Five time nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at the True Crime Awards, Independent Podcast Award and The British Podcast Awards, and voted 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
139 Upper Street, Islington (today) @Googlemap2025 Aug2023
This is Part One of Two of 'Fat Fred'.
On Tuesday 29th of September 1971, Malcolm Heaysman, co-owner of a fancy-dress shop in Islington was brutally murdered outside of his remote farmhouse in Gwynfe near Llangadog, Carmarthenshire. Being 40 days into a 45 day man hunt, Police were seeking Britain’s no1 villain infamously known as ‘Fat Fred’ having stolen £3.2 million in a jewellery heist, and in a 3 mile car chase, he sparked a national outrage by killing a policeman, and attempting to kill three others. But what connected him to the murder of this mild-mannered fancy-dress shop owner?
THE LOCATION: (my Soho map I stopped updating as MapHub were demanding money)
This location is marked with a yellow P on the right hand side.
THE SOURCES: (this is a handful of those used)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: How did a playboy car-dealer become ‘Britain’s most hated man’? Find out on Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing outside of 139 Upper Street in Islington, N1; two roads north of the spat which ignited the Golden Goose killing, two roads east of the last lunch of ‘Ginger Rae’, and three roads west of the unsolved Christmas Day murder of the Kentish Town copper - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 139 stands a four-storey brown-bricked Victorian terraced house with an Italian eatery called Terra Rosa on the ground-floor. Like all Italian restaurants, we believe this authentic cuisine is centuries old having been passed down from Momma Maria to Uncle Luigi to Poppa Guiseppe in a Naples kitchen, when in truth garlic bread, spaghetti meatballs, Caesar salad and pepperoni pizza is not from Italy. We believe it because we want to believe it, as life is about truth, but it’s also about secrets and lies. Back in 1971, 139 Upper Street was a fancy dress shop called Beck's Carnival Novelties which rented and sold costumes, bunting, magic, masks and make-up around the world; with its factory at the back where the Almeida Theatre now stands, it had storage space in the attic, and above the shop was the home of 46-year-old Malcolm Heaysman, his new wife, Rose, and occasionally, his step-son, Roy. This was the home where Malcolm & Rose had lived as ‘man and wife’, and on the night of the 28th of September 1971 where Malcolm began his ill-fated drive to Wales. But how did a jewellery heist, a car chase, three attempted murders, a national outrage, and the killing of a cop by Britain’s no1 villain infamously known as ‘Fat Fred’ connect to the murder of this mild-mannered fancy-dress shop owner? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 321: ‘Fat Fred’ – Part 1. We’re born into a life, but for many, it’s not the life they wish to lead. Malcolm Heaysman was born on the 13th of July 1925 in Lambeth, South London, a grimy impoverished metropolis thick with the chocking smog of cars, trains and cranes that he lived among but never liked. Some said it was his dissatisfaction with his life that lead to his death; as he lived in the city, but loved the country, he often shunned his first name instead using his middle names of Ian and Donald, and said to dress like a ‘proper old farmer Giles’, he wore checked woollen suits and open-necked shirts. Described as shy, insecure and only confident when drunk or in the privacy of his own house, Malcolm was the son of Donald & Gladys Heaysman, and being raised amongst the colourful costumes and the sharp illusions of Beck's Carnival Novelties, this business became his life, whether he liked it or not. Established in 1919, oddly even their business was an illusion of sorts, as Malcolm was known locally as ‘Mr Beck’s, Gladys as ‘Bebe Quantock’, the shop and factory were on different streets and yet they were connected at the rear, and although this converted cinema had enough space for all their stock, Malcolm kept the attic room above their flat locked, which he claimed was full of Union Jack bunting. But everyone has their secrets and very few are sinister, so with Malcolm having run this legitimate business well since 1966, with Gladys & Donald well into their retirement, the plan was to sell-up the shop, the factory and the whole kitten-caboodle for the tidy sum of £43,000 (roughly £750,000 today). Yet something wasn’t right with his life, as every night he sat alone in his local pub nursing a pint, as the landlord said “he went out with a pound, but rarely with a pal” – a lonely figure lost in his thoughts. Three years prior, Malcolm met Rose, they fell in love, and a year later they married, but even though their lack of sex she blamed on his shyness and inexperience, a bigger secret had driven them apart. Through the night of Monday 28th of September 1971 and into the Tuesday, this large bellied 46-year-old man with slicked dark hair and thick black glasses got into his car and, alone, drove 170 miles west to the stunningly bleak wilds of Carmarthenshire in South Wales, and the foot of the Black Mountains. As a mummy’s boy, his mother had retired to the remote rural village of Gwynfe near Llangadog, and keen to either start-a-fresh with his wife and step-son, or maybe just vanish into obscurity, nine months ago he’d bought an old derelict cottage called ‘Godre Waun’, which he was slowly renovating. Only he hadn’t travelled here alone, as since Islington, someone had been following him. Witnesses told the Police that either a gold or bronze coloured car, a Ford, maybe a Zephyr, a Zodiac or something similar had stopped in Gwynfe asking the way to ‘Godre Waun’. A villager said “strangers don’t arrive here unnoticed”, describing the passenger as “early 20s, trendily dressed with shoulder-length blonde hair”, and the driver as “40-ish, swarthy and thick set, and wearing a polo neck jersey”. They watched, as around sunset, the two men (who never hid their identity) scoured the uneven lanes of this isolated wilderness, as their headlights were seen rising up the hill illuminating just sheep, gorse and sky, and as their beams went black, they were last seen crossing the fields to the lonely cottage. By the time they arrived, Malcolm had finished up; the cottage was shut, his tools were locked-up and as he drove his green van to the lane’s end, just 40 yards deep, he was shocked to see one of those men. That was the last thing he ever saw, and those angry words were the last he would ever hear. The next morning, as he hadn’t come home, Malcolm’s mother drove to the cottage. In the lane, lying cold and stiff beside his van, she found his body. Covered in blood and barely recognisable, his skull was broken and his neck snapped having been repeatedly beaten with a 6 foot long, 22lb fence post. Detective Chief Superintendent Donald Saunders of Scotland Yard initially thought the motive for his killing was “a countryside vendetta” as local farmers were angry at the land being sold to Londoners, but the deeper detectives dug, the more it seemed like a grudge killing by business enemies, with the press stating ‘factory boss killed by rivals’ and ‘the violent killing was probably a result of a bitter feud’. One suspect was an associate of Malcolm Heaysman who was born, raised and worked in London. His name was found in Malcolm’s diary, he masqueraded as a charming playboy but was known to resort to extreme violence when he was broke, and he had a tawdry history of theft and armed robbery. Like the car’s driver, he was “40-ish, thick set and wore polo neck jerseys”, in a recent heist he’d used gold or bronze coloured Ford as a getaway car, he’d been seen in Wales just days before, and as ‘Britain’s most hated man’ at the time of Malcolm’s killing, Police across several counties were 40 days into a 45-day man-hunt for him, he was on the front page of every newspaper, everyone in Britain knew his name, and the Daily Mirror were offering a £10,000 reward for tip-offs leading to his arrest. On Sunday 3rd of October, barely a week after the killing, front-page headlines across the UK named him, and proclaimed “‘Fat Fred’ is wanted for questioning about the murder of Malcolm Heaysman”. ‘Fat Fred’s crimes were so vile they made Parliament debate if they should bring back hanging, his 30-year sentence for robbery, murder and attempted murder was deemed too weak, and even in the 1990s (20 years after his conviction), he was still demonised in the press as ‘Britain’s most hated man’. But who was ‘Fat Fred’, and why was Malcolm Heaysman murdered? Frederick Joseph Sewell, branded ‘Fat Fred’ by the tabloids was born in 1932 in Brixton, South London, a short walk from Malcolm’s upbringing, although whether they were childhood friends is unknown. Oddly similar, Sewell was 5 foot 10, 14 stone and described as a fat man with a chubby face, ruddy red cheeks, short brown hair and a huge round stomach, and just like Malcolm who dressed like ‘a Farmer Giles’, Sewell dreamed of being a tweed-wearing ‘Country Gent’ with a shotgun crooked over his arm. The similarities between both makes this so intriguing, as they were both fat, kept secrets, used aliases and had wives they couldn’t commit to, but we’ve no idea if they were best buddies or bitter rivals? Raised in poverty, as one of two sons to Frederick & Kathleen, during the Second World War he was evacuated to Cornwall and fell in love with farm-life. Post-war, he struggled to find a job he liked; as a printer apprentice, a page boy at Claridge’s and a salesman in menswear, but it wasn’t until 1951 that he found his passion by helping his brother run a pig farm in Kent, and fixing cars in his spare time. Said to be softly-spoken, generous and polite, Sewell was never short of friends, especially the ladies, and seeking the life and wealth of a ‘gentleman farmer’, his first crime (the theft of 300 ball-bearing cases) he was acquitted of in 1949, and when conscripted for National Service, over three years he went AWOL three times he said “to feed my pigs”, although while on the run, he married Joyce Twine. As a mirror image of the heinous crime which marked him as ‘Villain No1’, 15 years prior, Sewell had planned the armed robbery of the Ericsson Telephone Company payroll truck in Beeston, Nottingham. In the early hours of the 7th of September 1956, the truck trundled on Trafalgar Road, heading towards the factory’s main gates. Parked up on a side road in a heavy-duty Land Rover sat Sewell, his brother Roger and his 68-year-old father Frederick, all wearing masks and all holding heavy steel hammers. As the payroll truck passed, Sewell rammed the truck head-on buckling its bonnet, disabling the engine, and as the masked gang sprang into action, they smashed the windows of the payroll truck, coshed the driver, grabbed three bags, and in a ‘split-second’ operation, they vanished in a fast getaway car. In a series of stolen cars, using a gang of eight men and two women as well as George Bond who would be hired in the infamous Blackpool heist, Sewell’s gang got away with a haul of £39,000 (£1.2 million today), and although the Police set-up a nationwide manhunt, Sewell evaded capture for 14 months. As a rakish playboy, his lady-friends and mistresses risked everything to help him escape, with Mary Bolger & Diane Barry both being convicted. But once arrested, although a violent thug, Sewell quickly turned his charm on the Police and the Press to make himself seem like he was the innocent party. He denied that his ‘hammer gang’ came armed with violence in mind, even though a van was smashed, the street was strewn with destruction and the driver was hospitalised. He denied he was the boss, claiming “I was only the driver” and that an unnamed man had invited him into “something shady”. He denied intimidating the witnesses, although in court it was said “witnesses are unwilling. They all live in London and if bail is granted, may be interfered with”. So found guilty of a lesser charge, in 1957, Sewell was sentenced to three years in prison, but released after just two for good behaviour. Throughout, he maintained his innocence, he claimed he never knew where the stolen money was, and although the cash boxes were found buried with the lock broken, all of them were empty. Jailed on his 25th birthday, he was released just before the start of the 1960s, and quickly became wealthy. Frederick Sewell was a wannabe ‘country gent’ who liked the finer things in life… …he was generous when he had money, but nasty when he had none. By the turn of the next decade, Sewell was a big success. Having ploughed his money into cars, from a humble showroom in Tooting, South London, he had invested into seven other pitches, earning him £400-500-a-week, roughly £100,000 today. Nicknamed ‘champagne Fred’, it was said that “everything he touched turned to gold” and he fulfilled his dream of becoming ‘a rural squire’ with a £30000 luxury farmhouse in Surrey. He ate caviar, he drove big American cars, as a ladies man he had 15 known mistresses, he hung out at the plushest clubs of Mayfair, and would easily blow £100 on a night out. And although he wasn’t much to look at, being wealthy and charming, ‘Fat Freddy’ Sewell had one big weakness – the ladies. After his first stretch in prison for the Beeston armed robbery, he should have returned to his wife, but instead, having met a young hottie called Irene Jermain, he spoiled her with jewels and furs, set her up in his farmhouse near Reigate and when Joyce found out, she divorced him. While seeing Irene, he met redheaded stunner Barbara Palmer, set her up in a £9000 Orpington house, and as father to her baby, Belinda, he spent half his time with each woman, keeping them both apart, and yet, while promising to marry both, he married Julie Lavinia, but binned her after a few weeks. In July 1971, Sewell posted his banns at Surrey registry officer announcing his intention to marry Irene on Tuesday 31st of August, with their dream to retire to the Isle of Sheppey and run a little hotel. That was his plan, but as fast as he earned money, he spent it, and by that summer, he was almost broke. Again, he’d claim he wasn’t the boss of the Blackpool robbery, and didn’t know the details of the heist. Sewell claimed “I heard of it when I delivered a car to Dennis Bond”, his cohort from the Beeston raid, who was a fellow car-dealer and had just been released for serving seven years for armed robbery. At a café in Streatham, they met Charles Haynes, part-owner in a London nightclub whose betting shop was in trouble, and Sewell claimed he said “I’ve seen a shop in Blackpool on a side road, it’s got pricey jewellery, but it’s not looked after very well”, and he knew “someone who could ‘fence’ the gems”. Sewell claimed he was ‘reluctant’ to take part in the robbery stating “I was a last minute replacement, Haynes was the organiser”, but because he was broke, knew the gang and was assured “nothing will go wrong”, expecting to steal £200,000 (roughly £3.5 million today), his cut of £30,000 was a fortune. The last two gang members were; John Patrick Spry, a career-criminal since he was a kid, who provided the stolen getaway cars – a green Triumph 2000 and a bronze/gold coloured Ford Capri – and meeting Thomas Flannagan in a Bethnal Green pub, he provided the second-hand shotguns and revolvers. Preaching non-violence, Sewell would later claim “I didn’t think the guns were even loaded”… …yet, being a heist which made ‘Fat Freddy’ Sewell ‘Britain’s most hated man’, he alone proved himself to be not only the coldest and most callous of the gang, but also the most heartless and bloodthirsty. Situated on England’s north-west coast, Blackpool is a very old, slightly creaky seaside resort, where generations of working-class families have come to inhale the sea air, make sandcastles, ride a donkey, play in an arcade, eat an ice-cream and – while freezing to death - see the famous illuminations. Being cheap and cheerful, it’s famed for its friendliness, but here you wouldn’t expect to witness a violent heist, a gun battle and a killing spree so shocking, it sent shivers down the spines of everyone in Britain. Two weeks before their wedding, ‘Fat Fred’ and his fiancé Irene rented a flat on Cocker Street, two streets north of the jewellers. Hiding under the alias of ‘Mr & Mrs Johnson’, this gave him a chance to keep surveillance on the shop, and yet, if he wasn’t the boss of this racket, why would he do that.. …or what happened next? On Monday 16th of August, one week before the heist, the gang strolled up in the two getaway cars, yet dressed in dark suits and sunglasses like Mafia dons, Sewell ordered them to change, to stop drawing attention to themselves, and waving £20 notes about like confetti. Idiots! Apart from that, the jewellery heist (like the payroll raid in Beeston) had been planned to perfection. On Monday 23rd of August 1971 at 9am, the gang parked the getaway cars in position; a Triumph 2000 by the jewellers on nearby Queen Square with its engine left running, they’d speed one mile north to Back Warbreck Road, hop into a bronze Ford Capri GT, and as a fast car, they’d floor it out of town to a third stolen car and head to the moors, hide the jewels and return when the heat had died down. The morning was quiet as the tourists had left and the locals were at work. The target was a jeweller’s called Preston’s, a small but prosperous watch and gem merchants hidden down a shadowy side street at 14 The Strand, just off the North Promenade. At 9:30am, with the door open, the staff busy and no customers inside, the gang spied as the two large windows were stocked with rings, watches and gems from safes - unaware that a violent bloodbath was about to spill across the back streets of Blackpool. At 9:40am, Sewell gave the signal. Wearing vague raincoats, they pulled scarves over their faces, slung bags over their shoulders, and armed with revolvers, they stormed inside like a whirlwind of chaos. Sewell later said of the double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun under his coat, “I had no intention of letting it off. It wasn’t the plan. I just wanted to frighten people to do what I wanted and it worked that way”. At 9:41am, the gang forced the terrified staff onto the floor; “heads down”, “hands above your heads”, “don’t move”, “don’t say a fucking word” as they loaded bags full of loot, and although they grabbed as much good stuff as they did worthless tat, in total they’d steal £166,000 worth (£3 million today). All they had to do was run, they would be rich and no-one would get hurt. But the heist had gone awry before the plan was formed, as this supposedly poorly-secured shop had a silent alarm. Sneaking into his repair room when the gang too busy laughing at how rich they’d be, at 9:46am the manager tripped it, Lancashire Police HQ were alerted to a “possible robbery”, and a police car was already on route. Hearing a distant siren, the gang panicked, fled and as this bungling band of half-wits stumbled out of the shop, their bags tipped and they spilled a decent stash of what they’d nicked onto the pavement. At 9:49am, the first officers on the scene, PCs Hampson and Walker radioed in: “robbery in progress, Preston’s on The Strand, five men, at least one armed”, so firearms units were dispatched. And as a forewarning of their desperate violence, off-duty fireman Ronald Gale tried to stop the last man from fleeing, and with it likely to be Sewell, he barked at this hero, “move and I’ll fucking drop you”, only to thump the fireman four times in the stomach and with the shotgun’s butt, knocked him unconscious. Through incompetence, this well-planned heist soon descended into farce, as when this gang of five ran just 50 yards to Queens Square, even though their first getaway car was still there with its engine running, Haynes had locked the doors and they wasted valuable seconds as he fumbled for the keys. At 9:50am, the PCs radioed “getaway car is a green Triumph 2000, registration ‘Oscar Hotel Mike 674 Echo’”, and with it being ‘priority one’ Lancashire Chief Constable Bill Palfrey ordered an ‘all cars alert’, ‘road blocks to be set up’, and although PC Walker clipped the car and winged one of the raiders as it made off, the gang’s days were numbered as full force of the constabulary descended on Blackpool. This farce then turned to chaos, as flustered at having been rumbled, the Triumph zigzagged along 3 miles of backstreets desperately seeking the road where they had left the much-faster Ford Capri GT, but Haynes had lost his bearings as the PCs kept pursuit, followed by squad cars and armed officers. Entirely lost, having double-backed several times, the Triumph came to a hard stop when they found themselves trapped in a cul-de-sac, police vans blocking the way out, and Haynes struggling to wrestle the gear stick into reverse, and as Sewell shoved him aside so he could drive, his pistol fell to the floor and almost blew his foot off. He later claimed “that was the first time I knew the guns were loaded”. But was it? Breaking free, and swerving down Dickson Road and Egerton Road, as Sewell braked hard on Clevedon Road, the Triumph was rammed hard by four police cars, and with it crippled and wasted, the gang emerged, and this chaos turned to carnage. The so-called big-hearted playboy barked at the officer “move you cunts”, waving his shotgun as he spat “shift or you’ll get this you fucking bastards”, and with neither side willing to back down, Clevedon Road was set for a brutal and bloody fire-fight. With his teeth gritted in fury, Spry walked over to the crashed cop-car, and as PC Hampson sat dazed, he fired through the window at the unarmed man, shooting him in the chest, barely missing his heart. Emerging from the trashed Triumph, Sewell fired wildly at Detective Sergeant Hillis but missed, and as Spry & Bond fled down a side street, with ‘Fat Freddy’ Sewell puffing and wheezing behind them, Flannigan was tackled by the Sergeant, and after a violent struggle, this gang of five had become four. The robbers were panicked and desperate, surrounded on all sides, and seeing no way out, as Bond, Spry & Sewell were chased further, from six feet away Sewell turned and blasted PC Walker in the leg. Seeing his officers gunned-down, it was then that Superintendent Gerald Richardson joined the chase. At 10:01am, on Carshalton Street, the threesome hijacked a Morris 1000 van at gunpoint as driven by two men from Edward’s the Butchers, it wasn’t fast, its handling was shit, it moved like a brick turd, and although it was better than running, having floored it, Sewell took a corner too quick, and on the crest of Sherbourne Road, he crashed it into a brick wall, buckling a wheel and making it immoveable. The detectives pounced on the stolen butcher’s van, and as its backdoors burst open, as Spry & Bond ran off, Bond shouted at Sewell “shoot them”, but his pistol had failed. Using the only weapon he had left, Detective Sergeant McKay drove his cop car at the twosome, running them both over, and with Spry unable to run, he was quickly caught, as Detective Constable Hanley hit Bond over the head with a broom handle. Both men were disarmed and arrested, but this violent bloodbath was far from over. 38-year-old Superintendent Gerry Richardson was a Blackpool boy, born and bred. Described as brave and fearless, having served his National Service in the military police, he rose up the ranks to become one of the youngest Police Superintendents in Britain, and had a no-nonsense attitude to criminals. Seeing Sewell flee, as a fit and sturdy officer, Gerry chased the armed robber down Sherbourne Road and into a side alley. Being grossly overweight, Sewell was out of breath, his cheeks were red, his face was sweating, and unable to take a step further, he stopped and turned to the unarmed detective. As a reasonable man, Gerry implored him “don’t be silly lad, give it up, it’s over”, and as he reached for the double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun, the two struggled, and the gun went off from inches away. Sewell later claimed “I was horrified to hear the gun go off”, yet, as the courageous officer staggered back in shock, blood pouring from his guts, his innards hanging out of his crisp white shirt, ‘Fat Freddy’ Sewell whose cruel and callous actions as a cop-killer would make him “Britain’s most hated man”, fired a second shot at point blank range, and leaving this married man to die in agony, Sewell fled. Transferred to Blackpool Victoria hospital, three officers were listed as ‘critical or serious’, several had broken bones or lacerations, and two hours after admission, Superintendent Gerry Richardson died of his injuries. It was a bloodbath which caused an outrage across Britain, as good men doing an honest job for low pay had been gunned down like dogs, leaving wives and children distraught or grieving. 100,000 people attended the funeral of Gerry Richardson at Layton Cemetery. Posthumously he was awarded the George Cross, the highest civilian honour for bravery, a street was named in his honour, a memorial was erected to remember him and the Superintendent Gerald Richardson Memorial Youth Trust was established to help the physically or mentally disabled young people who live in Blackpool. Every year, he is remembered. But fleeing, with Haynes not far behind, ‘Fat Freddy Sewell’ sparked a 45-day manhunt which made him ‘Villain No1’ in the eyes of the people, the Police and the Press. He was hated, hunted and wanted in connection with the murder of fancy-dress shop-owner Malcolm Heaysman, but what linked a violent cop-killer and a quiet little man with a ’secret’ hidden in his attic? The concluding part of ‘Fat Fred’ is next week. 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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