Triple nominated at the True Crime Awards and nominated Best British True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards, also hailed as 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
The dead-end of Caxton Road in Shepherd's Bush, W12 (@Googlemaps2025 / April 2024)
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 London's West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO: Saturday 19th of December 1992 at 2:20pm, behind a wooden hut at White City bus depot off Caxton Road in Shepherd's Bush, the body of 32-year-old successful Peter Wickins was found, he was naked except for a pair of socks and had been stabbed 19 times. The Police assumed because he was a millionaire dressed in a tuxedo and that his Rolex watch was missing, that it must be a robbery gone wrong. But it led to a story which was much darker, as one of life’s winners... met one of life's losers.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a blue symbol of a 'P' just under the words 'Shepherd's Bush'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from the news archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Caxton Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W12; one street north of the First Date Killer’s garage, two streets west of the Devil’s Child’s home, a few doors down from the Shoe Box Killer’s last murder, and a short walk from the charred remains of the deadbeat - coming soon to Murder Mile. Beyond the dead-end that is Caxton Road stands Westfield, 2.6 million square feet of shops for the middle classes. To keep the yummy mummy’s in and the ne’er-do-wells out, there’s no chicken shops, arcades or doss holes where bored ‘yoofs’ can sit for hours listening to the same beat through a tinny speaker, where they walk like they’ve had a stroke as their baggy trousers scrape along the floor, and talk like old grannies (“oh my days bruv”/“oh my days Enid”, “dygetme bruv”/“what did you say Enid?”). Prior to its opening in 2008, this was the White City bus depot, a vast terminus where the buses parked up overnight to be washed, cleaned and refuelled, yet all that remains are the large red-brick Grade II listed Dimco buildings, which stood in for the ACME factory in the film ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit’. It’s a wonderful movie full of merriment, mirth and joy, and yet, just six years later, that same location would – in real life – become a scene of abject horror, as a good man had suffered a terrifying death. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 292: One of Life’s Winners. Saturday 19th of December 1992 was the last weekend before Christmas, and although every ounce of festive cheer was being wrung-out like tepid water from a dirty dishcloth, a half-cut Santa in a filthy polyester suit and the ear-splitting wail of ungrateful sprogs only made the mood more grim, because as happens every Christmas, there was no snow, just grey cloud, howling wind and a perpetual drizzle. Surrounded by two-storey houses, Caxton Road was abruptly halted by an unmanned iron gate leading to the bus depot, and although inaccessible to passengers, it was always busy, since night buses began in 1913. At 2:20pm, having parked up his Routemaster, bus-driver Patrick McConnell headed from the garage, passed a 30 foot patch of scrubland beside the gate, and towards ‘the hut’, a small pre-fabricated shed made of hardboard. It was basic, being fitted with a kettle, cups, tea, newspapers and (if it was actually working) a gas powered heater, and kept the drivers warm and occupied during their tea-breaks. But it was as Patrick approached the gate, that something sinister made his blood run cold – a dead body. Face down lay the body of a man in his 30s, his pale skin rippled with a blue hue stood out against the nettles and thorns, there was no attempt to hide him as he wasn’t covered in leaves, a coat or an old tarpaulin, and as Patrick stated “if it’d been put 20 yards in, it wouldn’t have been found for a year” With the Police alerted, the investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Brian Edwards. There were several theories which sprung to mind; first, being a courtyard where “no-one could enter without being seen”, drivers stated that “it definitely wasn’t there at 11pm” when the night shift came on duty, so why was he dumped there, was it deliberate or did his killers panic? Second; being naked except for a pair of black socks, possibly he was gay, only there was no evidence of a rape. Third, with an autopsy proving he’d been stabbed five times in the chest with 14 additional wounds to his hands, arms and face, that he’d been attacked with violence and hatred. And fourth, having been stripped of his watch, wallet and any ID, was this a gangland hit, a business rival or a robbery which went wrong? With a faint drizzle having washed away any usable DNA and the body without tattoos or birthmarks, the Police had no idea who he was, but with his hair neat, his teeth good and his physique healthy and groomed, being clearly affluent, the victim wasn’t the kind of man who would go missing for long. Peter Wickins was one of life’s winners. Born in the cathedral city of Chichester in West Sussex on the 10th of July 1960, Peter James Wickins was the youngest of six children to John & Mary. Raised in an upper-middle-class family, although born into privilege, he wasn’t entitled or arrogant, and never took money as something to be squandered. Described as a handsome boy with an easy smile, although educated at Seaford, a prestigious public school, his friends said he was “cheerful and straightforward”, he was clever but not boastful, popular but not attention-seeking, his nickname was ‘Gummage’ (after Worzel Gummage) but he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge so he took it as harmless fun, and being well respected, “he delighted everyone with his innate charm and gentle nature… being a man of talent, spontaneity, joy and moral fibre”. What made him so well-adjusted was his upbringing, as with his father, John, alongside his dad’s brother David, being the co-founder of British Car Auctions Ltd, the world’s biggest used car auction – despite their father’s tragic death when they were teens – from the ashes of the Second World War, they build an empire off the back of hard work and graft, and living a good life, they both retired early. As a mini mirror of his father, money didn’t spoil Peter, as struggle and success was in his blood. Leaving school aged 16 with several O’Levels, he could have gone to college then university, but didn’t, as what he wanted was to run his own business. His father said, “he did well, he had tried a few things that didn’t come to anything, but he was determined to find his own ideas and make them succeed”. In 1990, following the worldwide launch of the Super Nintendo games console, having already made a killing selling Ludo and Monopoly, Peter and his business partner Neil Taylor set up a company called Game, a computer and board game retailer which over the next two years expanded from an office in Surbiton to 13 high street stores across the UK, and that year, it was expected to turnover £14 million. But for Peter it wasn’t all about profit, as being proud and respected, Dawn, a former employee would say “he was always grateful for anything you did, he was not someone to look down on you… he was very dedicated… and used to say to me ‘just imagine, when we get big, you can say I started here’”. By his early 30’s, Peter was a multi-millionaire, although anyone who passed him in the street wouldn’t know it; as his clothes were stylish but not flashy, his manner was polite and humble, he drove an 8-year old Mercedes 190-E as it was reliable, he lived in an unassuming one-bedroomed flat at 352 King’s Road, and although he owned a little cottage called Bakers Barn in the leafy Hampshire village of Kingsley, he let his friend Emma live there on the condition that he could stay if he needed a retreat. Some thought that Peter and Emma were a couple, but they weren’t. With his parents having been happily married for 50 plus years, he steered away from romantic relationships and in the Leap Year of 1988, he even turned down a proposal from Jessica Sainsbury, heiress to the £2 billion Sainsbury’s supermarket empire, as being so focussed on his business, he didn’t want it to ruin any marriage. As the Christmas of 1992 approached, Peter was busy having opened a new shop in Aberdeen. Profits were up and the future looked great with new games like Terminator 2, Spiderman and Alien 3 hitting the shelves, and as the cherry on the cake, his company had been nominated as 'Retailer of the Year'. As one of life’s winners, Peter was reaping his well-earned rewards… …but it all came crashing down, when he bumped into one of life’s losers. Sealed off by Police tape, his naked body lay among the nettles, dumped behind a bus drivers ‘hut’. Photos were taken, swab samples examined and more than 400 potential witnesses were interviewed, but by the first week of January, detectives had no idea how he had got there nor who had killed him. Keen to establish a timeline, they appealed for any taxi-drivers who may have picked him up that night with Peter’s father offering a £15000 reward for information “praying it finds our son’s murderer”. As for the initial theories, being a charming and hard-working businessman, he had no known enemies who wished him ill; he didn’t lead a secret life as a homosexual, in fact with adult magazines in his flat, it was known that he used of high-class prostitutes; but most likely, because of how he was dressed and that his wallet, gold-cufflinks and a £7000 Rolex watch was missing, a botch robbery seemed likely. Friday 18th of December 1992 was a special day for Peter Wickins. Immaculately dressed in a tailored tuxedo with shiny shoes, cummerbund and a bow tie, as he entered a pre-awards cocktail party in Chelsea, he looked like the millionaire he was, and although he didn’t like getting tarted up like a penguin, tonight was about the recognition he deserved for his hard work. Arriving at the Portman Hotel in Marylebone at 7pm, Peter and a colleague joined a table of ten in the beautifully-bedecked ballroom, surrounded by three journalists from Computer Weekly. The night was about business, but having earned it, he kicked back with a few flutes of bubbly, a swanky dinner of palette de salmon fume and parfait amaretto, they were entertained by the band Atlantic Soul Machine as well as comedians Frank Carson and Jack Dee, and to top it all off, that night, they won. Game, his company won ‘Retailer of the Year’, after just two years in business, smashing its rivals. He accepted the award on behalf of his team, he gave a very gracious speech, he shook hands with his fellow nominees without sounding like he was gloating, and although the awards finished at 10:30pm, he carried on knocking back the bubbly until the bar had shut and the last of the stragglers had gone. At 2:30am, he said his goodbyes, and with his speech slurred but his mood jubilant, he hopped into a cab. It was there that the investigation into his movements ended, as he disappeared into the night… …but no-one can truly vanish, especially one of life’s winners like Peter Wickins. It took two months, a terrified witness and a simple mistake by his killer to pin down his final moments, and although detectives had scoured every place he was said to frequent, he was only 6 minutes away. Flagging down a taxi, at his request, he was dropped off beside the London Hilton. He wasn’t staying at the hotel, but the junction of Park Lane and Hertford Street is a regular pick-up place for prostitutes, and with no woman in his life to celebrate his good fortune, he sought out a high-class sex-worker. As a tall and willowy brunette in a black sequined mini-dress, a fur coat, stockings and suspenders, 32-year-old Frances Graham later said “he came towards me and asked ‘what’s a nice girl like you doing up here?”, I said ‘what’s a nice boy like you doing likewise?’”. He liked her, she thought he was kind, a price was agreed (£250) and he got into her battered old Ford Fiesta and was driven to her flat. Like Peter, she came from privilege. Born in Shrewsbury, Shropshire, Frances Wright was the daughter of Jimmy Wright, one of the pioneers of the British brick industry and chairman of Blockley’s in Telford. Raised in wealth, she was educated at a private grammar school where she attained three A-levels, and dreaming of becoming a model, she moved down south to study at the London Institute of Beauty. But whereas Peter’s upbringing made him hardworking and humble, Frances sought out a shallow and self-absorbed life of fame and celebrity. Falling in love with and ultimately marrying Matthew Graham a heroin addict, which led to her parents cutting her off, cocaine consumed her life and her ambition, and with her husband dying of an overdose, by 1989 as an addict herself, all she had left was her looks. To Peter, she was stunning, she spoke well and her breeding shone through, but it was all a façade. Her high class life was a mess, as having hooked up with 22-year-old Gordon Topen, a huge 6 foot 6 inch hulk with a thick set build, terrifying eyes, and a temper which swung from ice cold and raging fire, to fund their drug habit, while he burgled houses, he had her slept with at least 20 men a week… …one of whom was Peter Wickins. Driving 4 miles south-west and coincidentally passing his own flat, at roughly 3:15am, the Ford Fiesta pulled up at Lancaster Court, a series of five and six storey red-brick council blocks built after the war. The cold wind and soaking drizzle had set in, so as they dashed out of the concrete car park with the broken down wrecks, passed the stinking bins and into the foul-smelling graffitied lift, within the only six-storey block on the corner of Kelvedon Road and Darlan Road, they rose up to the sixth floor… …but within minutes, Peter would be dead. Entering her flat, it was basic but confused, it was messy with a hint of class, as next to a vase of fresh flowers sat a half full ashtray, beside a fruit bowl lay an empty pizza box, and surrounding a decent but cheap piece of art was a wall of 1980s action films on VHS. To the left, beyond a closed door was the front room and kitchen, only she led him to the right, passed the bathroom and into the bedroom. This wasn’t love, this was business. As is the way, as Peter placed £250 on the bedside table, Frances showed him what he was buying as she stripped down to her stockings and suspenders. There was no kissing or cuddling, as that was extra, so being aroused and wanting to get down to the dirty, Peter took off his tux’ until he was naked, with the last piece of clothing to be removed being his black socks. It was then, that they should have had sex… only they didn’t. At 4am, having spent the night burgling houses, Frances’ boyfriend Gordon Topen arrived home at the flat they shared. He told the Police “Fran was in the front room smoking a pipe of crack. She was coked out of her eyeballs”, as the fug of caustic chemicals muddled her brain. Seeing her eyes wide and red raw from crying, as he walked into the bedroom, “I was knocked out to find a dead body”, naked and bloody, “there was claret everywhere”, as having been viciously stabbed, “it was all around his groin”. He said he didn’t call the Police because of the burglaries, the drugs and because “I was protecting my missus”, as with their regular dealer – an Iranian called Ali Mishrafi – “having planned to roll or clip the geezer and it had gone wrong”, they meant to beat-up and rob him, but it hadn’t gone to plan. Being three hours before dawn, he knew they had to get the body as far away as possible, as being the last weekend before Christmas, a throng of eagle-eyed shoppers and their sprogs would be awake. In the flat, they stuffed his tuxedo, shirt and underpants into a black bin bag. Removing anything which could identify him – his wallet, his watch, his cufflinks – Gordon wrapped the pale bloodied body in the badly stained bedsheets. Wheeling a Safeway’s trolley up to the sixth floor, being a 6 foot 6 inch hulk, it took no effort for Gordon to heave Peter’s 12 stone body into the trolley, and under the cover of night, having bundled it into the boot of her car, they drove 2.5 miles north to Shepherd’s Bush. Gordon told the Police “we drove to The Bush, as it’s the only place I could think where there wouldn’t be anybody… the bus garage”, as he’d burgled houses on that street before, and knew it was quiet. Pulling up into the unlit dead-end of Caxton Road, maybe it was his plan to hide the body under a coat or an old tarpaulin in the small patch of scrubland to the right, but with the bus depot crawling with cleaners, drivers, mechanics and the courtyard “impossible to enter without being seen”, he panicked. Desperate to get in, dump it and be gone before anyone saw them, with the neighbouring houses in darkness and no CCTV cameras on this side of the garage, he dragged the body behind the bus driver’s hut, and fled. Nobody saw him, nobody heard him, and the body wasn’t spotted for the next 9 hours. As far as we know, the bloody bedsheets and all of the clothing was destroyed, possibly being dumped, but most likely being burned on wasteland. The flat was thoroughly scrubbed with strong bleach so that – two months later – when the forensics team examined it, not a drop of blood or strand of hair was found by their primitive techniques of that era, and he claimed that did it to protect his girlfriend. Interviewed by the Police, that’s what Gordon confessed… … and yet everything he said was a lie. Ten hours later, at 2:20pm, as bus-driver Patrick McConnell discovered the naked and savaged corpse of Peter Wickins beside the bus depot, Frances said “Gordon showered me with gifts that day”, as he pawned off Peter’s gold cufflinks for £95 and to a pal, he sold his £7000 Rolex Submariner for £1500. When the case collapsed and Peter’s father John made an emotional plea for witnesses and offered a £15,000 reward for information to find his son’s killer, Gordon didn’t care about the aching pain he had caused and was exacerbating with his silence, as having blown every penny on heroin and crack, he was off causing chaos to more people’s lives by burgling their homes and pawning their possessions. Gordon’s alibi about the Iranian drug dealer was utter hogwash, and although that’s the testimony he gave in a court of law, Prosecutor Alan Suckling stated “you heard him give evidence. He had a rather cool, flip attitude. What he did was cool and callous”. And although he blamed the murder on his own girlfriend, Frances, in the Police interview, he never once asked what happened, whose knife it was or who had stabbed Peter, or why, with the Prosecution stating “the reason is he knew how it happened and where the knife was because he had done it”. And more importantly, Frances had denied his alibi. This wasn’t a robbery, this was rage by an addict who was fuelled by his paranoid jealousy. Gordon Topen was a uncouth thug, a thick-set yob with terrifying eyes who lived perpetually in a state of anger, confusion and paranoia. He had no plans except getting high and no hope of any redemption. Frances Graham was pretty, posh and she still had a chance at a life less dreadful. With her not totally rejected by her parents, she lived off a £100-a-week family trust fund and desperate to return to a life of privilege, although he forced her to sell her body, it drove him mad every time she slept with a man. Two years earlier, the film Pretty Women was released, in which Julia Roberts plays a prostitute who’s dreams come true when a handsome and wealthy stranger played by Richard Gere picks her up. It was no coincidence that Frances was a high class hooker who scoured the affluent streets of Mayfair for a wealthy man to have sex with, and – by chance – the man who picked her was a charming millionaire. Maybe this was her dream, or maybe it was her chance to escape? Many men were bought back to their flat while Gordon was out committing burglaries. He would have known about it, having found condoms, smelling aftershave and the bedsheets being warm and soiled, but by the Christmas of 1992, their relationship had soured, as he believed Frances had a secret lover. That night, as Frances ushered Peter into the flat, this wasn’t love as she had only just met him, and even though she quite liked him, this was business, as she led him to the bedroom and they undressed. But behind the closed door to the left, the front room wasn’t empty, as Gordon stewed after another failed night of burglaries; a pizza eaten, a few beer sunk and having injected his veins with heroin. As his groggy eyes fluttered open from his stupor, the first thing he smelled was a high quality aftershave, the next thing he heard was the charming and witty banter of a man who through a crack in the door was dressed in a tuxedo, wearing an expensive Rolex, and he felt was the kind of man Frances fancied. Hearing the sounds of giggling coming from within his bedroom, with his pulse racing and his paranoid brain foggy in a jealous rage, from the kitchen, he grabbed a four and a half inch single bladed knife. They hadn’t had sex, as Peter was still in his socks, but as Frances later confessed “Gordon stormed in with a manic look… it was a face I remember. When he looks like that he’s totally out of control. I thought he was going to kill me, but Peter turned around and he went for him”. Terrified, she fled over the bed, and crawled into the corner, crying and screaming, as the blade sliced into Peter’s flesh. Being unarmed and with nowhere to escape as the deranged maniac blocked the door and the window led to a six storey plummet, Peter tried to wrestle his way passed the seething brute, but with Gordon being six stone heavier, a foot taller and slicing at his face and arms wildly with a razor sharp knife, being slashed 14 times as he fought to defend himself, two stabs to the heart and lung proved fatal. Flailing about as blood pumped from his body, although Peter pleaded “this has gone far enough. I need a doctor”, Gordon fumed “you ain’t going nowhere’, as every time he tried to flee he was thrown back in, and getting colder and weaker, it was as his blood-soaked body staggered that Peter collapsed. Even before Peter was dead, Gordon had stripped him of anything of value, before he was cold he had dumped the body beside a bus depot like it was rubbish and having ordered Frances to clean up, when she asked “why did you do it?”, he beat her about the face and stomach, telling her it was all her fault. “But why kill him, he was only a punter?” she pleaded, yet his reply summed it all up, “he didn’t look like one to me”, as although Frances & Peter were strangers, to Gordon they were secret lovers. (End) The investigation turned when the appeal asked for help in finding Peter’s £7000 Rolex Submariner, and with its buyer coming forward, on the 10th of February, 7 weeks later, Gorden Topen was arrested. Desperate to escape her violent boyfriend, Frances stated “I knew the moment I made my statement to the police – because of his character – that a contract would be put out on my life”. Terrorising her while he was on remand at Brixton Prison, he telephoned her threatening “I’ll kill not only your sister, but your whole family”, so with her the key witness, she was given 24-hour protection in safe house. Tried at the Old Bailey from Monday 8th of November 1993 to Friday 12th, Gordon Topen pleaded guilty to helping Frances dispose of the body, but not guilty of murder. With the jury of ten men and two women deliberating for 4 hours and 20 minutes, on Thursday 11th, he was found guilty of all charges on a 10-2 majority. Sentenced to life in prison, as he was led from the dock, he scowled at the jury. Summing up, Judge Kenneth Richardson QC declared the murder as “dreadful and callous”, and even though the trail was painful to bear, Peter’s family said “we’re delighted that justice has been done”. 9 years into his sentence and refusing to accept responsibility for his heinous crime, on Friday 9th April 2004, Topen escaped the lacklustre security of Group 4 (now G4S) while having a blood transfusion at Walsgrave Hospital in Coventry. Fearing he would track down and kill Frances, a warning was issued across the media that a “violent and dangerous murderer was on the loose”, but having changed her identity, he didn’t find her but he was looking, as on 20th of April, he was arrested in Shepherd’s Bush. With additional years added to his sentence for his escape and bad behaviour, parole date is uncertain. Peter Wickins was buried in St Mary the Virgin cemetery in Amberley, West Sussex. He worked hard, he was liked, and he strived for success. But having eschewed any romance to build his business and reap his rightful rewards, it’s tragic that one of life’s winners would be murdered by one of life’s losers. 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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