a Communist, all three sons were named after Vladimir Ilyich Lenin - founder of the Soviet Union. But in truth, as a wealthy lawyer living a privileged life, he was little more than a ‘champagne socialist’. Raised in a Marxist ideology while whole-heartedly quaffing the fragrant fruits of their Capitalist spoils, Ilich adopted these principles – being keen for his father’s attention - and therefore this duality stuck. Aged 10, when this little boy should have been climbing trees, Ilich joined the Venezuelan Communist Party. Aged 15, he organised anti-government demonstrations for the Venezuelan Communist Youth League. Aged 17, he attended the anti-imperial Tricontinental Conference in Havana, and was (allegedly) trained in guerrilla combat tactics at Camp Matanzas. And although the Cold War world crept closer to Armageddon and possible annihilation, a greater conflict was fought closer to home. In 1966, his parents divorced. Jose, his father wanted Ilich to stay in Venezuelan and remain a Marxist, but Elba, as a good mother, wanted a better life for her boys and moved to West London. Ilich had only ever read about the decadent excesses of Capitalist West, but now he was living it and loving it. His new life was affluent but stable. He lived with his mother and brothers in a flat on the prosperous Kensington High Street. As a bad Marxist, he was educated privately at Stafford House College and later at the London School of Economics, where his teachers described him as cocky, brash and rude. Being obsessed with spy thrillers, Ilich would sit transfixed at the cinema watching Dr No, From Russian With Love, Goldfinger and Thunderball, all the while dreaming of being James Bond; dressed in a sharp suit, driving a fast car, swigging Boulenger, blowing shit up and making whoopie with a lovely lady. So, looking like a tall fat Austin Powers, Ilich drank, partied and royally shagged his way across London. As the crow flies, he was only five thousand miles from homeland, but after just two years of western excesses, this arrogant little playboy was a million miles from his father’s ideal as a Marxist-Leninist. In 1969, Jose sought to rectify this by enrolling Ilich at the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, a radical hotbed of foreign Communists, named after the assassinated Congolese leader. But loving too much his life as a low-rent lothario who dined like a decadent dandy, one year later, Ilich was expelled. Feeling a failure, in July 1970, Ilich joined the PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), an anti-Zionist terror group who drew attention to the plight of their occupied lands through high-profile hijackings, bombings and assassinations. Trained in terrorism, it was here that Ilich was given the first part of his infamous nickname. Not in tribute to a fallen hero, as many of his fellow fighters found him lazy and aloof, but surrounded by Arabs, they called him Carlos to mock his South-American roots. In 1971, following the Black September uprising and the bombing of the Palestinian camps, co-leader of the PFLP, Wadi Haddad ordered Carlos back to London to set-up a European base, which he did... ...sort of. Seen as a cocktail party swinger, Carlos returned to his playboy life; boozing, schmoozing and bedding left-leaning ladies, who hid his stash of cash, false passports and illegal weapons. Along with his love of Bond films, in 1971, he read Frederick Forsythe’s ‘The Day of the Jackal’, a thriller about an infamous assassin - which many readers mistakenly believe is about him, but it isn’t, and he rarely denies it. By 1972, owing to his link to the PFLP, an MI5 surveillance unit watched his movements, but this West End wonder-lush didn’t exactly exude the angry rhetoric of a radical terrorist; he drank, shagged and looked a little edgy on a visit to St George’s hospital, where an optician prescribed a pair of dark glasses to curb his sensitivity to bright lights – a distinctive look which would later become his trademark. For his first solo mission, he delivered machine guns to the fanatical Japanese Red Army, and although he claimed he took part in the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre, he didn’t. Carlos was nothing, a driver and a bag man with a mixed-up ideology, who the PFLP had no hope for, and MI5 had misplaced. Carlos wanted to be infamous, a celebrity and a legend... ...but that’s impossible to achieve when you’ve done diddly-squat. Where-as Teddy had a well-earned reputation through excellence, hard-graft and generosity. Born on the 28th November 1905, Joseph Edward Sieff, known as Teddy was one of two sons to Effraim & Sarah, a highly respected couple from affluent Jewish families. In contrast to Israel, his much-bolder brother, Teddy was a sweet, softly-spoken and sensitive man who many described as a ‘quiet shadow’. Educated at the prestigious Manchester Grammar School, alongside his brother, he befriended Simon Marks, son of the co-founder of Marks & Spencer’s and the three went into business together. In 1933, with Israel as joint managing-director, Teddy played a key role as the store’s merchandise developer. But he never let his wealth, class or seniority dictate how he spoke to those below him, as in keeping with its founder’s motto - “if the canteen is good enough for the staff, it’s good enough for the bosses” - for that, even as he was promoted company chairman, the staff would always love and respect him. In 1929, Teddy married Maisie, the love-of-his-life and together they raised two daughters. Everything was perfect, but after more than twenty years of wedded bliss, Maisie died, leaving Teddy a widower. And although distraught, as a doting father, Teddy strived to keep some semblance of normality during such a turbulent time in his children’s lives, as well as finding love and filling a lonely hole in his heart. In 1952, he met Lois Ross; that same year they married, they had a son, and two years later, his family moved into the affluence of a well-protected home at 48 Queen’s Grove, and there they remained. By 1972, aged 67, with a mop of white hair, his voice like a polite whisper and his sweet face softened further by a set of owl-like glasses, this ‘quiet shadow’ had earned his retirement. Still mourning the death of his brother, Teddy handed the company to Israel’s son, but remained as company president. And although, with their children all grown-up and married-off, Teddy & Lois often rattled round their 30-roomed house, his twilight years gave him more time to devote to his true passion – charity. Teddy always had a big heart and deep pockets, not because he felt he had to, but because he cared. Typical of Teddy, following surgery in 1966, he donated £50,000 to aid the renovation of the hospital’s wing, he personally thanked every nurse and matron, and as an extra thank you to these NHS heroes (who weren’t paid particularly well) he gave them two week’s salary each out of his own pocket. But this was not an uncommon act of generosity for Teddy, who always thought of others before himself. Top of his philanthropic agenda was the plight of children, so using his influence, he helped to build primary schools, develop educational programmes and support humanitarian causes, especially in the volatility of the Middle East, as - when wars erupt - it’s always the young who are affected most. As a Jew, who strived to fight anti-Semitism his whole life, this ‘quiet shadow’ gave a powerful voice to the poor and helpless, as honorary vice-president of the Zionists Federation and chairman of the Joint Palestine Appeal, who in a single evening, helped raise $2.5 million for humanitarian causes. Outside of charity, he liked gardening, music and was patron of the arts. In 1971, he was named ‘Man of the Week’, and he would (rightfully) earn a reputation as a man who was successful and beloved. And although the seventies were a turbulent time for many, Teddy had no enemies... ...or so he thought. 1973 was a year of violence. With the eruption of the Arab/Israeli war, world trade slowed to a crawl by an oil embargo and – miles from the hotly-contested promised land of Israel – cities were crippled in fear as terrorist groups like the PFLP launched hijackings, bombings and assassinations. For many in the West, this overseas skirmish was more of a “their problem, not ours”, and although the tragic scenes on the news were sad, for the viewers, it was ‘out of sight, out of mind”. The PFLP knew this, so to force our dithering leaders into action, they brought terrorism to the British streets. Turning all the peaceful streets into the potential sight of a bloodbath, as armed police patrolled; every bin was searched, every bag was checked, every package was scrutinised, and even good neighbours were seen with suspicion, as the bomb factories of the politically deranged emerged next door. In October 1973, Sir John Cohen, the founder of Tesco’s empire Had warned Teddy that he was one of thirty prominent Jewish businessmen who were on a ‘death list’ by the PFLP. Scotland Yard were notified, tensions were high, and every possible target was on the lookout for suspicious packages, as that month, three booby-trapped fire-bombs had exploded outside several Marks & Spencer’s stores. Terrorism was the hot topic on everybody’s lips, and with the newspapers baying for a James Bond-style assassin who was suave, daring and brave, Carlos was eager to be seen as a ‘celebrity terrorist’... ...the problem was, he was inept. The evening of Sunday 30th December 1973 was the epitome of foreboding, as a bitter icy wind howled and whipped dead leaves down the desolate streets of St John’s Wood. Darkness bathed every brick in black and bare trees loomed large like Satan’s own shadow, as Death walked into Queen’s Grove. Just shy of 7pm, a lone man stood below the unlit street light outside of 48, his frame and his features disguised, as - with Britain in the grip of a miner’s strike - many lights were off, both inside and out. But standing six-foot-two inches tall and sturdily built, this stranger was hardly inconspicuous; as with black leather gloves that creaked with each crinkle and military boots that clomped like Frankenstein’s monster, the round little baby-face of 24-year-old Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was masked by the fur-lined hood of his green Army parka, his scarf (as red as a Communist’s flag) and the thick black rims of his trademark glasses. So, lucky for him, being a typical British winter, he didn’t look too foolish or sinister. In his pocket, he held a gun; a Russian-made Tokarev 7.62mm pistol fitted with a clip of eight rounds. As an assassin’s tool, it was fine. As a plus, it was pocket-sized, the recoil was short and the explosion was quiet, but on the downside, the aim was terrible, it lacked power and it was prone to jamming. I mean, hidden in a bag at his girlfriend’s flat was an-arsenal of arms to choose from, including a British-made Browning HP MK1, a reliable high-power semi-automatic pistol, with two-to-three times the bullet capacity. But being a ‘playboy Marxist’ with daddy issues, he opted for the Soviet Special. And, I guess it would be a little cruel to gloss over the fact that – in his hideaway – was stashed several grenades, a few pounds of explosives and a cache of spare bullets, he even had access (as we all do) to ropes, knives and a hammer. So, he could have had a back-up weapon, should anything go wrong? But he didn’t. It’s unknown whether this was confidence, cockiness or incompetence, as the murder of Teddy Sieff was meant to be the hit which he would make his name as a celebrity terrorist. And yet, he hadn’t got a getaway car and he didn’t have a plan; he was just going to walk-up, knock and shoot. What could possibly go wrong? At 7pm precisely, Carlos pulled open the black wrought-iron gate of 48 Queen’s Grove, walked the short unlit path to the Georgian mansion, and to the right of the black front door, he rang the doorbell. With a loaded pistol clutched in his fist, it would be an easy hit, as - unlike many other prominent Jews on the PFLP’s ‘death-list’ - his target had declined a Police guard, he was clearly in, and being a big-hearted philanthropist and a man-of-the-people, strangers were always welcome at his door. That was Carlos’ first mistake; Teddy Sieff was rich, and rich people never answer their own doors. Peeping round the black front door, Carlos was confronted by Manuel Perloira, the Sieff’s Portuguese butler. Thinking quick, before the hired help could slam it shut, he poked the pocket-sized pistol in the servant’s face, and in a heavily-accented voice growled “take me to Sieff”, which the Butler did. By 7:01pm, Carlos was in, but with his mission already messed-up, he had no plan of how to get out. Standing in the opulent reception of his target, for a brief second Carlos took at the artworks upon the walls (a Gainsborough, a Tiepolo and a Warhol), only he wasn’t here for a robbery, he was here to kill. So, jabbing the gun’s muzzle in the butler’s back, silently he frog-marched Manuel up the staircase, having ordered him to call to his master; “Sir? Mr Sieff? Could you come to the landing a second?” That was Carlos’ second mistake in as many minutes; as being so disliked by his fellow fighters, being forced to act as a lone assassin, he didn’t have a spare pair of hands when he needed it most. At 7:02pm, Teddy didn’t reply, instead his wife Lois did. But being in the midst of changing for dinner, she didn’t exit the bedroom where Teddy was, but her dressing-room directly opposite. So, seeing her butler being held hostage, she locked the door, telephoned the Police and the officers dispatched. At 7:03pm, perched behind his petrified prisoner, Carlos slunk into the master bedroom, but Teddy was nowhere to be seen and – hearing the distant wail of sirens - time was running out. “Call him!”, Carlos urged, forcing the butler to lure his target out into the open - “Sir? Mr Sieff? Are you there?” And he was, so as the door to the ensuite bathroom opened, the two men came face-to-face. It was no match; an armed assassin trained by the Iraqi military, and a half-dressed male in his late sixties, with thick spectacles, a bad back and a recurring heart problem. In short, Teddy was as good as dead. From less than a metre apart, the trigger was pulled, the muzzle exploded, the gun jerked back and in a short hot flash of fire, a round of burning lead hit Teddy squarely in the head. Instantly slumping down to the floor, Teddy lay unconscious and helpless, as blood poured and pooled from his pale face. As the sirens drew ever nearer, Carlos aimed the pistol at Teddy’s brain, one last shot to finish his target off, and having cemented his place in infamy, the celebrity of Carlos the Jackal would be born. But as it often did, the gun jammed... and with no back-up, no spare bullets and no time to unclog the chamber, by 7:04pm, Carlos had fled through the back door, just as the squad car arrived. It wasn’t perfect, but he was in and out in less than four minutes, his identity was hidden and his target is dead... ... or so he thought. Teddy was rushed to the Middlesex Hospital, and although he had been shot in his upper lip, the bullet was deflected by his teeth, missing his jugular vein, and lodging in his jaw. An operation successfully removed the bullet, he jokingly said he was saved by his “Milk Marketing Board teeth”, and a few days later, Teddy was released with nothing but a few small marks on his lip, which looked like a cold sore. Teddy lived a long and happy life, he died of natural causes in 1982, nine years after he was shot. The PFLP took full credit for this ineffectual shooting, and the career of Carlos the bungling terrorist had begun – with no-one knowing who would get hurt when this cack-handed twat was running amok. On 24th January 1974, he threw a bomb into Hapoalim Bank in the heart of London’s banking district; it bounced off the ceiling, smashed a bulb, no-one was killed, but it did make a small hole in the floor. On 3rd August 1974, he exploded three car-bombs in Paris, against two right wing newspapers and the offices of the Jewish Social Fund. The cars were wrecked, no-one was hurt, and their work resumed. On 15th September 1974, two grenades were thrown into a café in Paris, two people were killed, thirty were injured, and although he claimed it as his, Carlos has since denied he had anything to do with it. On the 13th January 1975, he fired two rocket-propelled grenades at an El Al airliner taking off at Orly Airport... only to miss it completely, and destroy a parked DC-9, an empty storage building and - as he tried to flee - he shattered the windscreen of his getaway car, owing to the recoil of the rocket. As an assassin, he has had some “successes”, but many of them have been through luck rather than skill. So, how did such an incompetent klutz become one of the world’s most infamous terrorists? (End) Simple, he was the right man in the right place at the right time; terrorism was hot, spy thrillers were all the rage, and the press wanted a suave dangerous playboy, who - unlike James Bond - was real. On 1st July 1975, a bag belonging to Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was found hidden in the top-floor flat of his friend, Angela Otaola. Inside, Police discovered several passports under six aliases, a consignment of C4 explosives, three guns (including the pistol used to shoot Teddy) and the ‘death-list’ of prominent Jews. For the press, this was front-page stuff, but the one detail they drooled over the most was that - inside his terrorist toolkit - he carried a copy of Frederick Forsyth’s thriller ‘The Day of the Jackal’. Three days later, the Police proclaimed Ilich as “one of the most cold-blooded and dangerous terrorist leaders in Europe...” - which is true, if you choose to ignore all of his mistakes, failures and blunders – citing him as highly regarded “because of his ruthless professionalism, like the hired killer in the novel ‘Day of the Jackal’”. After that, the press nicknamed him Carlos the Jackal and the rest is history. On 15th August 1994, Carlos was captured in Sudan and extradited to Paris. Aged 71, he’s serving a life sentence in Clairvaux prison for the murder of an informant and two counter-intelligence agents, plus an additional life term for killing eleven and injuring more than 150 people, although it is believed he may have murdered as many as eighty. As of today, this ‘celebrity terrorist’ remains as cocky, arrogant and unrepentant for his crimes as ever, and he has never charged for the shooting of Teddy Sieff. So, ask yourself this, is he really Carlos the Jackal, or Carlos the Jackass? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, there’s at least half an hour of tea drinking and utter waffle after the break. If you like it, stay. If you don’t, go. It’s not for everyone, hence it’s not an extra part of the podcast. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may be the first mouthful of a pint of pink Angel delight. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Jay jones, Lord Ponsonby Farquhar and Freddo, I thank you all, I hope you got your new goodies, and I hope those lucky Patreon supporters are enjoying the exclusive ‘Blackout Ripper’ mugs and new blood-red key-rings I’ve made, which are only available via Patreon. For as little as $3 a month, you get lots of goodies. Plus, a thank you to an anonymous donation via the Supporter link, I thank you. And a thank you to everyone who keeps listening to the show and sharing it with their pals, it’s very much appreciated. 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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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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