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On Saturday 9th September 1944, in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road (South Kensington), convicted fraudster John George Haigh would murder his first victim – a successful businessman, entrepreneur and his closest friend - William Donald “Mac” McSwan. And although his body would never be found, Johnny Haigh’s first murder would be far from perfect. This is the location of The Goat Tavern where John George Haigh met William Donald McSwan... before murdering him.
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of The Goat Tavern at 3A Kensington High Road with a green dot, and the location of 79 Gloucester Road where the murder of William Donald McSwan took place where the yellow dot is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is The Goat Tavern at 3A Kensington High Street where John George Haigh met with his old pal William Donald McSwan for a meal, and on the right is the front of 79 Gloucester Road in South Kensington where (just a few hours later) he would murder "Mac" McSwan and later dispose of his body.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc.
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: PART TWO OF SULPHURIC.
As much as little Johnny Haigh loved machinery and chemistry, he loathed the zinc-plater in the prison workshop, as with a backlog of pans to plate, it was his pride at stake, but as a small stoic man who never let emotions sully his day, with little more than a frown and a huff, he set about fixing the fault.
The usual culprit was the woefully-antiquated electromagnetic bell, a laughably basic battery easily a few decades beyond being obsolete, consisting of a zinc electrode in a copper-lined bath of sulphuric acid. Cracking open the ceramic case, Johnny cautiously waited for the caustic cloud of sulphur dioxide to settle for fear of being blistered, burned or blinded, but reaching in to swap-out the worn electrode, from the thick condensation on the ceramic case’s ceiling fell a single drop of acid. (tsssss sound)
“Ah, good Lord”, Haigh exclaimed in the foulest words the God-fearing boy would ever utter, as the tiny toxic drip burned his skin, smoking and searing, as (feeding off his limb’s abundant liquid) the acid slowly ate away at his finger’s flesh. Swiftly dunking his scorched digit in cold water, as the intense pain ceased, Johnny thought “Thank heavens it was only a drop”. But what if it wasn’t?
The mouse was already dead, being small and skinny, its lifeless body lay within a whisker of a field of juicy berries, but trapped inside the prison’s grey walls, it starved to death… and Johnny sympathised.
Corpus Delicti was a ludicrous idea as although the law decreed that “without a body, there can be no crime”, it’s almost impossible to make a body completely disappear. But ‘almost’ means it ‘is’ possible.
Holding the cold little mouse by its limp tail, Johnny carefully placed it in a glass jar (Haigh) “thank you my friend, thank you” he bid one of God’s creatures in a fond farewell, and as he dipped a ladle in the battery’s ceramic case and filled the jar to the brim with sulphuric acid, the dead mouse began to fizz, bubble, smoke and boil until the transparent fluid was nothing but a cloudy black broth.
Johnny stirred it a bit but felt no resistance, so tipping the sizzling glass into the sink, amongst the dark fizzing stew were no hair, skin, bones or teeth. Within minutes, the little mouse had been reduced to an unrecognisable gloop and as its viscous remains slid down the drain and out into the sewer, it was gone forever, as if the mouse had never existed. (Interstitial*) But a mouse is just a mouse.
On 17th September 1943, John George Haigh was released from Lincoln prison; a dreadful little place chock-full of perverts, ponces and pilferers, and although – shamefully – his last stretch inside was due to him pinching a fridge, yes his licence forbade any acts of criminality, but never again would he risk his freedom… well not for anything so petty. No, this time, Johnny had money and murder on his mind.
By early 1944, having left the half-way house on St James Street (which was tormentingly close to Pall Mall, Buckingham Palace and The Ritz), Johnny worked hard, earned an honest wage and lived in the Crawley home of his old pal Allan Stephens. Times were tough; the economy was bleak, rationing was strict, law-abiding bods freely bought goods on the black-market and the Nazis were poised just eighty miles from the English coast – and yet, unwilling to make a mistake, Johnny had gone straight.
Hardly cutting the figure of an entrepreneur, his aspirations had taken a backseat, as being a penniless nobody who dressed in threadbare suits, it was impossible to lure a moneyed mark to their death.
He knew Allan, of course, but why should he murder Allan? Yes, he liked him, his wife and their young daughter Barbara who (let’s not beat about the bush) was besotted by Johnny, and yes Allan had some assets (a home, a workshop and a storeroom on Leopold Road), but his small income didn’t amount to much, so setting aside their friendship, yes he could kill Allan, but what would be the point?
Shortly after the D-Day Landings, with the tide of war still uncertain, as Allan struggled to make-ends-meet, Johnny did the decent thing for his old pal and moved out. Clutching nothing but three cheap suits, a few pounds and a half-finished book of ration coupons, Johnny was all alone. And as a small, thin but charming little chap who didn’t curse, argue or fight, and had hurt no-one, little Johnny Haigh – the murder virgin – had to take a giant leap from being a petty swindler to a cold-blooded killer.
But knowing no-one, his first victim would be an old friend, whose death would be far from perfect.
So unnerving are the similarities that Johnny Haigh and “Mac” McSwan could have been brothers…
Born two years and two weeks apart, William Donald McSwan was the only child of Donald & Amy, a clerk and a housewife; thirty-three years old, married a few months but faithful to their old age.
Both raised as Protestants, Mac adopted his parent’s Presbyterian faith having devoted his life to the Lord and shunning all extravagances, so living a simple life, the McSwan’s were always neat, clean and frugal. And although they never socialised, as a tight knit but introverted family, they never wished to offend anyone, all Donald & Amy ever wanted was to serve God and to do the best for their son.
As a bright but easily-distracted boy, Mac won a scholarship to Eton, a prestigious boarding school for academically gifted boys, where he excelled in science and religion. But just like Johnny, Mac cut quite a solitary figure and being sensitive, timid and shy, although his achievement pleased his proud parents, he missed his mum and longed for the days when he could come home.
Johnny & Mac were similar in so many way - height, weight, size and age; they both had boyish looks, a sweet nature, a childlike innocence and were tied (by choice) to their parent’s reins; they disliked dancing, were afraid of the dark, rarely drank and were practically celibate; with a love of science, a passion for engineering, a desire to become an entrepreneur and a deep-seated frustration that they might never reach their true potential. And although the two men wouldn’t meet for a few decades; where-as Johnny would become the older, wiser and more-worldly brother, being almost mouse-like, although Mac had business sense, as the little brother Johnny never had, Mac remained in his shadow.
It was almost as if - from the moment they were born - that fate was guiding them together; they were two sweet but sensitive boys with no siblings or close friends who would become like brothers; and yet, as one became rich, the other became poor; one would be infamous, the other would be invisible; one would stay alive as the other would die; and as one was buried, the other would never be found.
Soon the killer would meet his first victim, but just like Johnny, Mac harboured a guilty secret.
As a very practically-minded adult, Mac was physically and socially awkward; a skinny pigeon-chested mess of clumsy suits, insipid ties and tweed waistcoats, like a relic of the wrong era. Burdened by a long ill-fitting face, his features resembled a little boy with a costume-box playing at being a grown-up; with bushy “stuck-on” eyebrows, a “painted on” smile of just the top teeth, a little moustache like it was held in place by a bit of coat-hanger and a thick mop of brown hair, side-parted by his mum.
Everything about him seemed mismatched; his dimpled chin resembled a feeble attempt to be rugged, his neat row of pocket-pens were sullied by the ruddy complexion of an exasperated man, his nervous jerky motions belied a softly-spoken voice which (in a busy room) would be little more than a whisper, and set in a haunted face were two sad little eyes, adept at hiding his lies, for fear of being found out.
In 1932, aged 21, Mac sought his independence. Just like The Haigh’s, his folks dreamed that their boy would marry a good woman and maybe have babies. Thankfully, he lacked Johnny’s selfish callousness which cruelly saw him dump a young wife and child to further his own fortunes, but as a shy kindly man who love seemed to elude, marriage was not an option. So to give him his freedom, Mac moved into a shared house at 86 Tatchbrook Street in Pimlico, a few doors down from the family home.
Only Mac would never marry…
Two years later, after a short courtship, Mac got engaged to a lovely lady from Clacton called Dorothy Bailey; he liked her, she liked him, but neither loved the other, and although they remained good friends, the engagement lasted just a week. Mac wanted love, but it was a love which was forbidden.
Frowned-on by his faith, outlawed by the courts and (possibly but not improbably) discretely disguised from his doting parents, for almost all of his adult life, Mac kept his sexuality a secret.
London’s West End in the 1930’s was a place where – although illegal and punishable by prison – in and around Soho it hosted The Cave of the Golden Calf (London’s first gay pub), The Caravan (London’s first gay club) and waitresses at the Lyon’s Corner House Tearoom in Piccadilly Circus reserved a section for homosexuals, which was known as the Lily Pond. So being gay was no biggie. Out was out.
Only for a sweetie as socially-awkward as Mac who dressed down, looked odd and often mumbled, meeting someone new was always hard, as being both incredibly shy and illegally gay, as a prosperous landlord, a successful businessman, an engineer and an employer, Mac had a lot more than most men to lose, so his freedom didn’t awaken his sexuality - if anything - it supressed it.
So being shy, throughout his life, his best-friends would always be his mum, his dad and Johnny.
William Donald McSwan was a true entrepreneur; bright but easily bored, private but productive, quiet but creative, who said very little but could turn his hand to any business and make it a success.
In 1934, 25 year old Mac opened his first pinball machine parlour in Westminster under the name of Mac’s Automatics and – being small but profitable – it spawned several more in Shepherd’s Bush and Waltham Green, where in December 1935, he would hire a charming ex-con called Johnny Haigh; his trusted friend, his surrogate sibling, his kindred spirit, his confidante and (much later) his killer.
In Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station, Johnny sat in the smoky sweaty box surrounded by Webb, Symes and Barrett, boasting with a cocky casualness about how easily he had killed his friend…
(Haigh) “William Donald McSwan, or Mac to me, I met in the Goat Tavern public house on Kensington High Street, from there we went to 79 Gloucester Road, where in the basement (which I had rented) I hit him over the head with a cosh. He was dead within five minutes or so. I put him in a forty gallon tank and disposed of him with acid, as before, I tipped the sludge down a manhole”.
…and although he had practiced (maybe not the luring, the trapping or the killing, but a small part of the disposal) on a dead mouse - contrary to Johnny’s gloating - his murder of Mac was far from perfect.
In 1935, when Johnny met Mac, the two strikingly-similar men struck-up a close bond, and seeing his struggling pal in need of help, Mac became the one constant in Johnny’s turbulent life, as a friendly face and an honest employer, but as the purveyor of three pinball parlours, Mac was only small-fry.
In 1944, by the time Johnny left had Lincoln prison - having learned two Latin words, made a mouse vanish and concocted a ludicrous plan to murder for money – Mac - his oldest pal, his longest employer and his surrogate sibling had blossomed from a frustrated youth into a successful entrepreneur.
With Mac’s Automatics having boomed from three to thirty pinball parlours - even though, as a strict Presbyterian who didn’t live a lavish life, never flashed the cash, lived frugally in a small rented flat and didn’t look like he had two farthings to rub together, Johnny salivated at the wealthy businessman his old pal had become. As Mac (who rarely ever had more than a few pounds in his wallet) also owned a fleet of cars, a sweet-shop in Mitcham, his own company called McSwan Engineering (with a lucrative war-time contract), four homes (In Beckenham, Raynes Park and Wimbledon) which he owned and rented out, as well as seven bank accounts with savings and securities worth £1100. In today’s money, the assets of 33 year old William Donald McSwan would be worth almost a quarter of a million pounds.
By contrast, in Johnny’s bank account, he had just twenty-six.
But 1944 was a year of great uncertainty for Mac, as although he had always been a quiet, cautious and law-abiding man, who lived with the Lord in his heart, his life would take a very unusual turn.
For whatever reason, during the last year of his life, just like Johnny in his moment of crisis, Mac had committed three petty crimes, including the theft of a box of lipsticks and a US Army torch. He served no prison time and received a small fine, but used four different addresses to evade his parole.
That May, Mac moved into an all-male all-gay house at 22 Kempsford Gardens in Earl’s Court, and although it felt secure, it was far from safe, as the landlord was suspected of gross indecency and his co-tenant was convicted of pimping-out rent boys, one of whom was a fair-haired teenager who Mac (who had no siblings) claimed was his nephew. If caught, he could lose everything.
One month later, as the D-Day Landings saw miles of petrified men massacred, keen for fresh cannon-fodder, the rules of conscription were changed. Although he had already registered as a Conscientious Objector, with his reserved occupation revoked (which was the real reason his pinball company made aircraft parts), Mac would be ordered to fight, but as a painfully shy pacifist who wouldn’t last a single second in war and whose own father was still haunted by the trauma, night-terrors and tremors having been conscripted in World War One, Mac had failed to attend his call-up and now he was a deserter.
Fearing arrest, Mac was poised to flee… thankfully he had a good friend like Johnny. (Interstitial*)
(Chelsea) William Donald McSwan was the perfect mark; an intensely-private recluse with everything to lose and nowhere to go, who only trusted his parents and his close pal, and whose assets were easy-pickings for a convicted fraudster and skilful forger who had mastered his victim’s handwriting.
(Haigh) “I took his watch, his Identity card and any odds and ends before putting him in the tank”, and although, when shown the signature he had forged, Johnny flippantly quipped “Yes, I signed McSwan’s name. I remember I didn’t make a good job of the signature, instead of Donald, I wrote Ponald”.
Spelling was never his strong suit, so as his first two convictions had occurred having hastily misspelled the victim’s name and the town of Guildford, he should have learned his lesson but he didn’t. And yet, as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders, the spelling wouldn’t be his biggest mistake. (End)
Being like brothers, just as Mac had been Johnny’s rock during his years in and out of prison, now his closest pal could return the favour. As a recent convict, parolee and deserter, Mac was scared and feared arrest, but was soothed by an old hand in a new world, as he looked to Johnny as his older wiser brother. To lower his profile, Mac sold his pinball business and settled a few unresolved affairs. Eager to find a discrete but profitable venture to dip into while he lay incommunicado, every day Mac & Johnny met to discuss the things which fuelled their passion like gadgets, patents and inventions.
In a few short months, Johnny had ingratiated himself into every detail of Mac’s life, so welcome was his presence felt, that – although shy recluses who rarely went out – Mac’s parents, Donald & Amy treated Johnny to take tea with them in their rented top-floor flat at 45 Claverton Street in Pimlico.
He liked The McSwan’s, he liked them a lot; as a happily-married, deeply-religious and recently retired couple who chose worship over wealth and would do anything for their only child; they reminded him of his own parents; their clothes were neat, their home was sparse and they lived a frugal existence on a meagre pension of 22 shillings a week. To Johnny, they looked like they didn’t have two farthings to rub together, but to Donald & Amy, they had everything – their family and their faith.
Sensing their fear for their son, as the authorities closed in, he reassured The McSwan’s that he would do his very best to protect their boy… but in truth, Johnny was planning his murder. (*Interstitial)
On Friday 1st September 1944, to lend his crime the air of middle-class respectability, Johnny had Allan Stephen’s besotted daughter, Barbara - who worked cheap, fast and whose spelling was flawless - mock up a set of business cards and letterhead in the name of Union Group Engineering; a name easy to confuse with Allan’s own business, the Union Road Tool & Garage Company, also based in Crawley.
On Tuesday 5th, at Taylor Lovegrove & Co, an estate agents at 79 Gloucester Road in South Kensington; Johnny leased a small, secluded but self-contained basement under their offices for what he described as “experimental work for a Government contract”. He paid by cheque (spending £7 of the £26 he had left, to ensure it didn’t bounce) and secured the tenancy, starting that day, using his own letterhead.
On Thursday 7th, from East London chemical supplier Canning & Co, he ordered a gallon of hydrochloric acid and twenty gallons of sulphuric; two everyday chemicals for an engineering firm doing war-time work for the military. He paid £3 and 15 shillings by cheque, confirmed it on his own letterhead, but listed his address (not at 79 Gloucester Road) but as the War Emergency Liaison Centre at the nearby Onslow Court Hotel, and signed it - J Haigh, Technical Liaison Officer. It was delivered the next day.
With his preparations precise, his patience exemplary and his grand plan vastly superior to anything ever conceived, although he was a murder virgin, Johnny knew that its execution would be perfection.
On Saturday 9th at 6pm, Johnny invited his old pal and potential business partner for a meal at their regular pub, The Goat Tavern on Kensington High Street. Not one person (from the landlord to the locals) witnessed them, but why would they? They were just two mild-mannered men, in a busy pub, chatting about ventures, inventions, gadgets and Johnny’s new company.
As a teetotal, Johnny nursed a small sherry, but eager to cheer-up his down-in-the-dumps chum, he treated Mac to a few wines, and as a slight man who rarely drank, it didn’t take much to get him tipsy.
The expense of Mac’s murder had really eaten into Johnny’s savings, with just a pitiful £15 left, in one month, he would be bankrupt. But having wormed his way into his old pal’s life, heart and (soon) his pockets, his future looked rosy (which was lucky) as Johnny had spied himself a new sports car.
At 8pm they left; the walk was short, their mood was good and the street was busy, but no-one spotted the two men as (side-by-side, smiling and slightly sozzled) Johnny led Mac via the more discrete back-door in Stanhope Mews, down the steps and into his secluded basement at 79 Gloucester Road.
William Donald McSwan was never seen again, as his body would vanish completely…
…but the death and disposal of Mac didn’t happen exactly how Johnny described it in his confession.
Back in Chelsea Police Station, as little Johnny Haigh cockily crowed about his “six perfect murders” to his captive audience of Webb, Barrett and Symes, the three coppers stayed silent, as they listened and jotted-down his every boastful word, compiling a statement which they could check and correct later.
(Haigh) “William Donald McSwan met me at The Goat Tavern, and from there we went to the basement, which I had rented. I hit him on the head with a cosh. He was dead within five minutes or so. I put him in a forty gallon tank of acid and disposed of the sludge down a manhole”.
He made it sound so simple, so precise and so superior, but in truth, the murder virgin hadn’t a clue.
The basement at 79 Gloucester Road was small but secure; three unfurnished rooms with thick brick walls, a concrete ceiling, a blocked-off stairs to the offices above, two locked doors and no windows. It was empty, except for a few pinball machine parts, a length of lead pipe, a rusty hand-axe, a manhole cover to the main drain, a Winchester of hydrochloric acid and two ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric.
(Haigh) “I hit him on the head with a cosh”, and yet, with his description vague and shifting in different statements from a table leg, to a lead pipe, to an axe, as no cosh was ever found, it’s likely that being so focussed on the money, the most important thing Johnny forgot to bring was a murder weapon.
(Haigh) “He was dead within five minutes or so”, for which we can only take his word, but five minutes is a long time, and although a blunt force – which can cause a smashed skull, a bleeding brain, swelling, spasms, paralysis and a slow and agonising death - makes Johnny sound callous, it also suggests that he was inept, either being too weak to whack hard, too feeble to finish him off, or maybe he missed?
(Haigh) “Eventually I stood up and was appalled by the presence of a corpse on my hands”. So appalled was Johnny, that – whether alive, dead or dying - he stripped Mac of his personal possessions; a watch, a wallet, his ID, his ration-books and any “odd and ends” as he put it. (Haigh). “I left the question of dealing with the corpse till the following day and then went home”, where he slept soundly.
(Haigh) “I awoke and contemplated the action I had taken. I wondered how it was possible for me to have done something from which I would normally shrink”. In fact, Johnny was so remorseful having committed his first murder, that he woke late, had brunch and sauntered into a car showroom.
(Haigh) “I returned to the basement and realised I had to do something about the body. The question of disposal did not arise until after that evening. Then the method appeared obvious”. Which we know was a lie, as - using his own letterhead and chequebook - he had ordered the acid two days before.
As perfect murders go, it wasn’t great; having had to improvise a murder weapon which had only semi-successfully dispatched his victim, he soon realised that he had forgotten something equally vital.
(Haigh) “When I returned to the basement, I had to find a drum in which to place the body”, just like the glass jar in which he once dissolved a mouse, only bigger. “This was not difficult: I found one which had been used as a water butt in St Stephen’s churchyard”, stealing the forty gallon steel drum from a house of God. “To transport it back, I borrowed a handcart from a builder’s yard”, and all the while probably whistling nonchalantly and saying “oh, don’t mind me, I’m only going to dissolve a corpse”.
Back in the basement “I put McSwan into the drum”, which was no mean-feat as (with no hint of either of his victims having been hacked-apart) for a small weedy man to fit a five foot eight inch body into a three foot steel drum, he must have rolled it onto its side, hog-tied the body and slid it in back-first leaving the feet and hands poking out the top, and (all the while) praying that weather-worn drum was rust-free, water-tight and had enough space for the body and at least twenty gallons of acid.
(Haigh) “I then considered the problem of getting the acid out of the carboy”. Having blindly ordered enough acid to do the job, although the Winchester of hydrochloric arrived in a one-gallon glass bottle with handles which only weighed 6lbs, the two ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric had to be delivered by two burly men in a truck, as each full bottle weighed 165lbs, heavier than little Johnny Haigh.
(Haigh) “This was something which hadn’t occurred to me. I had to do it by bucket”. Forgetting that, just four years before, a single drop had singed his finger, but still he slopped twenty gallons of highly corrosive acid by hand, with no gloves, no apron and no mask. And as it had before, as the fat reacted with the acids, the body began to fizz, bubble and smoke…
…but a dead mouse has almost no fat, where-as (although skinny) Mac had fat in an abundance. So as his flesh was stripped, his fluids boiled and the acids superheated the violently shaking drum, a thick soupy cloud of noxious gas and human vapours enveloped the airless and windowless basement.
(Haigh) “I hadn’t thought to prepare for the fumes. I was badly choked and had to go out for fresh air”. So coughing his lungs out and gasping for breath, Johnny dashed-out into the quiet of Stanhope Mews, luckily seen by no-one but followed by a caustic fog of sulphur and the deathly stench of boiling fat.
And yet, as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders, if you ignore his awful spelling, the lack of a weapon, a steel drum, a set of gloves and a gas-mask, even this wasn’t be his biggest mistake.
(Haigh) “Eventually the job was done and I left the basement, locking the door behind me”. Unlike the mouse which was destroyed in twenty minutes, it took two full days until Mac was gone.
Having given the dark fizzing broth a stir with a stick, (Haigh) “Subsequently, I poured the sludge down a manhole”, conveniently situated in the basement, “if anything remained, it will now be in whichever sewer flows into the sea”. And as he tipped the thick black gloop - which was once his pal - into a dark festering hole, he flushed the last remnants of their friendship down the drain. (Haigh) “I experienced no remorse after the killing. None”. (End, Interstitial*)
With the dirty deed done, Johnny Haigh, the one-time murderer (and budding serial-killer) had the carboys collected, the steel drum destroyed, the basement vacated and having arrogantly celebrated Mac’s murder by scrawling a small cross in his diary, he set about weaving an entirely believable story that the McSwan’s only son (who feared arrest and often talked of fleeing) was now in hiding.
(Haigh) “I had known his mother and father for some time, I explained that he had gone off to avoid his “call up” and wrote a number of letters purporting to come from him, explaining the details of the disposition of the assets, which were to follow”. As a convicted fraudster and forger, this would prove no problem, as he had Mac’s ID, his signature, several forged letters, a fool-proof plan and – best of all – the complete and total trust of his victim’s parents.
Between 1944 and 1949, John George Haigh befriended six wealthy persons, starting with William Donald McSwan, he assumed his identity, inherited his estate and drained his assets; all six victims would mysteriously vanish and almost no-one would notice. But Johnny had overlooked one small detail, which would prove to be his biggest mistake…
…William Donald McSwan, the prosperous landlord, successful businessman, engineer and employer didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name. In fact, even with forged legal papers, whether dead or alive, Mac was worth nothing. (Interstitial* fizzing to fade out)
OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part two of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the third part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are – Jonny Rex, Stephanie Thomas, Clara Hughes, Victoria Neilsen and Helen Woodley – with a special thank you to my beautiful girlfriend Eva Green whose rather sexy plea clearly worked a treat, and (as always) a big thank you to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. It’s very much appreciated.
Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London".
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