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.
2-3 Peter Street, Soho @Googlemaps2025 July2022
EPISODE THREE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN: On Monday the 12th of May 1975 at 2:40pm, two prostitutes on the first and second floors of 3 Peter Street were ‘entertaining’ their clients. With these small flats connected by a communal door, their punters rang the right bell for Jeanne, the left bell for ‘Sheila’ and were greeted on the stairwell by the correct prostitute’s maid. It was all very businesslike and efficient for these two professional woman.
But with a campaign of violence between rival gangs having torn apart this side of the city, as bad men did bad things for selfish reasons, two women would become the unwitting victims of ‘The Syndicate’.
THE LOCATION:
I've stopped adding the pin to the map, as MapHub are now demanding £8 a month, and I'll be damned if I'm forking out hard earned cash for something probably one person looks at a month.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from various archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How did a veteran prostitute shame one of Soho’s most infamous gangs? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing outside of 3 Peter Street in Soho, W1; the same building where Eliza Higgs wept after her baby was beaten to death by the babysitter, where Jacqueline Birri was murdered by a disgruntled client, where the eviction of Elizabeth Valad led her into the arms of a serial killer, and where one man poisoned hundreds in Soho, but didn’t learn his lesson - coming soon to Murder Mile. Oh yes, we’ve visited this building many times before in its grim and disturbing history. Currently it’s a designer boutique called Supreme, where kids (with legs like pipe-cleaners, faces devoid of smiles and an inability to wipe their arses without vlogging about it) queue up outside for hours in the hope of buying (what to me looks like) a bland white vest for £80, ripped jeans like a tramp’s used it to clean a barbed wire fence for £300, and some seriously ugly trainers that a rapper has exclusively puked on for a fee, only for the buyer to then instantly sell it to someone, who sells it to someone, who sells it to someone, none of whom ever wear or touch it, but frame it and film it as they tug themselves off. But the history of this building wasn’t always full of privilege and joy, but sex, greed and death. On Monday the 12th of May 1975 at 2:40pm, two prostitutes on the first and second floors of 3 Peter Street were ‘entertaining’ their clients. With these small flats connected by a communal door, their punters rang the right bell for Jeanne, the left bell for ‘Sheila’ and were greeted on the stairwell by the correct prostitute’s maid. It was all very businesslike and efficient for these two professional woman. But with a campaign of violence between rival gangs having torn apart this side of the city, as bad men did bad things for selfish reasons, two women would become the unwitting victims of ‘The Syndicate’. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 311: ‘The Hooker with the Heart of Gold’ For more than a century, Peter Street has been synonymous with one thing – sex. As a small impoverished dead-end (off Wardour Street and on the corner of Berwick Street market and Walker’s Court), Peter Street has always been a place of destitution and prostitution, as when there are vulnerable victims to exploit, there will always be monsters to rule and money to be made. Back in the 1970s at the precipice of its sordid squalor, bar a pub and a school, almost every building on this three storey street of shame either had a striptease, a peep show or a mucky bookshop on the ground floor, with a gambling den in the basement, and the small flats above converted into brothels. Like the uniform of a closet pervert, men in crumpled raincoats dashed from door-to-door with sweaty brows, flushed faces, a stiff walk and a tent pole in their pants, as they either snuck out with a brown paper bag of pure filth plastered with boobs and bush on every page, or upstairs passed a sign reading ‘model’ for three minutes of bored grimacing, only to be topped off with two pumps and a squirt. It was a stinking rancid cesspool frequented by drunks, addicts and deadbeats, avoided by cops (except those on the take) and with opposing dens of depravity being ran by rival gangs; tempers flared, blood was spilled, and soon, the stench of scorched skin would fill the air as bodies burned on Peter Street. The morning of Monday 12th of May 1975 was as ordinary as any other; the streets were grimy owing to the bin men being on strike, London was still reeling from the Moorgate tube crash, Britain had its first female leader of any British political party in Margaret Thatcher, and the Vietnam war was over. At 10am on the dot, being punctual as ever, the familiar shape and sassy swagger of 63-year-old ‘Jean’ entered Peter Street; she was sweet as a pie, happy as a canary and neat as a pin, with her hair always coiffured, her nails polished and never a ladder in her stockings, as she tottered in a fur coat and heels from her modestly stylish flat at 127 Mount Street in Mayfair, where as far as we know she lived alone. Jean’s real name was Jeanne Odette Juliette Western; she was born in France on the 11th of July 1911, she had lived in Soho and Fitzrovia since at least the Second World War, and was a veteran prostitute who had worked this neighbourhood for decades, being a mother-figure to any newbie on the streets. She was quiet, polite and never made any ripples. If she passed anyone in the street, she’d say “hello dear” and ask about their loved ones, but she rarely spoke about herself, so her mystery can only be gleaned in clues; being big-hearted, she regularly gave to cancer charities and fed the homeless children, Western was her married name and although she wore a ring, her husband was never seen, and although she was the proverbial ‘Hooker with the Heart of Gold’ who was punctual and polite, for years (if not decades) she had saved every spare penny she could to finally escape this life forever. To the side of the adult bookshop at 3 Peter Street, she polished the doorbell on the right as she entered the black door and ascended the thin wooden stairs. As usual, she waved to ‘Sheila’ Lawrence, a 35-year-old sex-worker in Flat 1 on the first floor, and as Jeanne ascended to Flat 2 on the second, she was greeted with a hot cup of tea by her maid, 56-year-old Mrs Pietrina Conzimu, known as Rena. Jeanne & Rena had worked together for years. Arriving early, Rena always got the flat ready. Split into two; the back-room consisted of a seating area for the clients, a kitchen hob where she made them a warm tea, a lockbox for the day’s takings, a radio to play something soothing and erotic, nudie mags on the table (as getting him hard was half the work), and in the front room was Jeanne’s bedroom, with a double bed, fresh sheets of pinks and lace, a vase of flowers, condoms and the smell of lavender. This is the way it had been for years; it was clean, relaxing and safe, but with the building being ran by the infamous Vassallo gang (long-established pimps from the Sicilian side of Malta), by 2:40pm, both flats would be engulfed in an inferno, and these two women would be burned beyond any recognition. Death would come to Peter Street as greedy men meted-out violence and vengeance… …but there was nothing that Jeanne & Rena had done to spark it, far from it. Prostitution had changed very little in the decades Jeanne had sold sex in Soho; cash was king, names were anonymous, girls were sold like cattle and rival gangs slashed and hacked to carve up the city for themselves. By war-time (and the sadistic era of the Soho Strangler who lay four prostitutes dead in his wake), the French pimps had lost control of the sex-trade as Roger Vernon was incarcerated, ‘Red Max’ Kassell lay dead in a ditch, and Maltese/Sicilian gangs like the Messina Brothers had muscled in. The Messina’s built the foundations of the Maltese strangle-hold on the West End sex-trade and what would later be known as ‘The Syndicate’. As a Sicilian criminal family from Malta whose father made his fortune enslaving vulnerable young girls to sell their bodies in seedy brothels, by the late 1940s, the Messina Brothers (Eugenio, Carmelo, Alfredo, Salvatore & Atillio) ran 30 brothels on Queen Street, Bond Street and Stafford Street, with 200 of London's most expensive prostitutes being Messina girls. Later bragging to the press, "we Messina’s are more powerful than the British Government. We do as we like in England", this was true, as having paid off most of the Met’ Police’s senior officers, they ran amok without arrest, kidnapping women from such exotic climbs as Belgium, France and Spain, and forcing them to marry their pimps who had ‘acquired’ British passports, they could never be deported. As little more than sex hostages forced to fornicate and fellate any passing drunken punter, working 12 hour shifts they would be beaten for any insolence, made to hand over 80% of their earnings, and many girls would be attacked as warnings to others like in 1948 with the brutal murder of ‘Ginger Rae’. By the 1950s, they were at the height of their powers, but as with Red Max, their rivals were circling. The Messina’s downfall came on the 3rd of September 1950, when investigative crime-reporter for The People newspaper Duncan Webb published a front-page article with the headline ‘arrest these men’, with a full expose of the names, dates and places of their criminal empire. With Parliament demanding that the Met’s corruption be stamped out, a task force under Superintendent Guy Mahon aggressively went after the brothers, and in March 1951, the Messina’s fled the country, leaving England forever. The collapse of the Messina’s empire didn’t end the Soho sex trade, as other Maltese and Sicilian gangs simply stepped in; one was the slightly depleted Vassallo Gang, and the other was called… …‘The Syndicate’. In a classic rise and fall story almost identical to the Messina’s, The Syndicate was headed by two men; Bernie Silver, a self-confessed “working-class East Ender with a taste for fine foods and flashy clothes”, who through prostitution, pornography and racketeering rose up the ranks as one of the West End’s most infamous crime-bosses; and Frank Mifsud known as ‘Big Frank’, an 18-stone ex-copper who made a name in Soho’s criminal underworld being known for his violent temper. He was also there in the Carlisle Club in 1948 when Amabile Ricca the so-called ‘Terror of Maltese London’ was murdered. Like the Messina’s, they started out small by bullying and threatening local businesses. Starting off with a strip-club on Brewer Street, by the late 1960s, the two owned 19 of Soho’s 24 strip-clubs, and although in 1956, Silver was charged with living off immoral earnings, even though there was evidence to convict, as happened a lot, oddly the judge closed this open-and-shut case and Silver walked free. Yet it was changes in the law which made The Syndicate both rich and powerful. Under the 1959 Street Offences Act, the maximum sentence for living off immoral earnings was seven years, and with sex-workers being fined £60 (£1700 today) for soliciting on the street, ‘The Syndicate’ moved it all inside. Between 1967 to 1972, they forcibly acquired the leaseholds and freeholds of between 25 to 30 flats in Soho; running strip-clubs in the basement, sex shops and even legitimate stores on the ground floor, and brothels above, of which the prostitutes paid them £100-a-week to rent, the equivalent of £3000. Owning clubs such as the Gigi, the Casbah, the Blue Moon, the Taboo, the Folies Bergères, the Metro, the Americana and El Morocco were real money-spinners, but the real cash-cows was their brothels. Sidestepping the law by placing postcards advertised in phone boxes, punters made appointments by phone, doormen ushered away any punters they suspected of being police, and Silver & Mifsud never met the girls, front men always collected the cash, and all premises were under someone else’s name. But for the girls, life was hard. To cover the exorbitant rent, many worked in 12 hour shifts, most were assaulted for not earning enough, and although ‘The Syndicate’ at its height collected over £100,000 in rents every week (that’s £1.9 million today), the girls were never protected from punters or pimps. ‘The Syndicate’ didn’t care about the girl’s, all they cared about was their own wealth and power. In court, Prosecutor Michael Corkery stated “these men have made a rich living”. Silver himself owned a deluxe Knightsbridge flat, a twin-engine yacht, a Rolls Royce, and properties in the Channel islands. With the 1964 Obscene Publications Act which criminalised the possession of anything ‘obscene’ for profit and gain, as the notoriously corrupt CID Commander Wally Virgo was on the take, as well as most of the Met’ Police’s Obscene Publications Squad, they bribed Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Moody to grant them a licence to sell pornography which made their premises immune to Police raids. The 1960s and 70s were dangerous times for prostitutes like Jeanne Western, as frictions between rival gangs escalated, especially on Peter Street, as The Blue City at No30 was ran by ‘The Syndicate’, and directly opposite at 2-3 Peter Street, Jeanne & Sheila worked in a brothel ran by the Vassallo Gang. With the Police in ‘The Syndicate’s pocket, the Vassallo’s sex shop and brothel was often raided by the Met’, who smashed and looted everything under the guise of the law, and even though these women were merely innocent pawns in an escalating war, every time they had to just sweep up and carry on. Prostitutes were frequently victims of assaults by rivals gangs, and with so many of their colleagues being murdered by pimps and punters alike – whether Dutch Leah, French Marie, French Fifi, Ginger Rae, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Lowe, Doris Jouanette, Rosa O’Neill, and Jacqueline Birri at 3 Peter Street in 1961 shortly Jeanne moved in, they received no protection from either the Police or their pimps… …especially as this raging war escalated. The 1960s and 70s saw a spate of petrol-bombings at strip-clubs and brothels in Soho as rival gangs vied for control, three of which in 1966 and 67 were committed by Anthony Cauchi & Tony Galea, but as the gang-leaders always keep their hands clean, it was said to have been arranged by Frank Mifsud; one which occurred at The Gigi Club at 62 Frith Street, as we’ve covered in ‘The Five Shilling Striptease’. Convicted of manslaughter in 1969, Maltese ‘front man’ John Borg (of the Vassallo Gang) was said to have been offered £4000 to ‘take the rap’ for an unnamed ‘vice king’, but instead, he vanished with £20000 of the gangster’s money, and in 1978, he was found burned to death in a bedsit in Shoreditch. And during their rise to power, in 1956, a protection racketeer called Tommy ‘Scarface’ Smithson, who was attempting to take control of the sex-trade in Soho, was gunned down at ‘Blondie Bate’s’ boarding house in Maida Vale having been shot in the arm and the neck by a Maltese gunman called Philip Ellul. Convicted of murder alongside Victor Spampinato, Ellul escaped the death penalty, he served 11 years in prison, and by 1974, being found sleeping rough on a park bench in San Francisco, although he had agreed to give evidence against the man who organised the hit – Frank Mifsud – reneging as he feared for his life, this was another piece in the puzzle which saw the downfall and collapse of ‘The Syndicate’. In 1969 and 1973, with an expose by The Times and News of the World newspapers unravelling their criminal network, Silver & Mifsud rapidly started destroying their files and selling off their properties, the crime group broke-up and - before their clubs could be raided by the Met’s new anti-corruption ‘gangbuster’ Detective Chief Superintendent Albert Wickstead - being tipped-off by corrupt officers at Scotland Yard, Mifsud fled to Switzerland, Silver to France, but falsely believing that the case was being shutdown by his bent coppers, Silver returned to England was arrested on the 30th of December 1973. DCS Wickstead and his team raided every club and brothel ran by ‘The Syndicate’, and with a detailed ledger found at the home of Silver’s associate Jimmy Humphreys which listed all of their pay-offs to the Police, Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Moody was sentenced to 12 years in prison, and the 1967-77 corruption trials led to 13 detectives being convicted and sentenced to a total of 90 years. From the 20th of September 1974 for the next four months, ‘The Syndicate’s ringleaders Bernie Silver and Frank Mifsud (extradited from Switzerland) were tried at the Old Bailey before Justice Geoffrey Lane. Along with their ‘front men’; Anthony Mangton, Romeo Saliba, Frank Melito, Emmanuel Bartolo, Victor Micaleff, Lawrence Agious, Nazarene Galea, Frederick Brett, Vincent Stevens and Joseph Mifsud (Frank’s brother), all pleaded ‘not guilty’ to conspiring to live wholly or partly off the immoral earnings of prostitutes; with Micaleff, Misfud and Brett also accused of the kidnap, bribery and assault of one of the Crown’s witnesses, Frank Dyer, who was merely a bit-player in 'The Syndicate’s network. On the 24th of September 1974, with Silver & Mifsud being practically invisible as they kept their names off all paperwork and did most of their dealings through middlemen, desperate to prove they were the ringleaders, the Crown called their key witness; Francis Vassallo, a “self-confessed ponce” and so-called nightclub owner who had worked at the Blue Moon Club “making membership cards” for ‘The Syndicate’ which were used in evidence, he even stated, he had a conversation with Victor Micaleff, who openly bragged about their business, their methods, and the strip-clubs and brothels they ran. Found ‘guilty’ on the 20th of December 1974, their paltry sentences led some to suspect that the jury had been paid-off; Melito, Micaleff & Mifsud (Frank’s brother) got just two years, Romeo Saliba agreed to return to Malta so he walked free, Micallef & Brett were found ‘not guilty’ of kidnapping, Bartolo & Mangton got 5 years plus a £10-15k fine, and although the ringleaders of this multi-million pound gang which left hundreds of women beaten, broken and even dead, Bernie Silver was sentenced to 6 years with a £30k fine, and Frank Mifsud to just five years. Upon appeal, they were both acquitted. It was a pitiful example of the law only serving the rich and the powerful. ‘The Syndicate’ was dead... …but what had this got to do with Jeanne Western? Nothing, nothing at all. It was never said whether the order came down from the top, as bosses like Silver & Mifsud never got their hands dirty, but the target was the Crown’s key witness who had fingered them, Francis Vassallo. From his cell in Wormwood Scrubs prison, it was said, Victor Micaleff (front-man for the now-defunct ‘Syndicate’) arranged for his cousin, Joseph Frendo, a minicab driver from Stepney to put a hit on this rat. To give himself an alibi, he’d ensure he was visiting Victor in prison at the time that the incendiary bomb exploded, and having allegedly hired two Maltese men - John Everett (his alias) and Alfred Tabone (a bookmaker’s boy) - to plant it, he would miles away when Francis Vassallo died by inferno. The problem was, having blabbed to the Police (some say to erase his own crimes as a pimp who lived off his wife’s sex work), Vassallo feared for his life and knowing that – soon – he’d be as good as dead with a hole in his head and his bullet-riddled body found rotting in a boggy ditch, he had fled to Malta. Francis Vassallo was gone, but they didn’t need to kill him to kill him. As a ‘message’ of the fate which awaited him when they found him, they just needed to kill the one person he loved - his wife Margaret. The afternoon of Monday 12th of May 1975 was clammy, and although Peter Street stunk of jizz, fag ash and rotting litter as the bin men were on strike, it was so warm, they had to open a few windows. At roughly 2:40pm, half an hour before the school closed (and like clockwork, the sex-workers shut their curtains so the kiddies couldn’t see the sweaty slap-and-tickle within), the mucky bookshop at 3 Peter Street had a spattering of perverts perusing the plethora of porn, and in the two flats above, the brothel was busy as usual. On the first floor, ‘Sheila’ Lawrence was ‘finishing off’ a nervous young man, as on the second, Jeanne Western had a regular, 45-year-old Pias Schemebri of Stoke Newington. Jeanne had many regulars, as being a veteran of the sex-trade, she was efficient without being pushy, she was polite and quiet which made her an unlikely target of a drunken attack, and to quell any nerves of an anxious punter, she would often whistle a little ditty or hug them to her motherly bosom. As usual, Rena, her maid was in the backroom making a lukewarm cup of tea as the next client sat in an armchair waiting, and the radio played something soothing and erotic, as in Jeanne’s pink and lace bedroom, Jeanne was pumped by Pias for £3, as the air hung with the smell of sperm and lavender. But although ‘love-making’ emanated from the window, death was coming to Peter Street. Outside the black front-door stood the bomber and his look-out, said to be Everett & Tabone, clutching a crude incendiary bomb made of a glass bottle of petrol, a shotgun shell and a simple blasting fuse. They pressed the bell to ‘Flat 2’ – Jeanne’s flat, as always Rena answered “hello?”, “I’m here for business” (being code for sex), Rena buzzed him in, and she waited by the open second floor door. Yet he never came. The explosion sounded like a sharp pop, nothing more, as the flames erupted on the bend of the stairs between the ground and first floor, and with the front door and the window of Jeanne’s flat left open, a wind tunnel of fire whipped-up the stairs like the red hot tip of a dragon’s tongue; scorching the tinder dry walls of the stairs, and bursting through both rooms of Jeanne’s flat. Only Jeanne wasn’t their target, and neither was Rena. The bombers had made a simple mistake. They had rang the bell for ‘Flat 2’, Jeanne’s flat, whereas one floor below in ‘Flat 1’ was ‘Sheila Lawrence’, a Maltese woman whose husband had recently fled England and her real name was Margaret Vassallo. ‘Sheila’ recalled “I was trapped half-way up the stairs screaming, surrounded by flames. Suddenly, a man called Budgie grabbed my arm” and dragged her from the inferno, as the fire enveloped the building, smoked poured from every window, and the blaze on the second-floor licked the roof tiles. Six people coughed and sputtered in the street; three from the bookshop, as well as Budgie, ‘Sheila’ and ‘Sheila’s maid, but three were missing, their pained screams emanating from the top flat. Through a hot dense cloud of black smoke, the naked frame of Jeanne’s client, Pias Schemebri was precariously balanced on the sill, flames around him, and seeing no way out, he jumped from the highest window. Hitting the road hard after a 25 foot fall, he broke his back, and although in pain, at least he was alive. Inside, Jeanne struggled toward the window; with every breath she inhaled fire, every bead of sweat boiled, every hair singed, her skin was peeling and blistered, and her lingerie had melted into her skin. Crawling over the broken glass of the shattered window, blinded, Jeanne jumped for her life, and with the fall breaking her ribs, wrists, face, puncturing a lung and several other injuries it was impossible to determine, although alive, her body lay splayed in the middle of Peter Street still smoking and burning. Her maid, Rena wasn’t so lucky. Being trapped in the back-room, unable to get to a door or window, although alive but unrecognisable, she was later found unconscious cowering beside the dressing table. Both women were rushed to Roehampton hospital, a specialist in burns, but they died of their injuries. In her statement, ‘Sheila’ Lawrence ironically stated “I hope to God I’m not next… a few weeks ago in Berwick Street there was a similar fire at the house of some friends of mine, another in Romilly Street” and this was the third. And although the press speculated that a “maniac was on the loose”, Detective Chief Superintendent Albert Wickstead, the gangbuster who had broken up ‘The Syndicate’ knew just what this was – so by Saturday, Joseph Frendo & Alfred Tabone had been charged with murder. (End) But as I’ve already said, the law only serves the rich and the powerful. Silver & Mifsud denied involvement, Everett was never found, Micaleff had a cast-iron alibi, and with not enough evidence against Tabone, he was freed. Joseph Frendo was tried at the Old Bailey on the lesser charges of ‘conspiracy to cause an explosion and to endanger life’, and although found guilty, he was acquitted on appeal, and the deaths of Jeanne Western and Rena Conzimu remains ‘unsolved’. Likewise, on the 8th of July 1975, when the collapse of ‘The Syndicate’ led to both Silver & Mifsud being convicted of their part in the 1956 murder of Tommy ‘Scarface’ Smithson, Mifsud was acquitted, and although Silver was sentenced to life for conspiracy to murder, again he was cleared on appeal. The gang who had brought so much misery to Soho had filled their pockets full of cash, made many lawyers and detectives very wealthy, and they lived long happy lives having served no time for their crimes. Even today, people still worship these gangsters as if their grubby little actions are worthy of praise, but even in death, the woman they had killed would bring shame on the petty deeds of ‘The Syndicate’. Said to be a kindly mother-figure, when Jeanne’s will was read, being frugal, she had amassed £32,000 for her retirement (almost half a million pounds today). But with no children and a husband to inherit it, she bequeathed her entire fortune to the three charities (which it was said helped her husband in his dying days); Cancer Research, Imperial Cancer Research Fund and the Institute of Cancer Research – as even in her death, she continued to help others, whereas ‘The Syndicate’ only helped themselves. A spokesman for the Imperial Cancer Research Fund said “we are extremely grateful for this money, no matter where it comes from”, as Jeanne truly was the proverbial ‘hooker with the heart of gold’. 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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