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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR: On Monday 24th of October 1966, Dr Abdullah a noted psychiatrist walked into a clip joint in Soho and shot a hostess (Rita Rothery) in the chest from 3 feet away. Four days later, on Friday 28th of October 1966, he shot art Student Diane Spencer in broad daylight outside of Euston Station. Neither of them he had met before. So, why was he hellbent on killing them?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a black green coloured symbol of a bin right in the middle of Soho (a mess of dots). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Archer Street in Soho, W1; four doors west of the shooting of Paddy O’Keefe, three doors east of the first victim of the Soho Strangler, the same building as the murder of Camille Gordon, and a few doors down from the framing of a deaf gangster - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 7 Archer Street sits Gelupo, an artisan ice-creamery set on the ground floor of a five storey Victorian terrace. As a warm and welcoming place, it lures in the punters with such mouthwatering flavours as ‘ricotta sour cheery’, ‘coconut & rum’ and ‘mascarpone, raspberry & rose’, while wisely avoiding a dig at Soho’s seedier side with less-palatable flavours like ‘heroin chic & hobo vomit’, ‘citron & chlamydia’, or ‘six seconds of rough drunken sex in a urine-soaked alley… with chocolate and glittery sprinkles’. Although, that would probably sell if it was Instagram-able enough for the ‘oh my God’ brigade. In 2004, this was a clip-joint called The Blue Bunny Club where Camille Gordon was stabbed to death by an unidentified punter who was angry at being conned by the oldest trick in the book; paying a pittance to get in and getting royally fleeced the second he stepped inside. And although it may have seemed like a one-off incident, as a warning from the past, an identical shooting had occurred 38 years before. It’s a story which may seem familiar, but coming armed to undertake a mini killing spree, what remains a mystery is his motive. Was it revenge, sadism, money, a mission from God, or something stranger? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 264: Shock Tactics. It was the 24th of October 1966 when death came to Archer Street. With the sun having set, the night was cool, so being 10:30pm, many of Soho’s pie-eyed punters had toddled off to bed leaving a throng of dead beats and low-life’s to assuage their thirst for a pint, a punch and a place to pop their pecker. The street was dead, and being a Monday, no-one was out, except for drunks, perverts, and a killer. His once-neat now slightly scuffed shoes clopped steadily on the cobblestoned street. 7 Archer Street was an anonymous building on an insignificant side-street. On the top two floors were rented lodgings. On the first floor was a tailors, which was shut. On the ground floor was a barbers which sold hair tonic, Vaseline and condoms, only this was also shut. So, with no sign, just a lovely girl luring him in with a ‘come hither’ finger, the stranger made his way down the long dark hallway to the Archer Room. At 15 feet long by 18 feet wide, at no bigger than a living room, it was crammed with three sofas, two armchairs, a hat stand, a banquette, a small bar, and that’s it. It was dark so you couldn’t see the stains, it was smoke-filled so you didn’t inhale the stench, and with crackly tunes played on the juke box so you might be mistaken for believing the club had an atmosphere, two very bored hostesses sat alone filing their nails, as one unlucky lady made small pre-prepared talk with the club’s only customer. The stranger walked in. It didn’t matter that he didn’t fit in, that he said very little, or that his thin eyes scanned the room like a hawk eyeing its prey, as with his money being as good as any others, Margaret Jones, a 32-year-old hostess known as Margot ushered him over a sofa which was tacky to the touch and ordered drinks for them both – a watered-down Carlsberg for him and a fruit cocktail for her. Margot vaguely described him as “either Iranian or Indian, aged 35 to 40, six foot tall, in a dark suit”. He didn’t give his name, and the police would never find a fingerprint as he didn’t touch a thing, not even his beer, as he growled “I don’t drink… don’t you have a tomato juice?”. Only they didn’t. For the next ten minutes, Margot tried to crack his icy shell with some sexy chit-chat, only it was clear that he had something on his mind - to get a girl alone. “I would like to take you out” he purred, but being against the rules, she said no. “I would like to buy you a meal” he insisted, a darker tone to his voice, but again, she said no. “I have a hotel room, you come and join me?”, away from the semi-safety of the Archer Room and into the darkness with a stranger whose motive was unknown. “I excused myself”, Margot said “and went to the bar”, leaving him alone to sit by himself and fester. And fester he did. Margot recalled “I looked around, I saw him approach the doorway”, he was leaving, and as far as she was concerned, it was good riddance. Another hostess recalled “He went into the hallway, stood for a few seconds”, as if he was pondering a thought, “then he turned and came back in. I didn’t take any notice of him”. Nobody did, as he was anonymous, a nobody, forgotten. No-one saw him reach into his jacket. No-one saw the holster hidden under his left shoulder. And no-one saw him pull out a 9mm Browning automatic pistol, and with a burst of flame blasting red at waist height, from three feet away, he shot her. The crack of gunfire echoed off the walls, as a burst of blood spurted from a dead centre hole exiting out of the left of her chest, and as – in panic – with the only way out behind him, she fled across to the far side of this tiny room, as getting her in his sights again, he fired again. Only this time, he missed. Amidst a sea of screams, the stranger calmly holstered his gun, a grimace on his righteousness face, and without saying a word, he calmly walked into Archer Street, flagged down a taxi, and disappeared. Slumped behind the sofa, wheezing as blood pooled underneath her, the hostess he’d targeted wasn’t Margot - she was fine as not a single shot had gone anywhere near her – his victim was Rita Rothery, a 21-year-old part-time waitress and hostess, who had been sat alone on a sofa quietly filing her nails. An ambulance arrived a few minutes later, which whisked Rita away, as she lay limp and pale. But who was he? An assassin, an ex-boyfriend, a cheated punter, or a man on a mission? His name was Dr Abdullah. Born in the Hoshiarpur province of India on the 10th of December 1935, he came from a well-respected family; his brother was an air official, his sister was a lecturer in philosophy, his uncle originated India’s ‘five-year economic plan’ and after his father’s death, he was raised by his mother and uncle. Aged 16, he contracted orchitis (an inflammation of the testicles) owing to mumps, which caused him pain and required daily injections of the male hormone testosterone, but physically he was fine. Educated at the Central Modern School in Lahore, he got a degree in medicine and surgery at The King Edward Medical College in 1958 and gained a wealth of experience in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. He wasn’t political and an extremist, he was a medical professional with no criminal convictions. In September 1961, he legally entered the UK, and from 1961 to 1963 he was senior psychiatric officer at Burnley General Hospital, and later the house surgeon at Dewsbury General, the Royal Victoria Hospital in Bournemouth, Plymouth General, the Kent & Sussex and Northampton General, with senior roles at West London hospital, Bedford General and Whiston General. When arrested, he told the police “I am a psychiatrist of some standing, I have been successful”, which was true. In November 1965, he returned to Saudi Arabia to work as a resident surgeon at the Ministry of Health, and having completed a similar role in Pakistan, on the 14th October 1966 he returned to England. On Friday 21st October he took a spontaneous weekend trip to Paris, returning on Sunday 23rd of October, and checked back into his hotel room at the Cora Hotel, in Upper Woburn Place near Euston Station. Then, the next night, having entered the Archer Room, he shot Rita Rothery in the chest. It made no sense; he had never been there before, they had never met, and he had no hatred towards Rita. But if his plan had been to shoot a woman dead, he had failed, as miraculously, she had survived. Rushed to Charing Cross Hospital, the casualty officer determined that although a .32 calibre bullet had hit her dead centre in the chest, being sat sideways, the bullet had bounced off her breast bone, shot underneath the skin, over the top of her left breast, and exited at her armpit, missing her left arm, and hitting the wall where it crumpled like a stubbed-out cigarette and landed on the carpet. “Between the two wounds, the air was palpable under the skin. I stitched it with four sutures, she was kept overnight, and discharged the next day”. Rita had a lucky escape, as she should have been dead. But why did he want to kill her? Some suggested that being a Muslim, he had bastardised the tenets of his religion to suit himself. Raised as a staunch conservative, he’d arrived in the UK during the height of the swinging sixties when even some of our firm traditionalists were shocked by the moral changes Britain was going through. In each hospital he worked, Dr Abdullah would have seen the regular weekend of vomit-soaked youths chundering up having got annihilated on an excess of drink, whereas in Islam, “drinking alcohol is haram or forbidden… as the Quran, the Muslim holy book, calls intoxicants ‘the work of Satan’”. Walking around town, he’d have seen the shape of a woman’s curves, her legs and mid-riff exposed and her boobs bouncing freely unfettered by a bra, whereas in Islam, “the 'awrah’” – the part of the body which must never be seen - “of a woman is the entire body, except for the face and hands”. Three years on, the British government was still reeling from the Profumo Affair, which saw 19-year-old Christine Keeler being lambasted, but also lauded and elevated to become one of the most famous faces of the 1960s, whereas in Islam, “premarital sex and adultery forbidden”. Abortion was about to be legalised, the death penalty had been abolished, homosexuality was no longer a criminal offence, sexually transmitted diseases were on the rise, and the contraceptive pill had empowered women. Regardless of their religion, some people saw the 1960s as an age of immorality. But did Dr Abdullah? Was he fighting against morals, or was he angry at being rejected by a girl? Oddly, he was born Qamar Uz Zaman. But in 1965, just one year before, he had legally changed his name to just ‘Abdullah’; it’s a mononym often used in India to resist the caste system, and – in Arabic – Abd means servant, and Allah means God. Abdullah was a servant of God, but was this God’s work? In Islam, “murder is the most heinous crime… with the Prophet Muhammad reportedly stating that the first act of Allah would be to punish murderers by making them suffer the torment of Hell”. And yet, the day before he went on a weekend break to Paris, at the gun counter of the Army & Navy Store’s by Victoria Station, he purchased a 9mm Browning pistol. With no gun permit, he couldn’t load it with live rounds, so telling them he planned to take it to Saudi Arabia to use as protection, the store shipped 4 boxes of .32 calibre ammunition to an address overseas. The address he gave… was in Paris. With it reported in the press that the hostess, Rita Rothery had miraculously survived, as the police had no idea who her assailant was, Dr Abdullah walked around the streets of London, as free as a bird. It was the 28th of October 1966 when death came to Upper Woburn Place, one and a half miles north of Soho, on the cusp of Euston Station. Unlike before, this wasn’t a Monday night at 10:30pm, but a Friday afternoon at 5pm. Unlike Archer Street, this wasn’t a cesspool of immoral filth, but the junction of Euston Road; with nearby St Pancras Church shut with it being 3 hours after the Eucharist, and beside the Post Office which had ejected the last of the grannies who were getting their pension. If this was a mission, it was an unremarkable spot to pick as the rush-hour street thronged with a thick jam of honking traffic, the pavements were almost impassable as a gloop of pre-occupied commuters shuffled at a snail’s pace, and although no-one would be looking at anyone else for fear of ever making eye contact (which has been illegal in London since 1662), a news vendor was nearby, doing his job. A few minutes after 5pm, 33-year-old Diana Sinclair, an American art student who earned a few pounds playing guitar in a nightclub, left her lodging at the Taviton Hotel. She said “I was going to a candy store”, which in English we call a newsagents or a sweet shop “to get change for my electricity meter”. She was minding her own business, she was unpolitical, and she did nothing illegal or immoral. As she approached the corner of the Post Office, she went to turn left onto Euston Road, “when I felt someone come up behind me”, some say someone touched her, other reports say it was her legs, but with no forewarning at all, Diana stated “he punched me in the back with a fist”, leaving her dazed. Described as Indian or Middle Eastern, early 30s, 5-foot-10 and wearing a fawn check suit, Dr Abdullah passed her by as if nothing had happened. A little confused at this unprovoked assault on a lone girl in broad daylight, rightly she barked ‘you should watch where you put your hands’, but he didn’t reply. Diana said “I expected him to say something, he didn’t. He didn’t turn around. I began to be afraid because he did not go away and he did not say anything”, he just stood there, as if he was pondering a thought, “I said ‘you lousy bastard, for what you have done I could call the police’”. It was then that he turned and glowered at her, as pedestrians passed them on either side, unaware or uncaring. “I was able to see his face”, as with a self-righteous grimace, he vacantly glared at her, it was then that she screamed. “From his inside pocket, he pulled out a gun. I yelled ‘he’s got a gun’”, but no-one believed her. Some thought it was a toy, or it was a prank, but others didn’t care as they headed home. “I heard two shots”, Diana recalled, “I looked down, I saw a bullet hole. I said ‘I have been shot’. I felt pain in my torso”, but - unlike with Rita, the hostess - this bullet didn’t ricochet off her bone and cause a slight wound to her skin, this one had penetrated the stomach, the bowel, destroyed the gall bladder and severed the right lobe of the liver, as inside she was bleeding to death, “I was fearing for her life”. As she ran amongst the speeding traffic, “I tried to put a car between me and him, and as I ran, I was shot in the leg”, as he fired again, narrowly missing her thigh bone but nicking an artery, and as it exited the back of her thigh, William Wootton who happened to be passing by was hit in the leg too. Dragged from the road to the safety of the pavement, as Diana collapsed near the newsstand, a brave passerby caught up with the assailant who was nonchalantly walking away, and stated “I put my hand on his arm and said ‘you had better come back’”. But this wasn’t part of Dr Abdullah’s plan, and with two people shot, “he turned to me, put his hand in his jacket and made a move as if he had something in there”. The passerby was brave, but with this not worth dying for. “I stood back and let him go”. With the street in chaos, two people bleeding and one losing consciousness, Dr Abdullah turned into Gordon Square, flagged down a taxi and sped into the distance, his misguided mission accomplished. At least, that’s what he thought. With a boy noting down the taxi’s registration, the police tailed him to the Army & Navy store in Victoria, and at 5:36pm, having positively ID’d him, following a violent struggle, he was arrested with the cocked pistol in his pocket, with three shots missing and four live still rounds in the magazine. Taken to Holborn Police Station, questioned by Detective Superintendent Raymond Dagg, Dr Abdullah made a confession, of sorts. In a pompous tone, he bragged “First of all, I am a psychiatrist of some standing, I have been successful”. At which DS Dagg just glared at him with rightful contempt. He waffled on, “I have been trying to uncover the behaviour patterns of British people. The four main points being integration, prejudice, the economic situation, I mean by that the class struggle”, at which mercifully before he could get to his fourth and possibly his eighty-fifth point, Dagg chipped in, “Don’t give me a bleeding sermon, sunshine, I want to know what happened tonight”. Only – being a supreme windbag - Abdullah droned on, “then there is the problem of prostitution, I have studied this as well”. Finally, having had enough of the doctor’s hot air, and keeping his cool as best he could, as although Rita was involved in the sex trade, Diana certainly was not, Dagg barked “but why shoot this girl?”. At which – with a slightly haughty huff at this imbecile before him, Abdullah groaned “that is the point, I shot the girl to shock the public, this is known in psychiatry as ‘shock tactics’ in an endeavour to change their behaviour pattern”. DS Dagg had no idea what this uptight arsewipe of a doctor was banging on about and had to get him to explain it in the simplest of terms. Abdullah huffed “when I was walking along, I accidentally touched her, she was rude to me, so to correct her, I shot her… with blanks”. “Blanks?”, DS Dagg retorted, “you used live rounds, that’s why she’s lying in a flipping hospital”. Dr Abdullah didn’t even blink, his study was complete, his methods were justified, and (at least in his mind) he had taught the British a lesson they would never forget. That was his alibi and his motive, it was weak, and yet, if his mission was to kill, again he had failed, as – miraculously - Diana had lived. A quick-thinking doctor had saved her life and she was on the road to a slow but certain recovery. Within a week he was forgotten, his study was dismissed, and his ‘shock tactics’ had failed. (Out) Tried at the Old Bailey on the 9th & 10th March 1967, Dr Abdullah pleaded not guilty to the attempted murder of Rita Rothery and Diana Sinclair, wounding with intent to cause GBH, and the possession of a firearm. There was no denying that he had committed these acts, but the real question was why. One doctor blamed the testosterone he had to inject daily which affected his aggression and libido, having heard from several nurses who had accused him of inappropriate behaviour. Another said it was exhaustion exacerbated by work and his recent bout of unemployment, mixed with the conflict of trying to live the life of a devout Muslim among the many temptations of an immoral world. But when he was examined by Dr Gibbons, his symptoms made sense; “he was euphoric and grandiose but gave facile explanations”. In prison, he wrote to The Queen asking “I humbly request a job as a jet pilot and I should also like to marry Princess Alexandra”, and following a string of delusions, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia – an illness that (when confronted with a possible life sentence for two attempted murders) a trained psychiatrist would know the symptoms of. But was this his ploy? Providing ludicrous alibis for both shootings, on the 13th of March 1967, all eight charges against Dr Abdullah were dropped, and declared insane, he was detained on a restriction order at Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital for an indefinite period. It is uncertain when he left the hospital, or if he ever did. But why did he shoot two random women? Was it his religion, his morals, or a mental illness; did he have a hatred of women, was he angry at being conned at a clip joint by the oldest trick in the book, or was it a study by a rogue psychiatrist to change British behaviour by using ‘shock tactics’? 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.
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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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