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The bridleway at the back of Ismailia House in Fulham, where Ismailia Road once stood
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 FIFTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making.
THE LOCATION
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The location of the attack is located with a red cross at the middle near the words Fulham and Swedish Wharf. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
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 the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making. 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 155: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part Two. Today I’m standing on the corner of De Morgan Road and Townmead Road in Fulham, SW10; a few roads south of Jane Andrew’s attack on her sleeping boyfriend Tommy Cressman, a ten-minute stroll from the home invasion by the Devil’s Child, and a few feet from the spot on the River Thames where an infamous murderer supposedly disposed of an unrecorded victim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Being typical of the hotch-potch way that most of London is built, this street is a mish-mash of styles from the last two centuries; there’s a long row of identical Victorian terraces, an old wharf refashioned as office space and posh flats, a 1970’s tower block with a recent lick of paint, an ugly Sainsbury’s, and - of course – near to what used to be Ismailia Road sits a set of flats imaginatively called Ismailia House. Like most new builds, Ismailia House was constructed in the time-old British tradition of whack it up fast, bish-bash-bosh and claim it’s for locals, only to flog-off 90% to a Saudi before a single brick is set. With the worst three flats reserved for council tenants and the obligatory 10% set aside for “local amenities” which means a few bins, a dentist’s, a Tesco Express and bookies – oh yes, all the essentials. Behind these flats once sat Ismailia Road, a small road connecting to Wandsworth Bridge Road, but - long since demolished - it is now just a bridle-way. On the ground-floor of number 5 lived Mabel Jean Hill, a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three who had provided a safe place for herself and her family. By sheer misfortune, whilst travelling home from a nice night-out, she had struck-up a conversation with a small baby-faced youth who looked harmless enough. His name was Michael Douglas Dowdall. And it was here, on Saturday 10th October 1959, that Mabel would meet this fledgling serial-killer who had already murdered one woman, and – it looked likely – that Mabel would be his next. (Interstitial). (Michael) “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn... I had sex with her and went to sleep”. (snoring). When questioned, her attacker would claim it was an accident and that was also what the evidence would suggest. On Friday 19th December 1958 at roughly 6pm, the body of 31-year-old sex-worker Veronica Murray was found in her first-floor bedsit at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. With no signs of forced entry and two sets of fingerprints on a tea-cup, this suggested she had let her attacker in and had sex with him. Naked, except for her brown pullover pulled-up over her head, Veronica had been brutally bludgeoned to death, with her skull smashed using ornamental cast-iron dumbbell taken from her mantlepiece. This suggested her attack was not pre-meditated, but was most likely a provoked act of aggression. With no items of any obvious value known to have been stolen from her room - except for a bottle of whiskey - the motive was unlikely to be a robbery, but more of an opportunist theft by drunken punter. So far, for the police, this case hadn’t any of the hallmarks of a fledgling serial-killer in their midst. If anything, it resembled any number of attacks on lone sex-workers in their own homes across the last several decades... although this one did have one or two unusual details which made it stand-out. Around her abdomen three identical circular abrasions in a V-shape marked her flesh. Inflicted post-mortem, they had been made using “a manufactured item” of unknown origin. They’re meaning was baffling, but as any sex worker will tell you, everyone has a strange sexual perversion; whether pain, pee or poo; tickling, smearing or strangling; some like feet, food, feathers and some like to inflict scars. It was an odd quirk, possibly accidental, which didn’t match any other cases the police had ever seen. Found with her legs splayed, it was difficult to determine if sex had taken place, but the pathologist had hypothesised that her attacker may have raped her using a wooden coat-hanger. Potentially being impotent, it is not uncommon for rapists to only become aroused by pain, strangulation and death. And having fled without reporting his offence, again this wasn’t unusual among pimps and punters. The police investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies who found more dead-ends than fresh-clues. With no witnesses, they had no description of the assailant or an accurate timeline leading up to her murder. They had fingerprints, but it matched no known felon in their files. The taxi-driver was found, but remembered little of this unremarkable fare. And being such a private woman who very few people knew, they interviewed her friends, canvassed her haunts and made a public appeal on the front page of Britain’s most prominent tabloid... but no-one came forward. Having exhausted every possible avenue of enquiry, the case stalled and ground to a halt. Given the evidence, there was a high possibility that this was a one-off; a random attack by a drunk who got violent with a prostitute over something as simple as money. And given the clandestine nature of sex-work, the likelihood is that the man who murdered Veronica would never be caught. No-one suspected that this was the first flattering step of a potential serial-killer. And why would they? That night, having headed back to the Union Jack Club at Waterloo Station (a hostel for servicemen), Michael destroyed his bloodstained suit and shirt, erasing key evidence, and although the murder had briefly appeared in the newspapers, by the time that New Year had passed, it had been forgotten. Even Michael Douglas Dowdall thought that he had got away with murder... ...but this motive which caused him to kill would be awakened once again. The little drummer boy had served in the 1st Battalion of the Welsh Guards for almost four years. Being one of the lowest ranks, the boy was mercilessly bullied for being little, weak and Welsh. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important”. To prove his manhood; he drank, smoked and shagged to excess and unconsciousness. It was a fruitless mission which only made him look foolish and - far exceeding his pitiful wage - he needed another scheme. It seemed innocent enough – to pay his fellow soldiers to scrub his shirts and bull his boots to a high mirror shine for a few shillings a time – and the more the squaddies earned, the quicker Michael’s bullying ceased. No-one knew where he was getting the money from and nobody bothered to ask... ...but this money-making scheme helped to sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. Many times, Michael went AWOL from the barracks at Pirbright and Chelsea, but this wasn’t just to sink some suds or dip his dirty wick inside a prozzie - this was part of his second career as a burglar. It seems almost unconceivable when you look at him; given his head shaped like a doughy little egg, popped with two dim dots for eyes and a set of ears like a crashed mini-cab with the doors wide open. And being too big for his weasily little body, at best he resembled a mixing-bowl spoon. It’s laughable that this boy was even considered a soldier, and being so unthreatening, he didn’t look like a burglar. But maybe that was it? Being small and weak, no-one suspected him. As the mark of every successful serial-killer isn’t the sadistic nature of their crimes, but how – in ordinary life – they seem to blend in. Across 1958 and 1959, this teenage tearaway committed a spree of at least twenty brazen burglaries in the more affluent parts of London, including Mayfair, Chelsea, Knightsbridge and Fulham. On Saturday 10th October 1959, at the exclusive Westbury Hotel at 37 Conduit Street in Mayfair, having wandered the corridors, he gained access to the penthouse suite, costing a whopping £35 per night. It’s occupant, who was in Paris that day with his wife Benita was the Hollywood actor George Sanders. Michael “I did not know it was the Hartnell Suite until I came out and saw it written across the door”. Having ransacked the drawers, he stole an undetermined stash of ladies’ jewels, a bottle of whiskey, a tube of toothpaste “I liked the taste of it... it belonged to George Sanders”, and having stolen a pair of George’s shoes, he left behind a pair of his own size sevens outside the door, which – seeing that “they looked like they had been through a mangle” – the service staff promptly had them polished. Having fled - feeling either a sense of guilt or knowing that one item in particular was too hot to handle - “I was going to send a bracelet back, but I threw it in the river”. As far as we know, it’s still there. When police investigated the scene, they had no witnesses to the crime and no description of the burglar, but his fingerprints did match those of a known sneak-thief who operated in the local area. His actions may seem harmless, even comical, but it was lucky that George & Benita were not there that night, as although petty theft was Michael’s motive, when confronted, he also had a sadistic side. One week later, on Sunday 18th October 1959, he broke in via a small window at the rear of 4 Skinner Place, at the back of Sloane Square. It was a small Victorian brown-bricked terrace sat in a dark unlit alley and was the home of 71-year-old seamstress Annie Belcher, who was fast asleep in her bed. As he ransacked every drawer and cupboard for valuables, the noise startled Annie and she began to scream, hollering so loud that it startled her neighbours Eric & Joyce Christmas at house number 1. Panicked and angered at his plans being thwarted, Michael repeatedly beat the defenceless old lady over her head with a cast-iron fire-poker, leaving her for dead. Rushed to St George’s hospital with a fractured skull, a broken wrist and her face so swollen she risked losing her eye, Annie returned home one week later to stay with her daughter, and – at least physically – she would make a good recovery. As before, although he had stolen nothing, he had left behind fingerprints matching the sneak thief. On Wednesday 21st November 1959, one month later, Michael broke into the home of William Sloane, an Australian businessman living on Markham Street in Chelsea. Thankfully, neither he nor his family were in, so no-one got hurt, but – as before – the burglar had left behind his fingerprints; stealing a clock, a pair of gloves, several bottles of gin and vermouth worth £10, several packs of cigarettes, and a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with the words and logo of ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’. The police had no idea who this prolific burglar was. Having heard that his name was possibly ‘Mick’ and that he was either a local labourer or a West End musician, they canvassed the building sites and nightclubs and interviewed hundreds of men, but drew a blank. His description was vague; he was aged between mid-twenties to mid-thirties, he was slim to slightly-built, his height was “not short, but not tall”, and – possibly owing to political upset – many said he was Irish, when actually he was Welsh. In fact, the only detail they got right was that ‘Mick’ had a long scar down the right side of his nose. But who was he? The fingerprints found in almost all of the twenty-or-so burglaries he committed, matched those found at the murder scene of Veronica Murray, but they didn’t match any known felon in the police’s files. His MO was often similar; he stole saleable items like jewels, cigarettes and alcohol; when disturbed he would inflict a high level of violence whether by bludgeoning or strangulation, and in some cases, he marked their thighs and abdomens with three circles in a V-shape using “a item” of unknown origin. By November 1959, eleven months after the unsolved murder of Veronica Murray, having attributed at least twenty known burglaries and assaults to the man known only as ‘Scarface Mick’, Scotland Yard would launch “one of the largest man hunts” since 10 Rillington Place killer - John Reginald Christie. Police knew he had murdered one woman, and believed he had also killed five more... ...but uncertain of his exact description, Michael Douglas Dowdall was free to attack again. The date was Saturday 10th October 1959, barely a few hours after the burglary of George Sanders’ hotel room. The location was four-and-a-half-miles south-west in Fulham. And the victim’s name was Mabel Jean Hill; a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three living in a ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road. As a busy single-parent to Alan, Leslie and Jean, all aged between six and twelve, once in a blue-moon she rightfully felt she deserved a night-off, especially as that night was her birthday. As planned, she met her friends for drinks in Streatham, she went shopping with her mother in the West End, she had dinner in a good pub, went to the cinema, and caught the last tube out of Leicester Square station. Carrying bags of presents, as she stood on the southbound platform of the Piccadilly line tube, a young man with a babyish face asked her for a light. Given his slight slurring, it was clear he had been drinking and although his white overcoat was a little tatty, his shoes were unmistakably shiny and expensive. “Where you going?”, he asked, beaming a smile to this lady almost twice his age. “Home”, she politely piped, wisely giving him nothing more, but for him that was enough. Joining her in the carriage, for the rest of the journey he spoke about his Army career, the band and he said his name was Mick. And although she spotted the scar on his nose, his description was still days away from being in the papers. Hoping to lose her unwelcome admirer, Mabel changed at Earl’s Court, bidding him a polite goodbye. Only he continued his conversation, following her onto the southbound District Line train to Fulham. Again, she tried to shake off this little pest at Fulham Broadway, but he followed her out of the station and onto the deserted street, all the while rambling on about how he should come back to hers for “a coffee, or something”. It was 1am, the last bus had gone and with no taxis in sight, he persistently matched her step-for-step; south down Waterford Road and Harwood Road, west along New King’s Road, dog-licking onto Wandsworth Bridge Road and – after 25 minutes, during which he had tried to kiss her twice – she turned onto the unlit gloom of Ismailia Road, with Michael a few feet behind her. Opening the door to her ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road, Mabel “I went in. He came in too. I said I did not want him in because it was late. He said he just wanted a cup of coffee and then he would go”. Wanting him to leave, to Mabel, a quick cuppa must have seemed like a harmless solution... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. Having seated her unwelcome guest at the kitchen table, she put on the kettle and popped into the bedroom to check on her three children, who were all fast asleep. For what must have seemed like an interminably long time; they sat, he talked and she waited for the coffee in his cup to be finished. But barely a few minutes in - without any provocation from Mabel - he removed his shirt and his jumper. Mabel “I told him to put the things on and go home... that’s the last thing I can remember”. It’s unlikely that this was a planned robbery or a premeditated murder, but as often happened in the sadistic mind of this fledgling serial-killer was that - with the sexual advances having been rejected – maybe his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted? Having grabbed a pair of stockings off the radiator, wrapping them both around her thin white neck, with his knuckles tight he pulled both ends, and – before she could even emit a decent scream to call out for help – Michael strangled Mabel on the floor, straining until she drifted into unconsciousness. Fixing the knot behind her head, as the nylons twisted about her crucifix, the sadistic maniac savagely ripped at her clothes until her pale white thighs and abdomen were exposed. And just as he had done with Veronica Murray, he could do something truly unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. Only, in his mission to mutilate Mabel, Michael had forgotten about three little things... ...her children. Disturbed by a brief but blood-curdling scream, dressed in just their pyjamas, 12-year-old Alan tiptoed from the bedroom followed by 11-year-old Joan and 7-year-old Leslie. Having fled, her assailant was nowhere to be seen and – thankfully - no danger to the children. But seeing their half-naked mother lying on the kitchen floor, her legs splayed and her head swollen and purple – terrified and unsure what to do – they ran into the Ismailia Street screaming “come quickly, we can’t wake up mummy”. Patrick Mahoney, their next-door neighbour cut the stockings, called the Police, Mabel was taken by ambulance to St Stephen’s Hospital, and being - saved by her children – she made a good recovery. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Peter Vibart of Chelsea Police Station. Questioning Mabel from her hospital bed, she bravely gave a solid description of a five-foot-seven-inch baby-faced Irish or Welshman called Mick, who was a heavy-drinking chain-smoking drummer in an Army band in the West End. She even remembered the long-scar down the right side of his nose. Robbery was ruled-out as a motive, as the only item he stole was a half-bottle of whiskey, but forensics did find several sets of fingerprints on a blue-patterned coffee cup, a cigarette tin and two milk bottles. Although (in this case at least) they could never determine why he had touched a wooden coat-hanger. Examined in hospital, the most startling aspect of the case were the marks on Mabel’s body. Made by a “manufactured item” of unknown origin, in several places were found a set of circular abrasions in a strange ‘V-shape’, as well as similar marks on her stomach, her chest and her feet. What they meant? He didn’t know, and not being part of the original investigation one year earlier at 58 Charteris Road, he had never seen anything like this before. But having contacted Kilburn Police, now he had a match. The notorious sneak-thief known only as ‘Scarface Mick’ was – without any doubt – the same sadistic maniac who had murdered Veronica Murray and had attempted to kill Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill. One of London’s largest man-hunts had been launched with Police working in shifts, but who he was remained a mystery? They had fingerprints and witnesses, but what they didn’t have was a name. So, who was he? Trawling through an extensive history on ‘Scarface Mick’, DI Vibart noted that = after 21st November 1959 - several assault victims had stated that ‘Mick’, who was a heavy-smoker, had used a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’, as stolen from William Sloane’s home. It seemed a long-shot, but desperate for any fresh-clues, a photo of the lighter was published in the newspapers. Having been sold for five shillings to a guardsman at the Welsh Guards Camp, on the 24th November 1959, just two days after Mabel’s attack, Michael Douglas Dowdall was arrested. (End) Interviewed at Chelsea Police Station, Michael came across as cocky and arrogant; a remorseless thief who stole to feed a petty addiction to drink and sex, and who was AWOL from his barracks at the time. Without any emotion, he confessed and was charged with several counts of burglary and theft. At that moment, he must have thought he had got away with murder, pleading to few light offences which could – if convicted – lead to a few months in prison. But the burglary charges were just a ploy, as the second he admitted to those robberies, that evidence would directly implicate him elsewhere. That same day, DCI Acott stated "In addition to housebreaking, we are investigating several serious offences I believe you committed in Chelsea, Fulham and Kilburn". At which, Michael’s face dropped and he gave a full confession stating “it is when I drink, I do these things. I am all right when I am sober. It has been worrying me for a long time. I am so glad it is all over ". Assessed by Dr Archibald D Leigh of Bethlehem Hospital, Michael was described as a ‘psychopath’ and a ‘sexual pervert’. In a two-day trial held in Court One of the Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. With the death penalty soon to be abolished, on 20th January 1960, Michael Douglas Dowdall was sentenced to life. Having served fifteen years in prison, suffering a lung infection and chronic hepatitis, in July 1975 he was released on licence, but died on 10th November 1976 at the Royal Free Hospital, aged just 36. Outside of Veronica Murray, Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill, he never confessed to any further murders or attempted murders, although the Police believed that he may have killed as many as five. So, was he just fledgling serial-killer in the making... or a fully-fledged sadist with many victims undiscovered? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy wondering how many cakes a fat bald man can stuff into his mouth without swallowing, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter, who is Lesley M – ooh, very mysterious. I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and support 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, totalling 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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