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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, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is a two-part series about the brutal murder of John Monckton; a devoted father and loyal husband who provided a safe and loving home for his family. But what began as a simple burglary, left a family destroyed, having been confronted by the Devil’s Child.
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 John Monckton's former home at 30 Upper Cheyne Row 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.
SOURCES: https://www.justiceinspectorates.gov.uk/probation/wp-content/uploads/sites/5/2014/03/hansonandwhitereview-rps.pdf https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/stabbed-wife-told-children-of-father-s-murder-7205556.html https://citywire.co.uk/wealth-manager/news/landgs-john-monckton-murdered/a262169 http://www.blackkalendar.nl/c/2746/Damien%20Hanson https://www.thesteepletimes.com/movers-shakers/moving-on/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/6180424.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4676898.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4757414.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/5013372.stm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/dec/01/ukcrime.rosiecowan1 https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum--dad-got-stabbed-i-saw-566299 Irish Independent, 16th December 2005 Irish Independent, Thursday 24th November 2005 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 19 December 2004 Irish Independent -9th December 2004, Irish Independent - Sunday 18 December 2004 Irish Independent - Friday 16 December 2005 Irish Independent, 19th December 2005, Irish Independent - Wednesday 23 November 2005 https://www.independent.ie/world-news/europe/murdered-mans-widow-relives-nightmare-25958200.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/dec/16/ukcrime.hughmuir http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4533876.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4533182.stm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-369403/Financiers-widow-They-destroyed-lives.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/the-devils-child-569587 https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/commentators/dominic-lawson-the-woman-who-should-be-resigning-this-week-is-the-head-of-the-parole-board-6107861.html Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 Aberdeen Press and Journal - Monday 11 August 1997 Daily Mirror - Monday 11 August 1997 Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/996032.eastenders-alibi-for-monckton-killer-lands-sister-in-jail/ https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/288218765.pdf https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/656007.alleged-murderer-treatment-mayday/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/man-accused-of-financier-s-death-reveals-drug-habit-517807.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/widow-of-murdered-businessman-tells-court-of-sheer-panic-as-armed-robbers-burst-into-home-516554.html https://www.scie-socialcareonline.org.uk/an-independent-review-of-a-serious-further-offence-case-damien-hanson-and-elliot-white/r/a11G000000182y5IAA https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/robber-shot-by-police-may-sue-scotland-yard-7183795.html HMP Inspectorate of Probation, An Independent Review of a Serious Further Offence case, Damien Hanson & Elliot White, February 2006 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/663261.monckton-murder-the-evidence-by-police/ 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 a two-part series about the brutal murder of John Monckton; a devoted father and loyal husband who provided a safe and loving home for his family. But what began as a simple burglary, left a family destroyed, having been confronted by the Devil’s Child. 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 131: The Trader and the Devil’s Child – Part One. Today I’m standing on Upper Cheyne Row in Chelsea, SW3; three roads south of John George Haigh’s acid-soaked basement, one road south-west of the abortionist of Helen Mary Wickwoad, a short hop from Battersea Park where Freddie Mills loaned a rifle to end his life, and a few feet from the viscous attack which left sexton Robin McCarthy brain-damaged forever - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is in an exclusive part of Chelsea between the River Thames and the supposedly fashionable King’s Road. In the sixties it was hip, but now it’s a flop, as any hint of originality has been diluted by an influx of self-obsessed tosspots with money but no style; so, expect to see fur-coats and facelifts, pompous turds in red trousers waffling on about portfolios and over-coiffured rats carried in designer handbags. In stark contrast, one road south is Upper Cheyne Row; a very posh but oddly silent residential street full of family cars, a few trees and four-storey terraces costing £3-6 million a-piece. Unlike the flashier parts of this city - where lavish drives and ornate gates adorn the tacky tasteless mansions of half-wits who wear their wealth - these homes are simple and understated, with nothing ostentatious outside, as anything of value is on the inside, hidden behind solid windows, locked doors and discrete alarms. Admittedly, someone like me – a bearded Brummy in mucky boots and Primark shorts, who didn’t go to Eton and doesn’t winter in St Maritz with Jolyon - sticks-out like a sore thumb, hence my movements here were closely monitored by hidden cameras and a security patrol. But not everyone is a resident, and it’s fascinating to see who we allow in or near our homes, and who we don’t? As the difference between an open door and a locked one can be something as subtle as an ID, a uniform, or a parcel. At 30 Upper Cheyne Row, on the corner of Cheyne Row and Glebe Place sits a five-bedroomed, four-storey brown-brick townhouse. Back in 2004, this was the home of John Monckton, his wife and their two daughters, and - as any family should – inside, they felt protected from any danger. And yet, it was here, on Monday 29th November 2004, that all of their security became fruitless, when an innocent mistake (the kind we all make) would destroy a family forever. (Interstitial) Above everything else, all John ever wanted was for his family to be happy and safe. On the 13th October 1955, John Victor Monckton was born into a long prestigious line of aristocrats; his cousin being Viscountess Monckton of Brenchley and his great-uncle was legal counsel to Edward VIII who drafted the King’s abdication statement having chosen to marry Wallace Simpson. As the eldest son of Emily and John Monckton, a respected lawyer from a legal lineage who held the office of Bencher at Lincoln's Inn, John followed in his father’s footsteps. Blessed with all the benefits of a privileged upbringing, he was educated at Downside (a fee-paying boarding school in Somerset) and he graduated from Oxford University with a first-class degree in classics and modern languages. But what set John apart from many of the ‘so-called elite’ wasn’t his wealth but his humanity. Goodness was in his blood and kindness was in his bones. Physically he was striking man, exceptionally tall but so slender he looked as if a stiff breeze might blow him over. Being bespectacled with parted brown hair and thick arched eyebrows, he resembled the whip-smart man-of-maths - which he was. But what exuded most was his warmth, as among a big brain and deep pockets was a huge heart. Everyone described John the same way; he was gentle, thoughtful, loving and loyal. A man with a dry wit and a great intellect, who genuinely cared for his fellow humans, whether he knew them or not. In 1979, having graduated, instead of going into law, he was drawn into high-finance. Across the 1980s - as yuppies in red braces reigned, waving phones as big as house bricks and quaffing cocaine by the kilo – as a Catholic, John was the opposite; a moral man who was old-fashioned but effective. Having headed-up the fixed income teams at Foreign & Colonial and Barclays de Zoete Wedd, in 1996, he joined Legal & General and later became its Managing Director of Bonds, where his award-winning team managed £34bn of assets and John was regarded as one of Britain’s most influential investors. Being raised to be successful yet humble, neither fame nor money would ever change John; he dressed practically, he spoke in a quiet whisper, he never discussed his private life, and although he was not averse to the odd luxury purchase (which was always tasteful and discrete), you could easily pass him in the street unaware that The Sunday Times had listed him as one of Britain’s wealthiest men. In his spare-time, John had two passions; the church and his charity work. Praised as a "man of deep Christian convictions", he was a devout parishioner at the Catholic Church of Our Most Holy Redeemer and trustee of the Orders of St John Care Trust (a non-profit charity providing care-for the elderly). But as busy as he was, his work always came second to the most important thing in his life - his family. In the late 1980s, having met through work, John fell in love with Homeyra Taslimi; an Iranian lady who exuded both style and sophistication, and whose name in Persian fittingly translates as a “woman with beautiful eyes”. Being born in Tehran, educated in Washington and having spent much of her life in France - with both being keen to settle down - on 16th July 1988, John & Homerya were married. In 1992, their daughter Sabrina was born, followed three years later by Isobel. John’s life was idyllic, he had a perfect family, and - keen to keep his loved ones safe - in 1994, they moved into the affluent seclusion of 30 Upper Cheyne Row, far from any traffic or strangers, where they lived without worry. Hailed as an "extraordinarily devoted family”, it was the little things in life that John loved most, as although rich, above it all he was a father and a husband; who always made time for meals, bathing his kids, reading bedtime stories and wrapping his arms around his little girls with kisses and cuddles. John Monckton would do anything to protect his family... ...even if it meant giving his life. (Interstitial) The most powerful word in the English language is home. A home isn’t just building, it’s a sanctuary, it’s the one place where every person has the right to feel safe, shielded from any dangers outside and cocooned in a bubble within. But what every homeowner fears the most is burglary. Insurance can cover the cost of many items lost, but it can never repair that uneasy feeling that once a home had been invaded, space violated and possessions touched, that our loved one’s lives are in jeopardy. In 2005, a UK Home Office study questioned 82 burglars about their methods and motives. The average burglar is male, aged 27, although many are under the age of 17. Younger burglars tend to steal through boredom or peer-pressure, but the majority do so to feed a drink or drug habit. They steal from their own neighbourhoods, they rarely travel and they work in spurts, committing as many as twenty burglaries-a-week when their funds are low and their addiction is high. Many criminals see burglary as relatively low-risk, as less than 20% of all burglaries lead to an offender being prosecuted. As for choosing a home to break into; half of all burglars return to a home they’ve broken into before, leaving a few weeks gap to allow the insurance to pay-out and the items they’ve stolen to be replaced. A home’s contents are easy for a burglar to value, as owners often leave their curtains open and dump the boxes of any expensive electrical items outside for the binmen to collect. Per burglary, the average value of goods stolen per house is £500-700, excluding any damage to the home, which is much higher. Most burglaries occur on a weekday, between 3 and 4pm, when the owners are at work, at the shops or on a school-run; with an unoccupied house made obvious by the car gone and the curtains closed. The biggest help to any burglar is a broken light, a high hedge and a dirty window, as these shield their criminal activities. Locks can be broken, windows can be smashed and alarms aren’t a deterrent, as (although loud) mostly we all ignore them, and they do indicate that the home has items of high value. In fact, the biggest fear a burglar has isn’t being caught, but confronted. Key to their success is to enter and leave a home, unseen and unheard, so they will often avoid any bright lights, gravel paths, squeaky gates, barking dogs and (best of all) any home which looks occupied, with its lights and TV on. Burglars fit into three distinct types, a Chancer (who sees an easy opportunity and steals items to be sold quickly), a Creeper (who is skilled in housebreaking, has the patience to seek out high value items, but – like a Chancer – avoids being seen at all costs), and a Confronter (a truly dangerous criminal with no fear of being caught and who will do anything to defend themselves and to get what they want). In 1994, when the Monckton’s moved into 30 Upper Cheyne Row, they undertook a lot of renovations, including their home’s security. It was already a safe area, as being a rabbit’s warren of dead-ends and one-way streets, strangers rarely drive through and no-one can park-up without a resident’s permit. It was a very peaceful place, but there wasn’t a single house of this street which hadn't been burgled. To provide protection without instilling fear into his family, the security was strong but discrete. As a Victorian townhouse, it naturally had good defences; the windows were above head-height, the walls were hard to scale and weren’t accessible without a ladder. It had only two doors; one at the back which was well-lit and alarmed, and one at the front; with a door sat atop of an awkwardly steep set of stone steps, fitted with locks, dead-bolts, a chain and a spy-hole, as well as a burglar alarm, a panic alarm and an intercom in several rooms so they could answer the door without opening it. John had invested in the very latest security to defend his home and his family... ...but even the best protection is embedded with a fatal flaw – people. John Monckton was a private man who did his job, loved his family and never courted the limelight. Among a niche circle of bankers, priests and charities, he was a ‘celebrity’ of sorts, but even to those living on his own street, he was neither a name nor a face. And yet, he came to one man’s attention. The tabloids are obsessed with wealth and fame, so much so that a celeb can’t walk the streets without being papped by a sleazy snapper, as a dead-eyed excuse for a journalist pesters the poor soul with questions, only to dig up some dirt and spin it into something scandalous, like it’s actually newsworthy. Sadly, being wealthy, sometimes fame found him. In 2003 and 2004, he appeared in the Sunday Times Rich List and the Mail on Sunday’s Rich Report, with a photo of his face and a profile on his life featured alongside famous actors, pop stars, sports legends, royalty, millionaires and billionaires. For some, it’s an ego-trip, for John it was a security risk, but for a very desperate criminal - with a history of violence and an obsession with wealthy, who was sat amidst the squalor of his bail hostel in Streatham, barely a few months out of prison - this was the perfect way to compile a dossier on his potential targets. Only, John was not his chosen victim. Like all cowards, this particular robber would pick-on easy targets; someone older, weaker or smaller than himself, as he prowled the streets of Chelsea, not in search of a banker, but of a banker’s wife; who dressed in designer outfits, with a handbag full of cash and cards and dripped in precious gems. All he would have to do is find her, follow her home and wait until she was alone. In court, he denied that he kept surveillance on Via Venise, a designer shoe-store at 163 King's Road that Homeyra Monckton frequented. That he followed this lone lady on a seven-minute walk back to her home at 30 Upper Cheyne Row. Or that he watched her routines; shopping and shuttling her nine-year-old daughter between school, friends and an often-empty house. But there was no denying one simple fact: being a rich petite woman, Homeyra Monckton was an easy-target for the Devil’s Child. Monday 29th November 2004 began like any ordinary day for John Monckton. An early start, few breaks and long hours in the cutthroat world of high finance, where a dog-eat-dog deal can be the difference between wealth or death, as a slew of savage rivals are wrestled and slain. It’s an aggressive arena where only the bravest, quickest and strongest will survive, but the only splash of red which is spilled is the flush of shame and the stain of debt. As a Bonds trader for L&G Investment Group in the City’s financial district, John’s true strength was never his knuckles, it was his numbers. For John, business was good, but his home was where he wanted to be. So, at 6pm, he left. At 7pm, the suited and bespectacled man strolled onto Upper Cheyne Row; a dark but soothingly silent street, lined with familiar cars, a few trees, and no strangers or dangers. Just the shadow of his church, the soft glow of an old streetlamp and (on the corner of Glebe Place) his home for the last decade. Through the curtains, he saw the familiar joy of his night ahead; in the basement kitchen a meal was cooking, in the first-floor lounge the TV was on, and somewhere on the two floors above, maybe in the bedrooms, the playroom or the bathrooms were his wife and daughter. As always, his long-legs easily managed the steep Victorian steps up-to white front door, and only able to enter with keys, as the toughened door closed behind him with a reliable thud, its solid locks gave a reassuring click. With 12-year-old Sabrina at boarding school, it was just the three of them, so although he missed her dearly, his home still radiated with the little things he loved; the smell of a homecooked dinner, the warmth of a fire and the gentle splash as Homeyra gave Isobel her bath before bedtime. Isobel’s face beamed with delight, “Daddy”, as like Roald Dahl’s BFG, her very own ‘big friendly giant’ had returned and planted a big kiss on their cheeks - finally he was happy to be home. And as Isobel bathed and Homerya finished cooking, John changed out of his suit, ready for a relaxing evening. Behind their windows, doors, alarms and locks, the Monckton family were safe and secure... ...or so they thought. At 7:30pm, the doorbell rang. They weren’t expecting a caller, especially not this late, so from the safety of the bedroom two floors above, Homeyra spoke to the guest via the intercom. (Buzz) “Hello, who is it?” and a calm voice replied “postman, I’ve got a parcel here for a Mr John V Monckton”. Which was odd but not unusual, as although most people know that burglaries often occur between 3 and 4pm, for couriers the work never stops, and although his arrival was unexpected, a locked door will always be opened to total stranger who carries something as subtle as an ID, a uniform, or a parcel. Homeyra called down “John, there’s a parcel for you”. As anyone would, he replied “okay, I’ll deal with it”, but as he walked to the door, he was rightfully cautious, and his security was there for a reason. Through the spy-hole, John peeped. It’s fish-eye lens showed the obvious features of a delivery driver; as being dressed in a black woolly hat, an orange and blue florescent jacket and a postal sack over his shoulders, this young black youth with a baby-face and a big smile held in his hand a brown parcel. He said he was a postman, and it looked like he was. Besides, most people know that burglars don’t ring doorbells. But still, John was vigilant, so as he unlocked the door, he kept the security chain on. “Hello?”, John inquired, as the postman smiled “parcel for Mr Monckton”. John wasn’t expecting one, but the name and address was right. And besides, most people know that the majority of burglars avoid entering an occupied home. So, as the stranger coolly said “you’ll need to sign for it” – as we all would - John undid the chain, unclicked the lock and (as his last line of defence) he opened the door. ...but the postman was not alone. The second the door opened, John tried to slam it shut, screaming “no, no, no”, as hidden behind the postman’s legs, a dark shadow was crouched; dressed in black, a dark set of envious eyes peered through the jagged slits of a black balaclava, with a gun in his left hand and a six-inch blade in his right. Hearing the terror in her husband’s voice, as he battled to force the front door shut to protect his wife and child, Homeyra joined John’s struggle as pure evil invaded their home. And although the tall man and tiny lady pushed with all their might, they were no match for a fake postman and the Devil’s Child. Overwhelmed, as the door flew open, the postman grabbed John, and although not a fighter, being a foot taller with longer-arms, he did his best to keep his attacker at bay. But John was not the target. With John distracted, like a coward, the Devil’s Child went after the object of this robbery - his wife. Homeyra turned, as in her bedroom, lay a panic alarm (one button which when pressed would activate the home’s alarm and call the police), but as she ran up the stairs, without saying a word, this seed of Satan stabbed the blade twice in her back and side. Struggling, she made it to the first floor, but feeling a dampness in her back and no movement in her legs, she slumped onto the stairs, as John fought on. In a voice as calm as Death himself, the Devil’s Child (whose real name was Damian) demanded “give me your rings and your watch”, which she did. And although they were rich and she dressed well, the pieces he took from her only looked expensive, so having also taken her purse, it totalled barely £4000. Beginning to black-out as blood poured from her back, Homeyra screamed “John! I’ve been stabbed”, as he wrestled Elliot, the baby-faced postman. Looking up the stairs, he didn’t see the epitome of pure evil coming towards him, all he saw was his beloved wife ghostly white and drenched in red, and one floor above - alerted by her mother’s screams and peering through the bannister - was Isobel. With two violent and dangerous men in his home, who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted, although he wasn’t a fighter, John would do anything to protect them... even if it meant his life. With his face beaten, as Elliot gripped him from behind in an immovable bear-hug, John’s fight to force both men out of his home and away from his family was failing. And yet it was then - without warning – that the Devil’s Child lashed out in a volley of frenzied stabs against an unarmed outnumbered man. John’s hands were slashed and bloodied as he valiantly fought off his attacker; as the stained six-inch blade sunk into his shoulder, his right arm and his pelvis. So ferocious was this assault, that having mistakenly stabbed Elliot, with the full length of the blade he buried the knife deep in John’s chest, as one wound ripped through his right lung, and the last, fatally skewered though this good man’s heart. John slumped to the floor in the doorway of his lounge, and as the robbers fled up Glebe Place, Elliot whooped "ah man, you're the business" and Damian giddily fingered his haul of a few hundred pounds and some inexpensive costume jewellery, as the two cowards left John & Homeyra to die. (End) ...which they would have done, had it not been for Isobel, who was only nine-years-old. Doing as her mother said, Isobel locked the door, called the police and set off the panic alarm, alerting the street. Sat amongst the blood-spattered room, with Homeyra feeling weak, pale and partially paralysed, there was no denying that the quick-thinking of this little girl had saved her mother’s life. But with John lying motionless, his eyes closed and his moans barely a whisper, even the paramedics couldn’t save him. Isobel later said “I knew my daddy was hurt in the heart” - a heart which had made him good, honest and loved - but having no pulse and gone into cardiac arrest, although 49-year-old John Monckton arrived at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital at 8.10pm, twenty minutes later, he was pronounced dead. The next day, after hours of emergency surgery to save her life and having lost seven of her ten pints of blood, although still in a critical condition, from her bedside at St Thomas’ Hospital, Homeyra had the heart-breaking task of telling Isobel (and her 12-year-old sister, Sabrina) that their father was dead. With the hardest question for any mother to answer being “Why did my daddy die?” John Monckton was a good man, a loving father and a doting husband who had done – as we all would - everything to protect his family; with a nice house and solid security. But criminals are cunning, and knowing how we think and seeing our weaknesses, he was duped by the simple mistake we all make. And although there’s no mystery why the Monckton’s were burgled? A few big questions remain. Who were the burglars? What drove them to steal? Why was Elliot actually there? And – most importantly of all - who else was to blame for this murder of John Monckton, except for the Devil’s Child? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part Two and the final part of The Trader and the Devil’s Child continues next week. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for some extra titbits and some aimless waffle, after the break. Unless you don’t want to. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the equivalent of a KitKat but with the wafer missing, and all that’s left is the chocolatey bit. Mmm. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Kylie Clark, Stephen Beeston, Karen Price and Mads S Olsen, I thank you all, I hope you’re enjoying your new and exclusive Murder Mile goodies, as well as getting first dibs on the new exclusive Murder Mugs, featuring Reg Christie and Police Constable Arsenal Guinness. And a thank you to Kaley, Nadine and Peter Holloway, who sent a very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop and the Supporter link, which Eva has already spent on a little butler’s bowtie for me to wear when I’m serving her three o’clock cocktail. Plus a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and enjoy Murder Mile. 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. Archives
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