Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The Terrace on Richmond Hill where the "first date" of Kate Beagley and Karl Taylor began... and ended
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger.
THE LOCATION
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.
The location of The Terrace on Richmond HIll is marked with a green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Here's two little video to accompany this episode; the one of the left show The Terrace on Richmond Hill and the Roebuck pub, and the one on the right shows the BP garage in Shepherd's Bush where Karl drove Kate's car wiht her body in the boot. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
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. 
The Roebuck Pub where they went for a drink shortly before Kate was murdered
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: Sadly, as there is now file in the National Archives on this investigation (as it's still very new) I had to rely on newspapers and yucky tabloid trash so there may (and almost vertainly) will be mistakes with the research, but I've tried my best with limited and dubious sources.
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE FIRST DATE KILLER
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the murder of Kate Beagley; a smart independent woman who had agreed to go out for a drink with a handsome young man; she did everything right, she took every precaution, and yet, the only mistake she made was the one we all make - she knew nothing about this stranger. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 87: The First Date Killer. Today I’m standing on Richmond Hill, the furthest west we’ve travelled, but a story which visits many places we’ve covered before; starting in a West End club (one street from where The Blackout Ripper met Greta Hayward), the killer living on Kemble Street (where Mary Ann Moriarty axed her abusive husband to death), part of the escape taking place just a few streets from home of Katerina Koneva and the murder itself, within sight off the Thames Towpath Murders - coming soon to Murder Mile. The Terrace on Richmond Hill is world famous. It may not look much - being a sandy gravel track, high on a hill, dotted with trees and lined with rows of wooden bench, all facing west - but with only wealthy townhouses behind and nothing in front, this stunning unspoiled vista of the River Thames snaking through the lush greenery of Richmond Park and Hampton Court is protected by an Act of Parliament. It’s a place of beauty, tranquillity and romance, where many people travel to soak up the sights and even - for those just passing it’s almost impossible not to stop, sit and silently watch the sun set. The Terrace is a place for couples. Here you will see it all; sweet old codgers doddering along, sweaty youngsters playing tonsil tennis, the recently-wed who blew fifty grand to notice discover it’s “same shit different day” and the three-month’ers who (having stopped rutting) realise they’ve got nothing to say, so all they do is hug and kiss every six seconds; as well as the married ones who only have eyes for their phones, the soon-to-be divorced seeking a high ledge for a shove, Tinder dates banging away in the bushes, and - of course – the best relationship ever, anyone with a dog, as it’s all about loyalty, belly tickles and (even though one of them has spent the day licking their arsehole) lots of kissing. This is also a great place to come on a first date, as you don’t need to talk, you just need to sit. And although, it’s pretty much a perfect place for love to blossom, even a romance can turn into a tragedy. As it was here, on Wednesday 30th May 2007, having met just days before, that Kate Beagley would begin her date with Karl Taylor, and this beauty spot would turn into a scene of horror. (Interstitial) Unlike so many tragic stories, Kate’s is not exceptional; she wasn’t cursed or crazy, idiotic or irrational, she was just an ordinary woman doing an everyday thing for a very normal reason. Without the benefit of hindsight, I doubt you would have done anything different, so take Kate’s story as a cautionary tale. 32-year-old Kate Beagley was a delight. Described by friends and family as being a brilliant mix of head and heart, she was smart and savvy, bubbly and bold, clever and kind, an independent lady who many described as the “complete package” – she was brilliant, beautiful, but also very down-to-earth. Born and raised in Hounslow, West London, Kate was raised in a close-knit family who stuck together through thick-and-thin; they taught her to be moral and decent, they encouraged her to be strong and confident, and – living in a big city – instead of filling her head with fear, they armed her with all the precautions a young woman should take, but ensured she had the confidence to live life to the full. If you’re wondering why I’m telling this, it’s because there is no reason why anyone should hate her. She had no big issues, no dark past and no secret life. She didn’t have debts, enemies or fears. She drank in moderation (but preferred to drive), she didn’t do drugs (but didn’t judge those who did) and she didn’t commit crimes (but didn’t preach those who had). She didn’t start fights, curse strangers or rub people up the wrong way. In short, she didn’t have a bad bone in her body. But what makes her different? Nothing. She was special to those who knew her, but unremarkable to those who didn’t; she didn’t stick out and she didn’t slink away, she was ordinary - just like you and me. Taking pride in her appearance, Kate was pretty but never vain, and although - being five foot six with blonde collar-length hair and a big beaming smile - she had been blessed by nature, but like most girls in their early thirties, being worried about her weight, she kept fit by doing cycling, running and yoga. With dreams of seeing the world, Kate graduated university with a degree in tourism. It was a perfect choice for her; as although she loved people, travel and having fun, being also sensible, level-headed and incredibly generous, Kate was a real people-pleaser who always put others before herself. As with most of us, her dream didn’t pan-out, so she ploughed her skills into a regular job as National Compliance Manager for the energy company Centrica over in Windsor, where she had been for about ten years. She was punctual, polite and recently promoted. She had a good team, a steady income, a shiny grey VW Golf as a company car and owned her own flat in Walton-on-Thames. And that was Kate’s life in a nutshell. She liked music and reading. She had a good life balance between family and friends. She was recently single and looking-for-love. She had a few minor worries over her mum’s health and her career, but having made some notes in the self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, she wasn’t unduly worried. And with her 33rd birthday soon, she had planned a city-break in Barcelona and a camping trip in Torquay. Just like you and me, she was ordinary, unremarkable, but special in her own way. With work over and the weekend here, Kate and her pals went out to the West End; where they drank, danced and laughed. That night Kate met Karl Taylor, and twelve days later, she was dead (Interstitial). Friday 18th May 2007 was the weekend before the Bank Holiday - typically for Britain - it was wet and gloomy, so the streets were empty but the pubs were packed with punters. For the girls, it was just a regular night out; they had good fun, no stress and lots of giggles, but – more importantly, as they drank booze and were chatted-up by blokes - they kept an eye out for each other. At 11pm, as the pubs closed, Kate and her chums headed to The C C Club at 13 Coventry Street, W1; a now-defunct West End nightclub between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. Hailed as “host to many celebrity parties”, with a strict dress-to-impress policy, a funky mix of R&B, hip-hop and (what was dubbed) “booty shaking choons”, having been here before, they knew it was safe place to unwind. As often happens, being an attractive bubbly young lady who exuded warmth, it wasn’t a surprise that Kate drew the attention of men - but taught to be savvy around strangers - she knew how to be engaging, polite and yet keep-her-distance until she was certain that he wasn’t a weirdo. One man who Kate was instantly attracted to was 27-year-old Karl Taylor; as a handsome young man with brown cropped hair, a neat designer beard and casual fashionable clothes, he looked good. As a confident, chatty and cheeky chappie, he had the gift-of-the-gab. Being small but athletically built, it was unsurprising to hear that he was a fitness instructor and a martial-arts trainer. But as he also did unpaid coaching for an under-12’s football team, she could see he was serious, but he had a soft side. There was clearly a chemistry between them, a spark, so as they both gave-off all the right signals, and her friends had no reason to disapprove, Kate & Karl exchanged phone numbers. That was it. With the night over, the girls drank-up, hopped into cabs and headed-off home, promising to text each other to say “I made it home safe”, which they did. It was a fun but unremarkable evening. Over the next ten days, Kate & Karl texted, flirted and having got to know each other a little bit better, they agreed to meet on 30th May 2007 – that was their first date together and Kate’s last day alive. Now, you know he is pure evil, but (without the benefit of hindsight) how would Kate know that? Well, she didn’t, so although she planned to have a nice time, being a savvy lady, she took every precaution. Wednesday 30th May 2007 was just a very ordinary day. Kate left work at 5pm, arrived home at 6pm, ate dinner, showered, changed from work clothes to smart casual, popped-in to see her parents and – having told her friends and family her plans for the evening - she left Walton-on-Thames at 7:30pm. Having chosen a mid-week date for this meet-up, as she wasn’t going to drink or stay out late, she opted to drive and agreed to pick him up half-way. The twelve-mile journey took forty minutes and at 8:20pm – as she often did on first dates – she texted her friend, it read; “In Chiswick to meet Karl”. At 8:30pm, spotting him dressed in a black tracksuit and dark fur-lined jacket, she picked-up Karl on Chiswick High Road, drove her silvery-grey VW Golf seven and a half miles south-west to Richmond Hill, and having parked-up under a light on a residential street, just down from the Roebuck public house, at 8:50pm Kate texted her friend, it read; “made it to Richmond”. To inject an air of romance into an awkward situation, Kate & Karl sat on a bench as they watched the sun set over The Thames. With thick leaves in the trees above and a weak glow from the streetlamps behind, The Terrace was dark, but being a public place full of people, she knew it was a safe space. At 9:08pm exactly, with most of May being a typically British drizzly wet wash-out, as the sunset was less of a fiery red orb and more like an old Aspirin dunked in a dirty glass of brown fizz, as the joggers and dog walkers left, so did Kate & Karl, as they headed a few yards away to the pub for a drink. At 9:31pm, CCTV captured the couple enter the Roebuck pub; being a very traditional if slightly old- fashioned British boozer, the bar was brightly-lit, the music was low and it was half-full of regulars. Kate & Karl sat at a table by the window, but it was clear that the mood was sullied. And as much as Karl kept talking, Kate kept texting, keeping her friends abreast of how badly the date was going. After just one hour, she had witnessed the real Karl Taylor and she did like what she had seen. The sweet, kind and charismatic man she had met in ‘The C C Club’ had gone; and in his place was a vain arrogant asshole who was only in love with himself, a self-professed ladies’ man who bragged about his many conquests, an emotionally-unstable boy who would be laughing one second and close to tears the next, and a shameless womaniser who – including tonight - had cheated on his girlfriend. At 10:30pm, having had enough, Kate finished her orange juice, politely told him she was going home, they left the pub and walked a few yards up Richmond Hill towards Kate’s car - the date was over. But Karl couldn’t find his house keys, and as he couldn’t leave without them, and she wouldn’t leave without him, doing the decent thing, Kate helped Karl retrace their steps to find his keys. Of course, we know they weren’t missing, we know they were in his pocket, but Kate had no way to know that. Using the bright beams of their phone’s torches, they scoured the path’s grey stone slabs, the sandy gravel track and the dark recesses by the bench where they had watched the sun set, but with no sight of his keys, they retraced their steps to where this awful date had begun… and where it would end. One hundred yards west is the more famous part of The Terrace; a stunning 18th century garden shaped by black wrought-iron gates, neat cultivated bushes and a series of sandstone steps leading to two ornate terraces. It’s beautiful, iconic and romantic. But at night, it’s also dark, silent and remote. For Kate, this detour was little more than a mild annoyance and being just thirty feet from her car, the road and a few houses, she felt she was safe. But with her head down, her eyes focussed and her ears listening out for the clink of keys, she had no idea who her date really was, or what he had in mind. While held at Wandsworth Prison, he claimed he had accidentally stabbed her as he tried to steal her car. He said “I don’t know what happened. She wouldn’t give her keys to me, then she started moving and shaking, the knife went into her wind pipe and she died”. Only we know that this was a lie. At the Old Bailey, his defence was that Kate was depressed, that she had told him her woes and (using the knife he only carried when he felt suicidal) that she had killed herself, later stating, "I realised she passed away. I lay on the grass. I was crying profusely". Only we know that this was also a lie. And although, in front of her bewildered family, he displayed how she had repeatedly stabbed herself in the neck with his knife, when asked why this fitness instructor who was trained in martial arts hadn’t disarmed her, he replied, "I didn't know this girl. I just didn't know what to do." But that too was a lie. The real truth was truly horrific… Having been distracted by a fruitless search for a set of missing keys, from inside the sleeve of his fur-lined jacket, he pulled a kitchen knife. Kate was subjected to a brutal and frenzied attack, it was over within a flash, but in those brief and terrifying few seconds, Karl had plunged the six-inch blade deep into her face, neck and head, a total of thirty-one times. So fierce was his hate-filled rage that he shattered her facial bones, split open her airway, splintered her spinal cord and – having severed her carotid artery and her jugular vein - Kate bled-out on the cold stone steps and died just moments later. Kate Beagley was a defenceless woman going out-of-her-way to do a good deed for a man she barely knew. She lived and died doing what was right, putting the needs of others over her own and to ensure her own safety – without the benefit of hindsight - she took every possible precaution. Karl Taylor was an arrogant, manipulative and highly dangerous monster who cruelly ended the life of a truly lovely person, all because this emotionally-shallow selfish lothario had been spurned by a girl. And as much as he claimed he was remorseful; he stole her car as callously as he took her life. By 10:40pm, as the dimly-lit street was still quiet, no sirens were heard, nobody passed-by and not a single curtain twitched in the houses opposite, being a cloudy moonless night, Karl dragged her lifeless body up the stone steps, bundled her hacked-up remains into her car boot and drove off. At 11:50pm, the silvery-grey VW Golf was caught on camera crossing Chiswick Bridge. At 12:20am, at the BP Garage on Shepherd’s Bush Green, the car pulled-in, Karl calmly phoned his girlfriend, joked with the other drivers and used Kate’s bank card to fill-up with fuel; her corpse was hidden by his fur-lined jacket and the thick spatter of her blood was masked by his black tracksuit. At 1:40am, 15 miles north-east, he arrived at Oxhey Woods car park; a dark isolated wooded-space used by visitors of the nature reserve, but being a weekday and after midnight, it was empty. There he stripped her of her clothes and her dignity, used water to wash away his DNA, dumped her dead body in the bushes and casually tossed the knife and her clothes from her car window as he fled down the M1 motorway. His only thoughts were for himself; not for Kate, her friends or her family. He didn’t call an ambulance, he didn’t call the Police, and he didn’t leave Kate anywhere where she could be found, and although knowing that she was dead wouldn’t be as traumatic as never knowing her fate, for the days that Kate wasn’t found, it gave her loved one’s false hope that she was safe. The next morning, when Kate failed to show-up for work, her colleagues knew this was unusual. When she didn’t reply to any calls, texts or emails, her friends grew concerned. And with her car missing and her flat empty, her family suspected the worst. Having been missing for 24 hours, Kate’s father (Alan) alerted the Police, and although her disappearance was initially classed as a ‘missing persons’, with her vanishing being so out-of-character, they escalated it to a possible kidnapping. Her friends and family checked everywhere, asked everyone and did everything, but Kate was nowhere to be found. For five days, Kate was missing… but Karl didn’t care. Just hours after her murder, as this supposedly remorseful killer sped around the streets of Harlesden – the car boot still soaked, his tracksuit stained, his fur-lined jacket bloodied – as the VW Golf’s wheels screeched outside of his friend’s flat, although Adrian Cardbow was fast asleep, he was rudely woken by Karl who cockily crowed “wakey-wakey, rise and shine”. It was early, very early, but being in high spirits, the callous killer was all smiles, as he wanted to brag to his pals and take his new car for a spin. As Kate’s colleagues stared at her empty desk, terrified for her safety and painfully missing their friend; Karl was whizzing about having a merry-old-time, as he zipped around in his brand new VW Golf; for trips out with his chum and shopping trips with his girlfriend, he even drove his nephew to playschool. To his passengers, it must have seemed strange that although Karl had he said he had bought the car, it was still filled with the previous owner’s stuff; like Robbie Williams CDs, Marks & Spencer’s vouchers, a self-help book called ‘You Can Heal Your Life’, and a Nokia phone which (when it started ringing) Karl ripped out the battery, the SIM card and tried to flog it off to Adrian? Or maybe it didn’t strange. Either way, that night, they went out to the West End and drank, as Kate’s loved one’s barely slept a wink. But finding Karl Taylor wouldn’t be difficult; having only met him once in the booming darkness of The C C Club almost two weeks prior, collectively Kate’s friends recalled his name, his face and his job, with the Police searching Kate’s bank cards they found crystal-clear footage of the suspect buying fuel, and with Kate’s work mobile still in her flat and containing a text from Karl, he was arrested the next day. On Friday 1st June 2007, barely thirty-six hours after her murder, Karl was questioned. At first, he refused to give any answers and simply replied “no comment” to every question. Then, being vague and evasive, the claimed the date went well and she’d dropped him off in Twickenham. After that, he concocted an implausible story about her suicide, having gleaned her personal thoughts from some notes written in her self-help book. And finally, after several hours of cross-examination in what was still a potential kidnapping, he broke down and confessed to the murder of Kate Beagley… …all the while, still implying it was her fault - “She pushed me away. She was grabbing me and I stabbed her in the throat. I constantly and consistently cut her in the neck because she was going for my face". Later that day, Karl lead the Police to Kate’s car which he had parked on Leopold Road in Harlesden. Inside, they found DNA for both the victim and suspect; her blood still stained the boot, the steering wheel and his clothing; his fingerprints were found on her phone, purse and bank cards; along the M1 they found her torn clothes, the bloodied knife, the water bottle he had used to bathe her; and on the morning of Monday 4th June 2007, just five days later, among the nettles, weeds and broken branches of Oxhey Woods, the naked and decomposing body of 32-year-old Kate Beagley was found. (End) Karl Joseph Taylor was tried at the Old Bailey; he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder, he stuck to his story that Kate had committed suicide and (even used his time in the witness box) to brag about his success with women. But after an eight-month investigation, a two-week trial and overwhelming evidence, a unanimous jury took just two hours to find him guilty and he was sentenced to life in prison. From his prison bunk, always being arrogant-to-the-last, Karl wrote a letter to Kate’s grieving family, in which he called the prosecution ‘obscene’ and made himself out to be this case’s real victim; it read; "We live in a world where life is hard for all, and those who try and embrace good nature get rejected! Without any doubt what I did was wrong!!! But ask yourself this? Whose life have I really taken?” Kate’s dad paid tribute to his daughter saying "Kate was a loving thoughtful daughter, sister and friend, as devoted to us as we were to her. Our family has been devastated and life seems empty. I left her looking forward to an evening out but she was brutally murdered by the man she went to meet”. Kate had done nothing wrong, made no mistakes and took every precaution when she went out on a date. He could have been anyone; a nobody, a new friend or a future husband? But instead she met her death. So, although Kate’s story is a cautionary tale, I don’t mean for you should live in fear, but to live your life to the fullest, as Kate would have, because you never know which day will be your last. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, as always, we have some Extra Mile goodness after the break, so plop a bag in your mug, a splash of milk and two sugars, and get ready for some utter drivel from yours truly. Before that, a thank you to my new Patreon supporters who this week are Nicola Zieba and Amy Hussain, I thank you. With a big thank you to anyone who shares Murder Mile in person or on social media. As this podcast is, let’s be honest, an acquired taste for only the best and most intelligent of true-crime fans, these personal recommendations are hugely appreciated. If you do one, please feel free to tag Murder Mile in and I’ll share it far and wide. 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
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
Archives
December 2024
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|