BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio'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 back of the RAC Club where David Frooms "broke" in
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE
This is Part Three of Three of 'Do Not Disturb', the untold story of the murder of Sarah Gibson. In the summer of 1972, 21-year-old Sarah Gibson worked as assistant housekeeper at the RAC Club at 89 Pall Mall, London, SW1. She was quiet, pleasant and she kept to herself. Those who knew her had nothing but kind words to say about her, but on across the night of Sunday 2nd to Monday 3rd July 1972, not only would a sadist assail this veritable Fort-Knox of security and navigate its maze of corridors to access her room, but they would subject this young girl to a truly shocking attack over four torturous hours, which ended in her death. But why?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 RAC Club in Pall Mall where Sarah Gibson was murdered by David Frooms. It is marked with a mustard coloured raindrop near the words Charring Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing at Centre Point. Not the famous 34-storey tower-block at the corner of New Oxford Street and Charing Court Road, but the lesser-known headquarters at 54 Dean Street in Soho. Opened in 1969 and still running today, Centre Point is a local charity providing support for the city’s homeless. Perched at the back of St Anne’s church, the garden provides a fascinating window into the world we live in today; as among society’s most desperate – the addicts, the alcoholics, the lost, the lonely, the maligned and the mentally-unwell – you’ll also see many dreadlocked trustafarians trying to blend in. Having Uber’d in from the ‘mean streets’ of Hoxton to see “the real London”, these well-meaning nin-com-poops often sit sad-faced, sympathising with a ragged wretch’s tale of hunger; having just wolfed down an avocado and crayfish focaccia, while wearing a stylishly ripped and soiled jeans (the cost of which could clothe a homeless person for a year), all while refusing to give cash as “I only carry BitCoin” and being ignorant of the fact that – having been guilt-tripped into setting up a direct-debit via a sales call or a chugger - only a small percentage (if any) of the money they donate is given to the charity - as being a ‘non-profit organisation’ - most of the profits go to a thirty-party funding company to pay the chugger’s wage, but also to pay for swanky new offices, a Christmas party or the director’s bonus. If you really want to help a charity? Choose wisely and contact them direct. On Tuesday 11th July 1972, eight days after the murder of Sarah Gibson, in the basement bar of Centre Point, Police arrested David Frooms. Like the murder scene itself, too many things didn’t make sense. David wasn’t what they were expecting; he was small, thin and softly spoken. They had the right man, but what they didn’t know was why. Why would a homeless man in search of food and money subject a total stranger he had only met that night to four terrifying hours of rape, strangulation and death? Was it demons in his past, a hint at his future, or was it part of a series of unfortunate circumstances? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 161: ‘Do Not Disturb’ – Part Three. On Monday 3rd July 1972, having been found by the porter - Frederick Hockley - PC’s Ede and Gurney secured Room 519 of the RAC Club and awaited the arrival of Detective Chief Inspector James Neville. For the detective, everything about the crime-scene was wrong, as there was no clear motive. Was this a murder, a sex crime or a robbery? Did it start as a burglary, only to descend into rape and death? Was he a rapist who murdered out of panic, and stole several inexpensive possessions to lay a false trail for the police? Or was this simply an unplanned assault by an opportunist upon a total stranger? From the hallway, there were no signs of a break-in. The lock was intact, the key was inside, and the door jamb hadn’t been forced or damaged. So, either she let him in, he had a key, they had arranged to meet, or (as many witnesses would state) she often slept with her door left unlocked and open. The room itself didn’t match what the detective expected to see from a rape, a robbery or a murder. Drawers had been opened and searched, but they hadn’t been ransacked. Which is odd, as typically a burglar will scatter the low-cost items they don’t want in the search of the high-value items they do. From her table and handbag, the thief took a silver watch, a heart-shaped locket and a set of gold earrings which were more sentimental than valuable, but maybe he didn’t know that or didn’t care? He also stole a Churchill crown, a Ronson mother-of-pearl lighter, a travel clock and a transistor radio - all easy-to-sell items. He stole sixty pence in coins, but left her collection of porcelain dolls, her Post Office savings book and her 14-inch portable black & white television worth £80 (£800 today). And yet - stranger still - if this was a burglary, why didn’t he bring his bag with him? There was no denying that sexual intercourse had taken place, but was it rape or consensual? The evidence pointing towards rape was that her night clothes had been ripped from her legs to her neck, leaving her flesh exposed. Her bedsheets were soaked with her sweat. The assault had dislodged her hair-curlers and an earring. But – more importantly – Sarah’s wrists and ankles had been tied up. But if it was a rape, it was a very strange one. As why did no-one hear her scream? Why did he place a soft pillow under her bottom – was it for her comfort or to facilitate the sex? Why did he tie her up so gently that the pathologist initially missed the marks? Why did he untie her gag, cut her restraints and re-tie them with a softer and looser material? And – even weirder – he had ejaculated inside her, but why didn’t her arms, legs, face or vagina sustain any bruises or cuts, like a violent assault would? Why was she so still during the attack; was she compliant, terrified, or was this something else? Then again – the detectives surmised - just like the burglary, the rape could have been committed by an opportunist, or left as a false trail by the perpetrator to disguise her killer’s true motive? A murder. Only, as murders go, this didn’t look planned. Everything he had used to tie-up and strangle Sarah was hers - which he found in that room – and had been left by her the night before as she prepared for bed - the blue bathrobe’s cord, the towelling, the white stockings and the handkerchief. Nothing was his. Beside her bed and on her bedside table, nothing had been knocked, spilt or broken. Even in her last moments alive; her half-full coffee cup remained upright, her open flask of water hadn’t spilled a drop, the grey ash of six spent cigarettes hadn’t wafted from the ash-tray and a photo of her beloved family stayed upright, perched a few inches from her head. Things that should have been damaged, weren’t. Regardless of whether this was a robbery, a rape or a murder, detectives felt there were many details which made no sense. Such as, why did he leave behind his brown jumper and a white shirt? Why didn’t he wear any gloves to disguise his fingerprints? Why did he murder her, only to cover her with her blanket, as if to make her more comfortable? And yet, as he fled, he placed a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle, but left the door unlocked and left ajar? Did he panic, or did he want her to be found? The crime-scene asked more questions than it answered… …and so far, the police didn’t have a single suspect. On Tuesday 4th July, one day after Sarah’s body was found, Police received an anonymous phone-call stating “the man you’re after is at Centre Point”. It was one of hundreds of tips they would receive from members of the public; some of whom were trying to help, but others were merely crank calls by the sick and sad desperate for attention. They checked it out, but with no name, they drew a blank. Besides, even if they knew his name, hunting David Frooms was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Having ran away from home aged 7, the 24-year-old ex-con knew how to run and hide; he didn’t have a bank account or claim benefits; he survived by theft, his needs were basic and he was literally one of hundreds of homeless people living in makeshift tents in a London park. Being primarily a car-thief, he was far from a likely suspect and his probation officer still believed he was living at Simonwell Farm. That same day, at 10:30am, David walked into the NatWest Bank off Pall Mall and exchanged Sarah’s Churchill Crown – one of 9 ½ million souvenir coins issued in 1965 – and he made just 75 pence. On Friday 7th, in De-Veers Coins at 97 Charing Cross Road, he sold Sarah’s charm bracelet for scrap value and made £2, with an additional 50p for the mother-of-pearl lighter. As requested, he presented a letter, as ID, which he had stolen in a robbery from a ‘Mr P Buckey, of 56 St Paul’s Street in Sussex’. And on Sunday 9th July, he hid a bag of his worldly possessions in a locker at the Left Luggage office at Piccadilly Circus Underground Station, a lady’s handbag in the men’s lavatory, and just like that… …David Frooms had vanished. For DCI Nevill, the crime-scene had presented him with several pieces of hard evidence. The killer’s clothes; a brown jumper and a white shirt, missing two buttons having been removed prior to the rape and left behind, they also knew he was wearing blue jeans as microscopic fibres had been left on the bedsheets. This gave them his size and shape, but - in an era before DNA profiling - very little else. Having failed to wear gloves, the suspect’s fingerprints were found on her telephone, the drawer of her wardrobe and the top edge of her washing basin, with a faint print on the ‘Do Not Disturb sign on the door. But without a name - still using a manual card-system where prints were examined by eye – searching every possible record would take teams of highly-trained officers’ months to make a match. Two promising notes was that they had found several brown hairs on the bedsheets, in her pubic hair and on her body – which weren’t Sarah’s. They also collected a semen sample which confirmed her attacker’s blood-type – Group O – and although PGM1, HP 2-1 only accounts for 12.5% of the UK population, being a non-secreter, his sample was more likely to be confused with Groups A, B or AB. The police had enough evidence to convict… but what they didn’t have was a suspect. The Royal Automobile Club had presented the police with hundreds of viable suspects with no obvious motive. Everyone agreed that Sarah was lovely girl, who was innocent and fun, but upset no-one. As standard practice, her family were interviewed, they all had alibis (living 68 miles west of London) and being so tragic, her death sent shockwaves through the family for decades to come. And although wealthy, neither the family nor Sarah were sent any threats and she had no known issues in her past. Of the RAC Club’s 200 plus employees, everyone was interviewed – regardless of whether they were on shift – especially the 12 staff members who lived on site, and everybody had an alibi and no motive. Of the 80 guest rooms, 17 were occupied and everyone was cleared. In fact, so thorough was the investigation, that the police checked the fingerprints of every member or guest who stayed or visited the club since Sarah joined 18 months prior. But no-one matched the fingerprints found in her room. And by the Friday, Police had even tracked down ‘Frank’, the man from Belfast who some said was her boyfriend, who – it transpired - had been a doorman when Sarah worked at the Norfolk Hotel. He was interviewed and he voluntarily gave a hair, blood, saliva and semen sample – which proved he was a ‘Group O, non-secretor’ - the same type as her killer. But having a cast iron alibi which was backed up by several reliable witnesses, ‘Frank’ was eliminated from the enquiry, leaving the police with no-one… …and with that, the investigation hit a dead end. David Frooms had vanished, the police didn’t know him, and they no reason to suspect him. But sometimes people can do the strangest of things for no apparent reason. On Saturday 9th July 1972, at Cannon Street Police Station, DCI James Neville received an anonymous letter sent one day earlier from a WC1 postcode. It was written on brightly coloured note-paper which depicted three little cottages nestling in a sunset with the word ‘Peace’ spelled out like flowers. It read: “Dear Superintendent. Thought you may like some help with your case as it seems that you are approaching it from the wrong angle. I didn’t like the idea of Sarah’s departure, but things couldn’t be helped. Though what is to stop it happening again. I found a strange sense of power in depriving a body of life, though Sarah was a mistake. So why do I tell you this? Mainly because I’m a lonely person, always have been and secondly because I think I may be ill. The reason I think this is that on the night Sarah died (which I still can’t remember) I felt no remorse, no guilt, so hurry up and catch me. I won’t give myself up as that will destroy me and I have a great deal longer to live. To prove this isn’t a crank’s letter – you found some blue dressing gown cord under the bed, at least a couple of pieces!” The fingerprints on the letter matched those in David’s criminal record, the note-paper matched those (later) found in his bag at the Left Luggage kiosk, and – having contacted his family - the letters he had recently written from Simonwell Trust proved that the handwriting was a perfect match. All they needed to do was to find David Frooms… …but again, sometimes people can do the strangest of things for no apparent reason. On Tuesday 11th July, another anonymous phone-call stated “the man you’re after is at Centre Point”. Unlike the needle in the haystack which had confronted them before, now the police had a name, a face, a set of fingerprints, and – having realised their mistake – they went to the one at 54 Dean Street. Entering the basement bar at 11:30pm, DCI Nevill saw David chatting to a girl, he asked “are you David Frooms?”, David replied “I am”, and having identified themselves as Police, David replied “I’m glad you’ve caught me”. And with that, eight days after her murder, the killer of Sarah Gibson was arrested. In his interview, he would give the police a full and frank confession… …but how much of that night could he remember… …and how much of what he said was true? (DCI) “On the evening of Sunday 2nd July 1972, where were you?” (DF) “I was trying to sleep in St James’ Park, the law came and kicked everyone out”. It was a standard part of police procedure under the Vagrancy Act of 1866. “I went before they got over to me”, as he was afraid of being re-arrested having stolen £50 from the Simonwell Trust, but he was unaware that they had not reported his crime. He ran up the steps of the Duke of York memorial, left into Carlton House Terrace and along Carlton Gardens. “I wanted somewhere to kip”. That weekend there had been a mini-heat wave in the high 20’s, but living in a city made of stone, glass and steel, sleeping in the nightly shadows could be cold. (DF) “I went round the back of a large building with a Wool sign”. Wool House at 5-7 Carlton Gardens, an office block occupied by the Wool Inspectorate. “I tried to sleep under a sort of balcony they had there but it was too draughty”. Had the night been warmer, David may have slept there? But he didn’t. “I left my rucksack and took a look around the garden, looking for a shed or something”. The garden was neat and manicured, so he expected to find a cosy shed to shelter in, only there wasn’t one. “While searching I came upon the back of a large building with a few lights on”. He didn’t know it but this was the back of the RAC Club. “The thought entered my head that I might find something to eat there, so I tried the windows and doors but all were locked”, as expected in a place with solid security. But people do make honest mistakes, and being a humid day, “I then saw an open window on the first floor”. Someone (no-one knows who) had wedged it ajar, just a crack, with a folded piece of paper. It would be small enough for a little breeze to blow in, but more than ample for David to open and enter. The problem was that this window wasn’t exactly accessible, being 12 feet off the ground and hidden behind a jutting terrace. But again, someone - possibly having ended their shift early - had left a 10-foot ladder propped against the wall. It wasn’t deliberate, but this simple mistake made his entry easy. “I entered to find some sort of dining room. I searched around for some food but didn’t find any, just a bag of bread rolls”. He was hungry, but there wasn’t much to eat. “Near the door was a sort of desk with a padlock on it”. It was a waiter’s desk. The padlock suggested it held something valuable within, maybe a cash-tin? “I couldn’t twist it off. I got this knife thing off one of the tables” – a fish knife – “I tried to break it but couldn’t”. So, unable to find any food or money, “I went further into the building”. Inside was a maze of corridors, passageways and stairwells. Having no reason or right to enter the club before, the choices he made were entirely random. With 80 guest rooms and 20 staff quarters over five floors, including kitchens, offices and bars, he could have gone anywhere and found anything. But sticking out like a sore thumb, he headed up to the top floor, where he was less likely to be seen. From this point on, David’s detailed description of the events that night become a little vague. Climbing the ‘staff only’ staircase, as he entered the roof, he saw a small room with a light on. Sarah’s room. Room 519. The light was on, the TV was on and the curtains were open. “I chose homes with a light on because I knew the doors will always be open”, which – being claustrophobic - Sarah’s was. “I went along ‘till I came to one where I saw the light was coming from”. The four other doors were shut, the corridor was silent and - from within her room - he could hear the white noise of her telly. “I opened the door and went in, very quietly, and I saw this girl lying on the bed asleep”. Snoring gently, her head on a pillow and snuggled under the comfort of her multicoloured blanket lay Sarah; all tiny, calm and quiet, a peaceful girl who worked hard and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. “I wanted the money. That’s it”. He had done this many times before, the secret was to be silent, to creep in and creep out. “On the chair by the door… a handbag, I looked in the handbag… opened it… there was a purse… only small change”. It’s tragic to think, but if she’d had more than 60p in her purse, that may have satisfied his need? Having left his bag in Wool House, he stole her rucksack, and placed inside several items she had left on the dresser; a locket, a lighter, a watch and a set of earrings. They were worth very little, but did he know that, or did he care? So, maybe that’s why he went looking for something else, maybe some jewellery in the cupboards and drawers by her bed? As he crept, he didn’t disturb a single item that she had left beside her bed. But soon his plan would change. (DF) “I saw her. She woke up. I told her to be quiet and I gagged her”, (DCI) “What with?”, (DF) “Handkerchief… something else… I ripped some towel and tied it over that. I tied her hands and feet with her white stockings. I then had a look round for money and food. I couldn’t find any”. DCI Nevill asked “did you take the gag out of her mouth?”, David said “Yes, afterwards I did”, “After what?” the DCI asked, only as his fumbling words littered with vagaries, David replied “I don’t know”. And maybe he didn’t? Maybe he had forgotten? Or maybe he chose not to remember? “I told her to lie on her face. Then I moved her onto her side because I was afraid she might suffocate. She was mumbling something, the words ‘stockings’, I thought they might be too tight, so I cut them loose and tied her up with some blue cord from the dressing table” – but would a murderer do that? David took a real risk loosening, cutting and re-tying her restraints and her gag, but the likelihood is that he trusted her, as she hadn’t made a sound. But why? Perhaps she was terrified? Maybe being so timid that just who she was? Or maybe she hoped by being good and quiet, the burglar would leave? The DCI pressed on “what we’re you wearing, David?”, (DF) “Black t-shirt, brown jumper, a shirt”. (DCI) “Did you leave the shirt in the room?”, (DF) “Yes… I must have done”. (DCI) “Did you undress in the room?”, (DF) “I don’t know. I must have done”. (DCI) “Why did you?”, (DF) “Don’t know. Don’t know”. Asked “Did you cut any of her clothing?”, David replied “Yes, with a knife” (his pen-knife). Asked again, “David, did you make love to her?”, David replied “I can’t remember”. (DCI) “Was she naked?”, (DF) “She was wearing a red something, a nightdress, I don’t know, the next thing I remember is being astride her on the bed... my hands were round her neck”. Why? He never said. (DF) “I turned the room over, looking for money… she was dead then… I killed her, didn’t I? I killed her”. But as much as he talked, one crucial detail was still missing from his confession. (DCI) “David, did you have sex with Sarah?”, as her lack of bruises led the detectives down a disturbing line of inquiry, at which David simply rambled on; “She was dead then; dead, dead, dead, dead, dead”. And having exhausted almost every avenue, DCI Neville would ask one final time (DCI) “David, did you have sex with Sarah, before she was dead?”, and although the evidence would suggest that when he raped her, she was either dying, or already dead? His only reply was this; “I don’t think so”. (End) David Frooms was charged on the 12th July 1972, at Bow Street Police Court and remanded in custody. When offered legal representation, his solicitor advised him “not to answer any questions”, as was his legal right, and – although he had previously been helpful – he would make no further statements. His trial was held at the Old Bailey from the 18th to the 20th December 1972, before Mr Justice Forbes. Charged with two counts, he pleaded ‘guilty’ to the second count of burglary, trespassing and handling stolen goods, but he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the rape and murder of Sarah Gibson. Declared sane and fit to stand trial, his solicitor used the defence of ‘diminished responsibility’, owing to the trauma he had suffered during his traumatic childhood, which may have affected David’s memory of the events. Giving evidence, he recalled all of the robbery, he admitted to tying her up, he had vague recollections of strangling her, but he denied raping her, whether she was alive or dead. He even denied writing the letter which he sent to the police, and phoning in the tip-off which led them to Centre Point. On Wednesday 20th December 1972, after just thirty minutes of deliberation, a unanimous jury of twelve men found David Frooms guilty of murder, with Mr Justice Forbes concluding “you have been found guilty in the most terrible circumstances… nothing but a monster could have done this”. As of today, David’s whereabout are unknown, having left Sarah’s family with nothing. No daughter, but also, no answers as to what happened that night, and - more importantly – why did he murder her? Was it something she said, did or saw? Did she remind him of a lost love? Did he lash out owing to his past? Or was this just another tragic coincidence, which led to an innocent girl’s untimely death? Asked “why did you cover her up with a blanket?”, David said “It seemed somehow wrong leaving her dead all on her own”. And although we will never know exactly what he did with Sarah, in that room, over those four terrifying hours, the DCI would ask “Is that why you stayed with her a long time?”, but David gave no reply. Fifty years since her murder, we still don’t know the truth… and we never will. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #160: 'Do Not Disturb' - Part Two (David Charles Richard Frooms)2/3/2022
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
St James's Park, at the back of the RAC Club on Pall Mall
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY
This is Part Two of Three of 'Do Not Disturb', the untold story of the murder of Sarah Gibson. In the summer of 1972, 24-year-old homeless man David Frooms murdered Sarah Gibson, as she lay in her bed at the RAC Club at 89 Pall Mall, London, SW1. Buy why? How did he know her, why did he attack her, why did he climb five sets of stairs to find her room inside of a very secure club, and why did he subject her to a four-hour ordeal? Was it personal, revenge or a series of unfortunate circumstances?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 RAC Club in Pall Mall where Sarah Gibson was murdered by David Frooms. It is marked with a mustard coloured raindrop near the words Charring Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in St James’s Park, SW1, three hundred feet south of the RAC Club where Sarah Gibson was murdered, and we’re within sight of the bed where her torture took place. St James’s Park is a 23-hectare Grade-1 listed park in Westminster, circled by such famous sites as Buckingham Palace, Horse Guard’s Parade, 10 Downing Street and St James’ Palace. Named after St James the Less, a former leper hospital stood on this site. And where-as once it was home to Henry the Eighth’s exotic zoo full of kidnapped wildlife; such as camels, elephants and crocodiles - it is now a public park. Open to everyone, it features ornate rockeries, cultivated hedges, water fountains and a duck island, complete with a hint at its former inmates - a squadron of pelicans. For thousands of people every day, St James’s Park is an escape to the country in the heart of the city. Sadly, as the sun blazes, its peace is often pulverised by a plethora of prize-pillocks; whether posh brats banging bongos as if playing ‘ethnic’ instruments makes their daddy’s asset-stripping income less racist, the pungent whiff of the ‘Shit Santa’ who decorates the trees with little bags of poodle plop, those talentless circus-turds who tippy-toe a tight-tope between trees a full three inches off the grass, and the worst terrorist to tranquillity – children. Urgh! Please! Someone tell them to “shut-up”. But at night, as the park empties, it becomes a refuge for the city’s homeless. And although it’s a public park for everyone to enjoy - just like the RAC Club - there are laws over who is welcome and who isn’t. On the night of Sunday 2nd July 1972, just hours before her four-hour torture, the killer of Sarah Gibson stood in this park, barely three-hundred feet from her bed in Room 519. His name was David Frooms. But how did they meet and why did he kill her? Was it personal, revenge, a mistake, or a series of unfortunate coincidences? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 160: ‘Do Not Disturb’ – Part Two. On Monday 3rd July 1972 at 12pm, in Westminster Public Mortuary, Home Office Pathologist Professor Keith Simpson conducted a post-mortem on 21-year-old Sarah Gibson. Present was the investigating officer Detective Chief Inspector James Neville and the Exhibits Officer Sergeant Brian Vickery. Found at 9:25am, with her multicoloured blanket pulled up to her nose, she looked like she was asleep. Her room was as she’d left it the night before; door ajar, light and TV on, and a half-drunk cup of coffee on the floor. But as her bedclothes were pulled down to her ankles, her injuries told a different story. Lying perfectly straight, Sarah had been stripped naked from the neck down; her ripped white knickers lay crumpled beside her bloated face, her blue bed-jacket had been violently torn open at all but one last loop and splayed across her shoulders lay the tattered remains of her orange nylon nightdress. Her pale flesh, her small breasts and her gaping vagina had been laid bare to the sadist before her. Given the attack, several injuries were as expected; she had a half inch split to her tongue’s tip caused by the stifling force of a makeshift gag made from a handkerchief and some torn towelling. Gagged to keep her quiet, this had left a ring of linear pressure marks from her mouth sides to her skull’s base. Across her wrists and ankles were faint lacerations, having been tied using her own white stockings. And four inches to the left of her mid-neck lay a pull impression suffused with minute haemorrhages, as her garrotte-toting killer had strangled every ounce of energy and every last breath from her body. With her last seen alive at 9:45pm and her time of death estimated at roughly 4am, although Sarah was only small, her injuries were inflicted by someone stronger than herself, but not by much. But what most perplexed the pathologist was the injuries he didn’t see. Sarah had been strangled and as she’d fought for her life, her fingernails had clawed her neck. But her hyoid bone was not fractured and he had expected to see more bruising or greater signs of a struggle? Instead, there was very little, except for a missing earring and two lost curlers. So, what was this? A crazed sadist or a sex game gone bad? During the night, Sarah’s restraints were cut and re-tied at the wrists and ankles with the soft woollen cord from her blue bathrobe, which left only very faint flushing that the pathologist almost didn’t spot. The gag in her mouth had been loosened and a soft pillow was placed under her backside. But why? Nothing about the scene made sense; her bedroom didn’t look ransacked to the point where even her half-drunk cup, the jar of instant coffee and the pot of powdered milk lay opened and undisturbed on the floor beside her bed. And yet her death was violent, with several inexpensive items now missing. A bloodied blanket, a sweat-soaked bedsheet, cut restraints and a torturously slow strangulation told a tale of a terrifying assault on a defenceless young girl in her own bed. But was this inflicted by someone who loved her, hated her, or both? But there was no denying that a sexual sadist had done this; as although no sexual injuries were found, a glutinous matter (later identified as semen) seeped from the vulva, and with no tearing found within, the Pathologist concluded “intercourse had taken place either before, during or after her death”. Her body was identified by her father, Colonel ‘Jack’ Hugill Gibson, and almost sixty pieces of evidence were handed to the exhibits officer; including hair, blood and fingernail samples; oral, vaginal and anal swabs; sweat, semen and saliva stains; the cords, the gag and her torn clothes, as well as his clothes, being a brown corduroy jumper and a white shirt with two missing buttons, later found under her bed. But who was David Frooms, how did he know Sarah, and why did he want her dead? David Charles Richard Frooms, known as ‘Dave’ was born on the 22nd April 1947 at Perivale Maternity Hospital in Greenford, West London. And what followed was a childhood as broken as it was tough. Being a baby in his crib was the only time that his life had stability. Aged two, his parents separated, his father vanished and - seeking to absolve herself of her burden – his mother sent this unwanted boy to live with his grandmother in Southall. David never loved his mother, he only tolerated her and later stated “her inconsistencies and unfulfilled promises have repeatedly blocked my progress”. Aged five, his grandmother died, and with no-one willing to foster this bright but restless boy, he was bounced back to a reluctant mother, a step-father he despised and two step-sisters; one called Liz who he liked but was plagued by depression and blindness, and a younger one he disliked called Leslie. Aged seven – having repeatedly ran away from home and stealing to support his life on the streets - both David and Liz were ripped from their lives and sent to St Vincent’s, a Catholic-run children’s home near Feltham, where they lived without love for the next three years. Developing a deep distrust of others, David found it difficult to form friendships, to make any plans and he always felt isolated. Aged ten, the home bounced him back to the unwelcome arms of mother and step-father, who lived in a cramped little caravan at Winkfield in Surrey. Promptly sent to a court-appointed approved school for training and ‘re-education’, although many young boys saw borstal as a place of unspeakable horror, David found a semblance of stability among its dark cold walls, but became institutionalised. In stark contrast, Sarah was raised 62 miles west in the wealthy and privileged horse-racing village of Lambourne in Berkshire, and so far, fate had yet to force their paths to cross. But it would… …just not yet. Like Sarah, physically David was unremarkable. Being three inches taller but roughly the same weight; he was intensely pale with a thin bespectacled face and long dark hair. Like her, he was pleasant, quiet and polite but kept his distance. He spoke with a firm whispering tone which many struggled to hear. And he was smart and literate, which was amazing given how fractured his education was. So, had they met in childhood, maybe Sarah and David would have become kindred spirits…? But they didn’t. As with his first decade of life, his second would be even more troubling and traumatic. Aged eleven, as a young boy sleeping rough in a tent by a riverbank in Windsor, a lone man approached him, befriended him and asked David to masturbate him. Terrified, David hit him with a torch, but this first sexual experience imprinted four key words on his damaged psyche; sex, panic, attack and run. That same year, having stolen money and food (to fund his life in the streets) his mother packed him off to live with the absent father he barely knew in Southall. Unhappy, he repeatedly played truant and with neither parent wanting him, David was sent to Denham Court Children’s Home for two years. From twelve until fifteen, David was a resident at Shushiela Community Home in Blandford, Dorset; an experimental care-home where the kids could run riot. As he later said “we could do whatever we wanted; smash windows, cause havoc, steal, all to get it out of our system”, but being unable to tolerate his behaviour, David was expelled from yet another possible place he could have called home. As David would state, although restless, “I was often at my happiest when I was confined to prison”, so it was no surprise that – beyond the theft of basic necessities to survive - he turned to crime. In April 1962, aged 14, at Blandford, he was given a 12-month conditional discharge for stealing a car and sent to Hitcham Remand Home for six months. December 1962 at Kingston he was sent to Redhill Approved School for stealing a car, only to abscond and be re-arrested. March 1963, at Grays, he stole a car, nine pence from a phone-box and was sent to borstal at Feltham. Released on 18th May 1965, he got work as a trainee carpenter at Russell Bros (Builders) on Harrow Road, but quit after 1 ½ days. As criminal careers go? He primarily stole from cars while living destitute – there was nothing sexual, violent or sadistic… …but even the shortest of incidents can have a lasting effect on a young brain. In 1961, David met his first girlfriend, but being too shy to touch her - as well as being immature and sexually inexperienced - he would secretly steal her knickers and take them into bed with him. In 1965, aged 18, lodging in a half-way house in Weymouth, the landlord made sexual advances upon him. David asked to be moved, but the probation officer insisted that he finish a week’s work first. To achieve this unmolested, every night, David hid under his bed pretending to be out. Falling back on old habits, he decided to flee, and to fund this, he burgled the landlord’s flat. It should have been a simple job, but when the landlord returned - gripping a thick stick and swinging it so wildly it left the landlord blind - four key words flooded back into David’s damaged psyche; sex, panic, attack and run. For robbery with violent assault, he was sent to Brixton Prison for three years and six months. With the theft of food and money being his primary motive, the burglary of houses had also become part of his criminal repertoire. For David, it was a low-risk crime, in which he never confronted the owners; “I chose homes with a light on upstairs because I knew the doors will always be open. I even cooked meals with the people upstairs”, as the secret was to enter and exit as silently as possible. But then again, one particular conviction stands out as sinister. In May 1969, in the coastal town of Ramsgate, 22-year-old David “got talking to an attractive 13-year-old girl who was walking her dog. It was a pretty good feat for me to start talking like that”. They chatted, went to a park “and feeling increasingly randy, I touched her breasts and private parts”. David was arrested minutes later and served one year in Pentonville Prison; six months for a prior burglary, three months for car theft, and – shockingly – just three months for the indecent assault of a child. Up until his arrest for Sarah’s murder, he had no other criminal convictions for sexual offences. Those who knew him said “he was not that way inclined” and having interviewed the few sexual partners he had, he had no interest in bondage or strangulation. If anything, he was caring, loving and thoughtful. For his tenth conviction for burglary, car-theft and trespassing, on 22nd Sept 1970 in Dorset, David was sentenced to two years at Grendon Underwood Psychiatric Prison in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire. Given psychotherapy, David was later diagnosed “with a severe personality disorder, characterised by feelings of inadequacy, difficulty undertaking ordinary tasks when outside of institutions and panics in psychologically and sexually threatening situations, in which he often acts impulsively and violently”. Inside, even David admitted “I had matured to some extent and I began to question my motives”, but having been released early for good behaviour, his support stopped and all the hard work was undone. On the 23rd January 1972, six months before Sarah’s murder, David was released from prison. But there was one glimmer of hope in David’s tragic little life… …the Simonwell Community Trust. Based out of a disused 400-room school at Simonwell Farm near Grumdale in Canterbury, this was a charity which drew attention to the thousands of homeless people living on the welfare state. Working for £1 50p a week plus food and board, he described it as “a happy spirit of comradeship”, where he helped with repairs, manned the phones, organised jumble sales and scrubbed the floors. Having met the charity aged 14, over the decade, instead of being bounced from remand centres into a hotch-potch of unfamiliar half-way-houses, this became his surrogate home. It provided him with a routine, stability and – although still a prolific thief – any future offences were few and far between. “The last time I was at Simon, I stayed out of trouble for six months - it’s the best I’ve ever done”. Here he strived to be a good person and through hard work he flourished. Trying his best to build bridges with his fractured family, David sent his mum, sister and grandparents several letters apologising for his behaviour and assuring them, he was desperate to live a better life. “Dear mum. This will probably come as a surprise, my writing out of the blue… I was a bit wary of writing to you, as once again I had been in trouble and I wasn’t too sure how you would take it. At the moment I’m trying to re-join the Simon Community. It’s a purely voluntary body, most of their workers are students who intend to go into social work, so it means working with people who actually care”. And although he infrequently got replies, he wrote as often as he could, with updates on his plans. Such as; his routine: “I’m kept very busy at the moment, what with 400 rooms to clean, which were left in a terrible state when vandals broke in”. His new pal: “I’ve acquired a dog called Rebel, he’s a little neurotic but very affectionate”. His new hobbies: “Liz bought me a guitar. I can play a few simple songs such as On the Top of Old Smokey and Tom Dooley, but nothing too complicated. I still do some drawing now and then, and also attempt to write poetry”. His plans for the future, as part of his job involved shuttling homeless people to their new homes, “I wonder, would it be possible to get a flat?”. And then of course, he spoke of his love life: “Dear mum... I wonder if you can help me. There’s this girl called Anne whom I’m very fond of, and who has sort of kept an eye on me for about four years now. Last week she had an accident up in Nottingham… I want very much to see her. Do you think you can spare me a few quid? I hate to ask but she really is the only girl I’ve ever felt anything for and I don’t like the idea of her being up there alone. I’m sorry that I ask you for things all the time, but she does mean a lot to me (maybe you’ll meet her sometime!). My love to you all. Take care. Dave.x” And so, through the dark brooding clouds of his troubled past, a bright glint of sunlight shone… …but a thief can’t help but be a thief, especially when he’s restless, love-sick and ready to flee. On 13th June 1972, as a trusted volunteer of the Simon Community Trust, David was given £50 to buy food, a duty he had done many times before… only this time - fuelled by impulsive thoughts - he ran. Hopping on the first train out of Canterbury, 24-year-old David Frooms headed to London King’s Cross, carrying little more than a back-pack of tatty clothes; with no plan, no friends and no place to stay. He didn’t know London and the city was not a safe place for a young boy on the run. On his first night, having blown £8 on booze, he was fleeced by two Soho sex-workers; “I’d been drinking, I was illogical, one nicked £14 and ran, the other did the rest with a tenner for the ponce and £15 for a room. I was angry, I bought a pen knife, I searched the streets shouting ‘if I find them, I will kill them’”, as four key words blasted his damaged psyche; sex, panic, attack and run, until a social worker calmed him down. For two-thirds of his life, David had been hungry, broke and homeless, but past experience had taught him how to survive; by living rough, laying low and breaking into cars and houses for food and money. On Sunday 2nd July 1972, the weather was hot, as Britain was in a mini-heatwave, the kind we love for a second but grumble about when it’s too hot. With highs of 83 Fahrenheit / 28.6 Celsius during the day, and lows of 68 and 20 at night, it was made hotter in a city made of glass, concrete and steel. Living rough, like many of London’s homeless, David made a makeshift tent in St James’ Park; a place chosen as it was open to the public, had bushes to pitch a tent and a tap for washing and drinking. By night he slept, and by day, he prowled the city streets looking for cars and homes to steal from. That Sunday –as Sarah awoke late, ate toast, drank coffee and dressed in casual clothes – David and a pal went to the pub in Victoria and were pissed by mid-afternoon (although his blood/alcohol level can never be verified). At this point, Sarah was shopping in Piccadilly, purchasing an Evening Standard and 20 Embassy’s. By 5pm, she was finished, and David was still sleeping off the booze in his tent. So far, they hadn’t met, spoken, or even so-much-as glanced in each other’s direction. At 7pm, Sarah dined in the staff restaurant, eating a meal of stew and dumplings. David was asleep. At 7:30pm, Sarah walked two streets north to the Fun City Bingo Hall at 3-4 Coventry Street; sitting by herself, she bought two scorecards and a soft drink, leaving 60 pence in her purse. David was asleep. At 9:45pm, Sarah left Piccadilly and headed back to the RAC Club, a very secure private member’s club, accessed only by staff and a select group of London’s wealthiest, who are vetted and approved. Woken briefly by his pal, who as a rent boy went off to earn a few pounds, although hungry, David slept on. At 9:50pm, Sarah entered Room 519, on the fifth floor, in the ‘staff only’ quarters of the RAC Club. Her death would be torturously slow, as if someone had either truly loved or hated her… … but barely hours before the attack, David and Sarah were still yet to meet. At 9:50pm, she popped on the telly, possibly to Colditz and unwittingly laid out the tools of her demise; such as the white stockings which her killer would use to bind her wrists and ankles, the blue bathrobe whose soft woollen cord he later used to re-tie them, and dressing white knickers, a blue bed-jacket and an orange nylon nightdress, her usual night attire which he would rip from her pale bare flesh. At 10:15pm, during Monty Python, she smoked, popped in her curlers and perched her handbag on the chair, as well as a watch, a locket and a Churchill Crown – several inexpensive items he would steal At 10:45pm, during Midweek, she made a flask of coffee, grabbed her newspaper and – having hopped into her single-sized bed - by the Late News, she was snuggled under a multicoloured woollen blanket of red, black, orange and cream squares, as her sleepy head nestled softly into a thick white pillow. And as the channel closed down for the night and the telly turned to snowy fuzz and white noise - as she often did - she fell asleep with the lights and TV on, her curtains half open and her door left ajar. Being night-time, David might have slept right through till sunrise… only he didn’t. (End) “I was trying to sleep in St James’ Park, the law came in and kicked everyone out”. Worried they were searching for him as a felon who had stolen £50 from Simonwell Trust, as he always did, he panicked and fled. He ran up the steps of the Duke of York memorial, into Carlton House Terrace, along Carlton Gardens and tried to break into the offices at Wool House, but failed. “I wanted somewhere to kip”. At that point, David’s needs were simple; food and warmth. “I went looking for a shed in the gardens. There weren’t any”. In his own words, “it was just pure luck that I broke into that place”, as it was near, it served food and it looked warm. Access wasn’t a problem “I climbed over a stone wall and thought I might find something to eat”. And although a skilled burglar, it was a series of unfortunate coincidences which ensured that his entry was easy and undetected. In the palatial dining room of the RAC Club, he tried to break into a waiter’s desk “it had a padlock on it. I couldn’t twist it off”, but undeterred, he went in search of food or money in another room. Climbing the ‘staff only’ staircase to the fifth floor, as he entered the roof, he saw a small room with a light on. As he had done many times before, “I chose homes with a light on upstairs because I knew the doors will always be open”. And being claustrophobic, Sarah’s door was unlocked and left ajar. The secret was to be very silent. “I went along ‘till I came to this one where I could see the light was coming from. I opened the door and went in, very quietly, and I saw this girl lying on the bed asleep”. Sarah was an innocent with no enemies. She would be murdered in the one place she felt safest – her own bed - but it wasn’t for something she had done, said or knew. David had entered with nothing on his mind but hunger and sleep, as even he would say “I broke in and… one thing led to another”. But until that very second, when he spied her from the doorway, Sarah and David had never met. ‘Do Not Disturb’ concludes next week. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #159: 'Do Not Disturb' - Part One (Sarah Mary Gindle Gibson)23/2/2022
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The Royal Automobile Club at 89 Pall Mall
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE
This is Part One of Three of 'Do Not Disturb', the untold story of the murder of Sarah Gibson. In the summer of 1972, 21-year-old Sarah Gibson worked as assistant housekeeper at the RAC Club at 89 Pall Mall, London, SW1. She was quiet, pleasant and she kept to herself. Those who knew her had nothing but kind words to say about her, but on across the night of Sunday 2nd to Monday 3rd July 1972, not only would a sadist assail this veritable Fort-Knox of security and navigate its maze of corridors to access her room, but they would subject this young girl to a truly shocking attack over four torturous hours, which ended in her death. But why?
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THE LOCATION
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The location of The RAC Club in Pall Mall where Sarah Gibson was murdered by David Frooms. It is marked with a mustard coloured raindrop near the words Charring Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing outside of The Royal Automobile Club at 89 Pall Mall, SW1; two streets east of the death of David West by his son, two streets north-east of Ghodratollah Barani banging on Buckingham Palace’s gates, two streets south of the Blackout Ripper’s assault on Greta Hayward and three streets east of the sweet-faced killer who ‘famously’ sold powdered dessert - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hailed as one of London’s most best private member’s clubs, The RAC Club is an impressive four-storey mansion made of Portland stone and lined with Doric-columns, like a lost relic of the roman empire. Founded in 1897, it houses eighty luxury bedrooms, seven banquet suites, three restaurants, a marble-lined swimming pool, a billiards room and a Turkish bath. With all the opulence of billionaire’s boudoir, mere hoi-polloi (like you or I) would never be allowed to dirty its décor, as its membership is strict and vapid; to enter, you have to be wealthy, you have to be a ‘name’ and (until 1998) you had to be a man. To pamper these flexible legends of tax law limbo and lovers of the off-shore loophole, The RAC Club employs two-hundred staff; comprising of chefs, butlers, sommeliers, valets and chambermaids. Most commute in, but a tiny proportion live on-site, in small private rooms on a section exclusively for staff. In the summer of 1972, Room 519 was home to Sarah Gibson, the club’s live-in assistant housekeeper. Fresh from the country, she was excited undertake such a prestigious job; therefore, she worked hard, she kept out of trouble and she was well-liked by friends, family, club members and colleagues. But across the night of Sunday 2nd to Monday 3rd July 1972, not only would a sadist assail this veritable Fort-Knox of security and navigate its maze of corridors to access her room, but they would subject this young sweet girl to a truly shocking attack over four torturous hours, which ended in her death. But why Sarah? Was it personal, revenge, a mistake, or a series of unfortunate coincidences? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 159: ‘Do Not Disturb’ – Part One. Sarah Mary Gindle Gibson was born in August 1950, as the youngest daughter to John & Mary Gibson, with three older siblings; Angela, Martin and Simon. As someone who worked as an assistant house-keeper, you might expect such a girl to have a more modest upbringing? But you’d be wrong. Raised in the village of Lambourn in Berkshire, the Lambourn Valley is a breeding-ground for some of the world’s fastest and finest racehorses and Grand National winners, and at the centre of it all was Sarah’s father - the celebrated racehorse trainer, Colonel ‘Jack’ Hugill Gibson. Like many breeders in this village which comprised of fifty training yards, horse-racing is very much a family business, with their surname being the epitome of pride and their secrets passed down solely through the blood-line. Therefore, it’s no surprise that Jack’s eldest son became a champion jockey. Horseracing was everything to the Gibson family, they ate and breathed racing, and so dedicated were this family to achieve equine excellence, that Jack was the first British trainer to build a swimming pool in his yard exclusively to aid rehabilitation of injured horses. This was what they did… …but it wasn’t for Sarah. Being a diminutive five-foot-two and weighing just over eight stone, physically Sarah was the perfect size to become a jockey, but horse-racing didn’t rev her engine. There was something truly humble about Sarah; as she didn’t crave fame, she didn’t court attention and she didn’t compete for trophies. She supped tea instead of champagne and whereas some may covet their photo on the society pages, she saw her future with a pinny, a mop, a clean room and a strong sense of pride at a job well done. She would never become a name with a bulging bank balance - but that was the point. She wanted to do her own thing, to learn everything from the ground-up and to make her own mistakes. With her parents’ blessing, in 1967 she studied hotel management at college, and in October 1969 she got her first job as a chambermaid at the Norfolk Hotel in Paddington; where she made beds, she cleaned bathrooms and she scrubbed floors. All for a minimum wage, but she had earned every penny. It was a perfect job for someone like Sarah, as she was a private person who kept-to-herself. Described as “a quiet little thing with a pretty face and lovely big blue eyes”, she was popular and liked, but being happy in her own skin, she was good with people, but she preferred the solitude of her own company. She wasn’t shy, far from it, but she was just a private person who never felt the need to burden others with her woes. She was chatty and happy-go-lucky, but she rarely discussed her love-life and although she didn’t have a lot of friends, she loved her family and would visit them every month without fail. She loved her job, she never complained, she was always punctual, and living on a minuscule wage, she got by because she had simple tastes; purchasing white bread, instant coffee and powdered milk. There was nothing fancy about Sarah, she liked a simple life with no fuss, frills nor friction. In November 1970, Sarah took a step up the career-ladder when she was employed as the assistant housekeeper at the prestigious RAC Club in Pall Mall. Built on a solid reputation as a hard-worker, she would be responsible for a team of chambermaids, working day and night shifts. Owing to the long-hours, she lived on-site in a small but practical room, and she liked her job as the staff were like family. Three years out of college, had a blossoming career, and she had done all off her own back. Everything in her life was going well… …but one year later, she would be murdered in the one place she felt safest – her own bed. But why? Was it for something she did, something she said, something she heard, or something she knew? Sarah had lived in London for 18 months. As a notoriously expensive city, she may have feared for her safety had she been forced to share a bedsit or flat with several dubious strangers in the cheapest part of town. But luckily, the staff quarters at The RAC Club were perfect for a young small girl. Being a prestige venue, which prided itself on protecting its exclusive clientele; its windows were locked, its doors were solid, undesirables were instantly ousted and security patrolled the premises at all hours. Being an all-male club, although the rules were archaic, every member had to follow a code of conduct. Breaches were dealt with by cancellation of their membership and police were involved if necessary. The same went for the staff, as strict house rules enforced a level of professionalism – no drinking on duty, no drugs at any time, no fraternisation between staff and customers, and no friends (especially those of a romantic bent) were permitted in their private quarters. This also assured the staff’s safety. On the night of her murder, of the 80 bedrooms for club-patrons, only 17 were occupied. All were members, all were accredited and vetted, and all were questioned by detectives and released. Of the 12 live-in staff, 10 were on duty, 1 was absent (but accounted for) and the twelfth was Sarah. But then again, how safe is anyone at any time? As for her work relationships, she didn’t have a colleague who she was close to. She was friendly, but she never got close. As Frederick Hockley, the valet would state “she was always nice, always pleasant. She would laugh with me when a (horse) race was on that she ought to put a bet on. I don’t know anybody who had a bad word about her”. Overseeing the chambermaids, she reported to Monica White the housekeeper, who said “she was a lovely little girl, without any real friends. At Christmas she bought herself a television set so she could watch it in the evenings for a bit of entertainment”. Following her death, detectives occupied two rooms to question the staff, but the harshest words anyone had to say about Sarah was that “she was a bit immature” and had a tiny rebellious streak. As a few days earlier, one of the chambermaids saw that with her black uniform, she was wearing white stockings. At which, Sarah laughed “they will have to do me, it’s the only pair I have until pay day”. She was far from a figure of hate, but did someone she knew harbour a grudge? Little is known about her private life, but certain things were undeniable; everybody agreed “she was cautious”, “she never took risks” and “she didn’t mix with hippies or weirdoes, anyone like that”. She didn’t have a criminal record, her autopsy stated there were no drink or drugs in her system, and she was not pregnant or sick. In fact, her life was so blameless, she didn’t even return a library book late. Some suggested that perhaps she had a secret life? But then again, that’s entirely unlikely as she rarely went out, often being at her most contented, when she was alone, in her room, watching television. As for romance; “I never saw her with a boyfriend”, Frederick said, a statement backed-up by Monica: “Sarah didn’t talk about her love life. She kept this to herself”. Now, this could just be gossip, but some said she was seeing a man called Frank who came from Belfast. But if he did exist, there’s no mystery as to why she kept him a secret? As being so private, her silence was just part of who she was. In the ensuing investigation, police would explore every miniscule aspect of her private life for a clue, or even just a hint as to who had inflicted such violence against Sarah, and why? But it all drew a blank. Her diary - although well-thumbed - was little more than a to-do-list, and an address book of names that the police would contact, question and rule out. There were no coded entries nor hints at liaisons. Her social life was as ordinary as any other young girl who savoured the silence of her own space. She didn’t splash out on extravagances and saved what little she could. She liked simple pleasures like instant coffee and crap telly, she smoked ten-ciggies-a-day lighting her Embassy’s with a gold-coloured Ronson lighter with tortoise shell casing, and she always took a good book to bed. And the highlight of her year was to be a solo weekend break in Paris - her treat to herself - but first she had to save. She loved going to the theatre, often alone, having recently seen Godspell and Tom Brown’s School Days, as well as popping to the cinema. And although the latest releases – Dirty Harry, A Clockwork Orange and Alfred Hitchcock’s Frenzy weren’t her cup of tea, she had some interest in the trial of the Teacup Poisoner whose crimes were hitting the headlines. To keep herself entertained, sometimes she went dancing, sometimes she played bingo, and her only hobby was to collect porcelain dolls. Mentally she was strong, physically she was well, she had no illnesses nor disabilities, and because she kept her life as simple as possible; she slept well, she ate well, she was happy and she had few worries. In fact, her only concern was that - ever since she was a child - she had suffered with claustrophobia. A colleague would state “she always slept with her door open. She couldn’t bear to be enclosed in such a small room. It would have been easy for someone to get into her bedroom as she slept. We sometimes remarked on this, but she only laughed”, as the club was safe and secure. At least, that’s what she thought. In her final days, she received no threats, she saw no strangers, and there were no changes in her mood. So, either her killer had come out of nowhere and attacked for no reason what-so-ever… …or maybe – being so private – she kept all of this terror to herself? Sunday 2nd July was Sarah’s day off. She had worked the 7am to 1pm shift the day before, and spoke to Monica at 12:55pm, but she said nothing about her plans for the weekend – which wasn’t unusual. The weather was hot, as Britain was in the grip of a mini-heatwave, the kind we love for a second but grumble about when it’s too hot and once it’s gone. With highs of 83 Fahrenheit / 28.6 Celsius during the day, and lows of 68 and 20 at night, it was made hotter in a city made of glass, concrete and steel. As per usual; she woke late, she ate toast, she drank coffee and dressed in casual clothes. There was no urgency to her movements and no schedule to keep, as she was enjoying having nothing to do. Mid-morning, she left her fifth floor room at the rear of the club, leaving her door slightly ajar (as there was no reason to lock it). She removed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign from the handle on the outside of her bedroom door and returned it to the inside, as tomorrow morning she would be back on duty. She turned left down the hallway, descended the service stairs and exited the club via ‘staff only’ door. Being a barmy day, she did as anyone else would and went on a long walk, as although chock-full of traffic, Pall Mall is surrounded by several royal parks, such as Green Park, Hyde Park and St James’. She took herself shopping, purchasing just her essentials, being that of a copy of the Evening Standard and a pack of 20 Embassy cigarettes, leaving enough money for a simple but harmless night out. Throughout the day, she was seen several times at the club, and she seemed her usual pleasant self. At 7pm, she dined in the staff restaurant, eating a meal of stew and dumplings. At 7:30pm, she walked two streets north to her regular haunt – the Fun City Bingo Hall at 3-4 Coventry Street. As she often did, she sat by herself, she purchased two scorecards and a soft drink - leaving her with approximately 60 pence in her purse - she chatted politely with the others ladies and she left at a little before 9:30pm. As far as we know; she didn’t meet anyone, she wasn’t followed, she wasn’t accosted and she didn’t look harassed. The RAC Club barman served her a drink, and at 9:45pm she returned to her room. That was the last time that Sarah Gibson was seen alive… …except by one person who did the unthinkable. What happened next the detectives could only surmise based on the evidence presented before them. And although, the little things she did and the seemingly ordinary actions she undertook that night, were part of her night-time routine, they would have a massive impact on the few hours she had left. She entered the long thin windowless hallway, which consisted of five staff quarters (Rooms 516 to 520), with a small shared bathroom, a lavatory and one entrance and exit to the ‘staff only’ staircase. Above her door to Room 519 was a solitary bulb, which was always kept on throughout the night. At 15 feet square, her room was small, practical and not particularly tidy. Near the door was a dressing table with a large mirror topped with ceramic dolls, a tall wardrobe full of Sarah’s clothes, a solo chair and a small side-table featuring a flower in a small thin vase, an electric heater (which was off), a sash-window (which was closed), a set of floral curtains (left half open), a small black & white television, a handbasin, a second wardrobe (full of her toiletries, books and underwear), a bedside table with a lone lamp and a framed photograph of her family, and behind the door, an armchair and a single bed. This was her room, where she lived by herself. Returning at a little after 9:45pm, she popped on her telly, and (if she had tuned it to BBC1) she’d have watched World War Two drama Colditz, the episode where Wing Commander Marsh feigns illness. She undressed and placed her clothes on the chair, she checked her uniform for the morning (a black skirt, black top and white stockings, as payday was soon but not soon enough) and she changed into her night attire of white knickers, a blue bed-jacket and an orange nylon nightdress - nothing fancy. On the dressing table was hung a blue bathrobe tied with a long blue woollen cord, but she only wore that when nature called and she had to pop down the hallway to use the bathroom or the lavatory. At 10:15pm, Colditz made way for Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and whilst smoking and stubbing out one of six ciggies in two ashtrays that night, she put two curlers into the sides of her dark brown hair. Perching her handbag (containing her purse, a diary, a torch and a Churchill Crown) on the chair, she removed her valuables, which were more sentimental than expensive; a silver watch, a heart-shaped locket which her dad had bought for her 21st birthday, around which hung four charms from her mum and three siblings. But she kept in her gold earrings, as being pierced, they were unlikely to fall out. At 10:45pm, Monty Python became Midweek; a current-affairs show presented by Ludovic Kennedy. She boiled a tartan flash of water, made one cup of Gold Blend coffee, stirred in one spoon’s worth of Coffee Mate (a powdered milk substitute), and supped her nightly drink from a single ceramic cup. She grabbed her newspaper, she popped off her slippers, and she hopped into her single-sized bed. At 11:30pm was the Late News, followed by a nature programme called Animal Design, which she may have watched, having snuggled under a brown floral eiderdown and a multicoloured woolen blanket of red, black, orange and cream squares, as her sleepy head nestled softly into a thick white pillow. Of course, we can never know the exact timings of what she did and when during her last night alive, but we do know that all of these everyday things she did, happened between 9:45pm and midnight. By the time of the nightly weather report, Sarah was asleep - safe and sound in her own bed. And as the channel closed down for the night and the national anthem played, the soft soothing voice of the announcer stated “the BBC is now closing” and the telly turned to snowy fuzz and white noise. As she often did, she fell asleep with the lights and TV on, her curtains slightly open and her door left ajar. Nobody saw or heard anything strange coming from her room that night. At 8am, her alarm clock went off, but she didn’t answer it. Sarah was supposed to be doing a split-shift with Monica starting at 9am. She had always been such a punctual girl, quiet but efficient. So, by 9:20am, Monica asked the valet “Fred, go wake her, will you?”. Fred Hockley went up to the fifth floor, “I knocked on the door of Sarah’s room. I got no reply”. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign which hung on the outside handle, as he entered, her room was illuminated just as she had left it the night before; her TV was on, the curtains were open, a half drunk coffee lay beside her bed and her clothes were scattered the floor – it was messy but then this was her room. “The door was off the latch, I said ‘Sarah, get up it’s gone 9 o’clock’”. She didn’t stir, she didn’t move, and she didn’t make a sound. From the base of the bed, he knocked the wooden foot board and cooed ‘Sarah, come on, you’re late’. But seeing that skin looked an odd colour, “I thought she was maybe ill”. With her blanket pulled right up to her nose, she looked asleep, only with her half open eyes peeping over the top of the bedsheet - all bloodshot and fixed - he saw that her face was strangely swollen. Gravely worried, Fred called for Monica, who also got no answer to her call, and as she slowly pulled down the blanket to reveal the rest of her face, “instantly I knew that she was dead”. (End) No-one had seen Sarah for twelve hours and she had been dead for at least five, but it was those crucial four hours between midnight and the time of her death, which posed the most questions. Who had done this to Sarah? Did she sneak a lover in? Was it a rival who was waiting for her? Or was it a familiar face who knew that she never locked her door and always left it open? On the surface, there was no sign of a break-in, no hint at a struggle and the room looked messy but not ransacked. It was only when her blanket was pulled down to her ankles that the true horror of what had happened to Sarah was unearthed. Someone had wanted her punished, someone wanted her humiliated, and they had taken a long lingering pleasure in her terrifying torture; as this tiny girl had been stripped, tied-up, raped and strangled, over the four hours she was trapped in her room with her killer. But who would want her dead, and why? Her quiet little life had left more holes than clues; was this a revenge attack over a deal to do with her wealthy father’s business, was it a rival staff member who wanted her job, did she have a secret boyfriend who had been jilted, or as a nobody in an exclusive club full of rich and powerful men, did she accidentally see or hear something that she shouldn’t have? The room was a mess, and although several inexpensive items had been stolen, her killer had left behind two items of their own; a brown corduroy jumper and a white shirt with two buttons missing. Was this a mistake? Or, if it wasn’t, how come they had the foresight to cover-up her body with a blanket before they fled, and – giving themselves enough time to escape – by placing on the outside door handle a simple sign which everybody in a hotel obeys. It simply read ‘Do Not Disturb’. Part two continues next week. (Out) *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". 
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1 Gloucester Crescent, NW1 where Edith Eleonora Humphries was murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHT:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 Edith's murder is marked with a purple cross near the word Camden Town. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The defining features of the Blackout Ripper’s murders were his sadism. This wasn’t the work of a mindless buffoon who bashed heads in with bricks, or a crazed loon who haphazardly hacked at limbs to feed his fantasy – this was different. As with calculated glee, he calmly and cruelly fileted the flesh as these ladies lay dead or dying, grinning as - through barely conscious slits - they watched with terrified eyes as he relished every slash and insertion, making their last seconds alive of pure terror. The pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state that the wounds he inflicted were not committed in a state of homicidal frenzy, as each cut was cold, deliberate and calculated. He wasn’t skilled with a knife or had a specific biological agenda, but he had clearly taken his time and savoured the moment. But was he a sadist? As if Mabel Church and Edith Humphries were his two earliest victims, of those he murdered, he only mutilated those in the latter half of his spree. So, were the first three interrupted before being defiled, was he yet to explore his sadism, or were these omissions a conscious choice? Psychologically, Gordon Frederick Cummins was a complicated man, who could be both kind and cruel, sociable and sociopathic. And although the police decried these attacks as the work of a “mad man” in whom the pathologist expected to find evidence of “sexual sadism” and/or “sexual abnormalities” - in Cummins, they found none. In fact, in court, Sir Bernard Spilsbury stated his opinion that “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. If Cummins was truly fuelled by pathological sadism, we would expect to find clues in his past which hint at a disturbed mind where the seeds domination and mutilation were beginning to bloom; whether rapes, assaults or murders; peeping, peeing or perversions; knives, fetishes or strange habits. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you, the conclusion to Murder Mile’s original eight-part series. This is the final part of The Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The trial of Gordon Frederick Cummins was unusual, as although the evidence would point towards a sadist streak, his personality was more akin to a narcissist. Arrogance was often cited as his defining characteristic, as Cummins believed that he was smarter than the police, which made him complacent; he left fingerprints, clues and the souvenirs he stole from his victims were often found in plain sight. If he hadn’t been so careless, having left behind his gas mask and belt, he may never have been caught. Which begs the question; did he want to be caught? Some experts have suggested that he was seeking fame and notoriety; hence his sadism, his lack of disguise and being so easily arrested. But if this was true, why did he plead ‘not guilty’? Was it arrogance, or a desire to turn the trial into a media circus? Either way, it was not to be. Having been re-started owing to the prosecutions error, this half-day trial which was wrapped up by 4pm was at best perfunctory, even though he had professed his innocence. Which was not to say that an innocent man was executed – he wasn’t – but what was so fascinating about the trial was how vehemently his friends and family professed his innocence – which you would expect – but they couldn’t believe that Gordon and this spree-killer could possibly be the same man. In their eyes, the man they knew was not a sadist; he had no criminal record, no history of violence and no known mental illness; he worked hard, he was good fun and – although unfaithful – he loved his wife and was looking forward to becoming a father. Throughout his life, he had many girlfriends, affairs and frequented sex-workers, none of whom told tales of sadism, strangulation or cruelty. Lodged by his family, an appeal was submitted to the Home Secretary, with Gordon’s father John stating “my son has shown no tendencies (of sadism) and the fact that he has been happily married for years... he is known to be most patient, gentle and even-tempered, and has refuted any such idea”. John Robert Cummins and Gordon’s pregnant wife Marjorie both held to the belief that the police had planted evidence to frame him; including fingerprints on cups, bottles, razors, souvenirs and weapons. Accusations of which were investigated by the police and no evidence of corruption were found. They even accused the murders on a fellow cadet based in the same Regent’s Park billet, who was found with a bloodstained towel – but this was later attributed to a miscarriage or abortion by his girlfriend. On 29th April 1942, just days after his conviction, Cummins sent a letter from Brixton Prison to Dot & Laurie Williams, a Corporal and his close-friend who was stationed with Cummins at RAF Predannack. In this letter, one of a series, Cummins would state “…the past few days have been a dreadful ordeal and I am glad it is all over. Now that I am here, my father and legal counsel are, I hope, redoubling their efforts to find the guilty man and prove my innocence before it is too late...”. Giving us a hint at his sordid past in known brothels, he would go on to say “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. And being a man who often rubbed people up the wrong way or relished that thin line in humour between being amusing and inappropriate, he ended this letter with a really creepy line: “My love to you, Dot and niece Sally. If there’s any justice in the world, I’ll be seeing you all again. If not, tell Gwen I’ll come and haunt her. Yours optimistically. Gordon”. And that is what makes this case so fascinating. How did this seemingly ordinary chap with no criminal record nor obvious trauma which could have triggered these attacks, go on to commit one of the most heinous spree-killing in British history, all whilst living his life and working a regular nine-to-five job? The Police would later state, he was a “viable suspect” in two earlier murders – those of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries; two strangers murdered in similar circumstances which occurred just five days and half a mile apart, almost as if these two were a rehearsal for the Blackout Ripper’s killing-spree. It’s possible that Mabel was... but was Edith one of his earlier murders? Very little was reported about Edith’s murder; as it was war-time, deaths were ten-a-penny and hers occurred at the end of a spate of unconnected murders which the Met Police were struggling to solve. Born in 1891, Edith Eleanora Humphries was on the cusp of her fifties by autumn 1941, making her the oldest (but not by much) of the Blackout Ripper’s potential victims. With no photo, it’s impossible to describe her, but - as we know - Cummins did not have a type. Edith’s life was as unremarkable as any other, full of high and lows, but mostly of steady respectability. For more than two decades, she was married to her loving but hard-working husband who – it is said – rose from the rank of a humble cab-driver to owing his own taxi-firm, but this cannot be clarified. She was educated, either through schooling or years of self-betterment, as she earned a decent living as a qualified accountant and – to do-her-bit for King and Country – she volunteered as a canteen cook and book-keeper at the Auxiliary Fire Service at the Islington station on the nearby Caledonian Road. Being widowed and left to raise her step-son Roy, it is unclear whether Edith inherited the family home - a three-storey semi-detached house at 1 Gloucester Crescent, just off Regent’s Park - and was either the landlady to several lodgers, or lived in a two-roomed ground-floor flat at the back of the property. Either way, she was comfortably off and with Roy having moved out, she lived there alone. Sadly, in the same way that Mabel’s virtue was besmirched before her body was even cold, it became open-season for any loon to cast aspersions against Edith’s life, all of which whiffed of victim shaming. With many drawing red rings around her “twenty possible men-friends” and a supposed torrid affair with a fireman –implying that it was her sexual appetite and therefore her fault which led to her death. But this was untrue. In her bedside drawer, two letters were found, both accusing and retracting the fireman’s wife statement as a “misunderstanding”. Of her “twenty men friends”; most were cabbies and pals of her late husband who were both ‘men’ and ‘friends’. And across that last year of her life, at different times, she had dated several men, but being a lonely widower, she was looking for love. She was pleasant, she didn’t cause problems and she was well-liked. She wasn’t much of a drinker; she didn’t live a salacious life and her only real issue was a boyfriend who was described as ‘persistent’. And that’s it. Her connections to Mabel Church were coincidental, being canteen staff who lived near Regent’s Park. She didn’t seem to frequent the same places as Gordon Cummins. And she was only as connected to those murdered during the Blackout Ripper’s four-day killing-spree, as anyone else in the West End. All that seemed to connect Mabel and Edith were the methods of their murders... ...as if they were a rehearsal by a fledgling serial-killer. Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state in court “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. But were they? To answer that, set aside the shocking sight of each wound and ask the question “why did he inflict that wound at that point and for what reason?” On the night of Sunday 8th to Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton was attacked in an air-raid shelter on Montague Place. She had a two-inch bruise to her right cheek (this was his initial attack), a small cut to her left eye (possibly sustained during her fall) and around her neck, bruises in the shape of four fingers and a thumb - consistent with strangulation by a left-hander like the Blackout Ripper. With a few blood specks in her vagina, but no sperm nor contraceptives found, it was unlikely that she had been raped (as none of the others were), but she may have been violated with an unknown object. Partially stripped, with her legs spread and her exposed genitals facing the shelter’s entrance, she was posed to illicit shock. But it was not suggested that she was mutilated, as the only unexplained wounds to her body was a two-inch cut to her leg and several small abrasions to her right breast; none of which were confirmed as inflicted by a weapon, and could have been part of her struggle or his clawing. Evelyn Hamilton, as with Mabel and Edith lacked any of the typically sadistic wounds found on his later victims, but he may have been disturbed mid-attack, or was yet to explore this level of sadism? On the night of Monday 9th to Tuesday 10th February 1942, Evelyn Oatley was attacked in her Wardour Street flat. Again, with bruises to her sides (trapping her arms), a bruise to right cheek and left-handed bruises to her throat - with none of her long fingernails broken – this indicated there was no struggle. His initial attack was there to render her unconscious, but each wound after this point was a calculated ploy designed to maximise the horror of those who would find her and report their shock to the press. Again, stripped semi-naked, with breasts and genitals exposed, her body was positioned diagonally across the bed, facing the only entrance to this room. When found, she had twelve jagged rips to her flesh in and around her thighs and vagina, and spilling in thick pools from the bed to the door, her last drops of blood had pumped from a 5 ½ inch long gash to her neck – a truly shocking sight for anyone? But what is most fascinating are not the wounds, but the weapons he used and what he did with them. Having violated her with a six-inch metal torch, he left it poking out of her vagina, as if he was bragging: “look, this is what I did, and this is what I used”. Likewise; between her thighs lay a metal can-opener and a set of heated curling tongs, and beside her neck, a single bloodstained Ever Ready razor blade. This wasn’t a frenzied assault, it took time, it took thought and it took patience. In his eyes, he wasn’t a crazed maniac mutilating woman, he was a skilled artist perfecting his bloody masterpiece. The same sadistic performance art was inflicted on the bodies of his next two victims - Margaret Lowe and Doris Jouanett. Again, his initial attack was swift; they were trapped, punched and strangled. But once they were unconscious or dying, it was only then that his shocking new art-work could begin. With a six-inch candle poking out of her genitals, around Margaret’s body he proudly placed the tools of his talent; a bread knife, two table knifes and a potato knife. To many, these were nothing but humble household implements, but to him, they were like his brushes; inflicting a ten-inch-long three-inch-deep slice up her right thigh, and a clean and perfectly-straight five-inch gash along her abdomen, severing her uterus and exposing her intestines - all of which he finished off with stabs to her vagina. With Doris, he sliced-up her left breast, almost severing the nipple. He inflicted a series of deep slashes, between 2 ½ and 6 ½ inches long across her abdomen, and the only possible reason he didn’t insert anything inside of her vagina was that – in her last terrifying moments alive - she had wet herself. This time, he had removed the weapon (possibly a razor blade) that he’d used to inflict these wounds, but he had posed Doris; with her right hand by her genitals, as if she was drawing attention to her violation, and her left hand outstretched towards the door, as if she had died crying out for help. As a sexual sadist, there was no denying that he always took great relish in torturing these women; he assaulted them, he inflicted pain, he posed them and he watched them slowly die by his hand. To Cummins, this was his work. But being a narcissist, he seemed less concerned about how petrified these women felt as they died, and more focussed on his image, his art and his reputation as a ‘ripper’. So, was the murder of Edith Eleonora Humphries a rehearsal for his four-day masterpiece? On Friday 17th October 1941 at 6:45am, Jill Steele who lived on the first-floor of 1 Gloucester Crescent was awoken by the frantic yapping of a little black terrier. Edith had been dog-sitting this usually quiet pooch for a tenant in the top floor flat, but with its barks growing more perturbed, Jill went to check. Descending the stairs, Jill cooed “Edith?”, but got no reply. Approaching slowly, she saw the door was wide open, but inside it was dark owing to the blackout-blinds. “Edith?”, again she got no reply. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened as the meter had run out. So, always carrying her trusty torch as the area was prone to power-cuts, she shone its beam inside and was shocked by the sight. Found sprawled across her bed, Edith’s face had been beaten with such force that her jaw was broken in several places. Pummelling her head into a purple swollen pulp, he had strangled her until she was rendered unconscious. Then, as if her torture wasn’t cruel enough, he had slit open her throat so when she breathed, blood bubbled from its frothing gash. And then, with sadistic relish and in a swift single blow, he had stabbed her in the head, the cold blade splitting apart her skull and penetrating her brain. When the Police arrived, they found no witnesses to her attack. But with the terrier having been locked in her cupboard, it’s likely her assailant was disturbed by its barking and he had cut-short his assault. The investigation concluded; Edith had willingly let her attacker in, they had shared a cup of tea, she was wearing her nightdress (so either she or they had headed to bed), several items were stolen such as a gold ring and some costume jewellery, and – whoever he was – he had left behind his fingerprints. None of the neighbours heard a single sound or saw the man who Edith had invited home. All of her “men friends” were questioned and they all had alibis, including her very “persistent” boyfriend. But what shocked the Police most was this? Six hours after she was attacked... Edith was still alive. Rushed to the National Temperance Hospital at 126 Hampstead Road, Edith was taken straight into surgery to be operated upon by eminent brain surgeon Dr Guy Rugby Jones. She was barely alive, and her chance of surviving he thought was “one in a million”, but he felt she deserved that chance. Sadly, she died in surgery and - having never named her attacker - the case remains unsolved. So, were the murders of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries the work of the Blackout Ripper? They had similarities and differences, so maybe their deaths show a logical escalation in violence? Maybe in these murders he was exploring the sadistic techniques which would later become part of his tried and tested method, and those which would not? And maybe, if Edith and Mabel were a rehearsal, then there must be clues in his past which hint at him either being a spree-killer in the making... ...or a wannabe serial killer? Gordon Frederick Cummins joined the Royal Air Force on 11th November 1935, as a flight Rigger at Henlow in Bedfordshire. From 1936 to the outbreak of war in September 1939, he was billeted at RAF Felixstowe. And until January 1941 he was based at RAF Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire, Scotland. Based on-site, his job was as a mechanic repairing military aircraft, but as Britain entered the war and he worked on classified experimental planes, his timings and movements prove hard to pin down. From the 3rd February 1942 to his arrest at the end of his four-day killing-spree ten days later, Cummins was based at No3 Air-Crew Receiving Centre and was billeted in Flat 27 St James Close, all on the edge of Regent’s Park. But investigators were unable to verify his precise timings during these murders, as the RAF logbook held at Abbey Lodge had entries missing and soldiers often signed in for each other. During the murders of Mabel and Edith between 12th and 17th October 1941, his timings are impossible to verify. As having spent six months at RAF Fighter Command at Colerne in Wiltshire, although from the 6th October 1941 he was posted to 600 Squadron at RAF Predannack in Cornwall, he wasn’t billeted on-site. Instead, he would remain as a private lodger at the family home of Elisabeth Mary Field at Hall Farm, Thickwood Lane in Colherne until early November - where he could come and go as he pleased. Unfortunately, there is no record of Cummins being in London during the murders of Mabel or Edith. That said, with his wife living in London and regularly visiting the West End, he often travelled the 80 miles from Colerne and the 200 miles from Predannack, either by train or having hitch-hiked a ride. But what about his character? A man can disguise his movements, but he can never hide his true self. His landlady at Hall Farm would later state “he was an intellectual man, but prone to exaggeration, he was even-tempered and a very likeable person, but he had no extreme views”. A description backed-up by Sidney Butler, landlord of one of Gordon’s local pubs at the White Hart in Ford, Wiltshire, who said “he had childish mannerisms, I considered him to be mentally abnormal, he would drink to excess and would often run out of money, but was never objectionable and would never quarrel or fight”. Fuelled by a belief that he was not achieving greatness, Gordon was prone to lying and was nicknamed ‘The Count’ and ‘The Honourable Gordon Cummins’ having professed to being the black sheep of an aristocratic family. This mirrors what his family would state, that he was a dreamer but not a maniac. In his letter to Corporal Laurie Williams, his pal at RAF Predannack, it read “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. Way beyond his killing spree, he had a history of visiting sex-workers, which was not something he was ashamed of; these included Quiet Street (a known pick-up place for prostitutes), The Hole in the Wall, the Christopher Hotel, the Francis Hotel and the Royal Hotel in Bath, all of which were deemed out-of-bounds to all military personnel. His sexual appetite was notorious, and yet he didn’t have a criminal record. So, either he was never caught, never charged, or the courts were unlikely to convict a war-time soldier for a minor offence? That said, none of the sex-workers he frequented complained of his behaviour. His sexual preferences were normal, he treated them well and he made no sadistic requests. His girlfriends said the same; there were no known incidents of assault, rape or strangulation, he was charming if a little immature. His main vice was theft. Being unable to maintain a lavish lifestyle on a mechanic’s wage, in November 1941, at the Blue Peter Club in Mullion, it was alleged that he stole £35 worth of jewellery from a flat above the club. The matter was dealt with privately and no formal complaint was made to the Police. That same month, Bath Police investigated reports of “an airman stealing handbags at the Hole in the Wall”, which – like tights and lipsticks – were low-cost but high-value items he was known to steal and would gift to his secret girlfriends. Police later tracked some of these ladies down, but no items were found relating to the victims of his four-day killing-spree, or Mabel Church and Edith Humphries. In fact, the only hint of violence prior these murders were two reports of women being assaulted by “an airman” on Quiet Street in Bath and in the village of Ford near Colerne. Sadly, they were unable to identify their attacker and therefore he was neither named or charged. But was this him? (End) So, did the Blackout Ripper murder Mabel Church and Edith Humphries? It’s possible, as they fit the profile of a fledgling spree-killer finding his feet, but they could easily match any of other murderer (whether deliberate or accidental) who was stalking the unlit streets of London during war-time. If they were him, this confirms he was not a spree-killer, but a serial killer; a man who was calm, callous and controlled, who could come across like an ordinary chap, and a sadistic killer in the very next beat. As of today, the police investigation files remain closed and will certainly be pushed back further. But whether the name Gordon Frederick Cummins appears in either of those case-files is debatable, as I can find no conclusive proof that the police ever publicly stated that he was a “viable suspect” in either of those first two murders. It was only stated by the press several decades after the murders. It also impossible to tell whether Cummins was a sadist, or whether – having never achieved greatness - he merely wanted the notoriety that a case such as this should get... but didn’t, as being war-time, the world had bigger issues. And as he died claiming his innocence, we shall never know his motives. The speed of his trial, his lack of confession and the gaps in his history leaves us with a lot of holes, as with his life riddled with lies and his crimes full of theories, we have very little in terms of a conclusion. So, maybe he did snap and go on a killing-spree? Maybe Edith and Mabel were a test-run? Maybe he did commit a string of rapes and assaults prior to this date, all of which went unreported? Or maybe, he didn’t only murder four women in the West End, and potentially two more over four months? Maybe - as a soldier who lived in untraceable accommodations, who frequented different locations and worked in a several classified military bases across the UK; from Cornwall to Wiltshire, London to Northumberland, Hampshire to Yorkshire, and several bases in Scotland from 1935 to 1942, as well as being posted to Regent’s Park five days prior to his killing-spree – it is likely there are other attacks and murders possibly committed by Gordon Frederick Cummins, which are yet to be unearthed? So, for now, this is not the end. The Blackout Ripper: First Blood will return. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was concluding part of this section of the Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The next part will take months if not years to research, as this has never been done before, so don’t expect it any time soon. This is the last official episode of Murder Mile for this year. The new season will begin on Thursday 24th February 2022. But if you would like to keep up to date with all of the research for the new season, as well as the book and enjoy a whole back catalogue of photos, videos and the exclusive podcast series – Walk With Me – which will be available for all subscribers over January and February. You can treat yourself to that by subscribing to Patreon for as little as £2, and help support this podcast. After the break is Extra Mile, which includes the usual non-compulsory nonsense by a fat bald man who is yet to demolish his Christmas treats, as well as extra details on this case and a little quiz. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #157: The Blackout Ripper: First Blood - Part 1 (Mabel Church)22/12/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio'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 location of where Mabel Church was murdered at 225 Hampstead Road, long since replaced by flats
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 attack on Mabel Church is located with a black cross up near the words Summers Town near the top left of the map. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio'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 Barley Mow pub on Duke Street, as of today it's under construction
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in murder.
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 Charlotte's murder is marked with a lime green cross near the word Mayfair. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ukgwa/20110204013636/http://www.hmcourts-service.gov.uk/cms/144_10853.htm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5992723.boyfriend-murder-charge/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5968926.date-fixed-murder-trial/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5943722.saved-killers-life/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1082151.reclusive-giant-will-stay-jail-2014/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943153.murder-case-man-may-have-flipped/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943497.obsessed-loner-killed-woman-22/ https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1409830/Obsessed-man-killed-woman-after-fancy-dress-party.html https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1236902.darwen-mans-murder-conviction-upheld/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2317285.stm MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in murder. 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 156: The “Old Acquaintance” of Charlotte Flanagan. Today I’m standing on Duke Street in Mayfair, W1; one street south of the stalker Joseph King, one street north of the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko, twenty feet south-east of the terrorist attack of flight El-Al 016, and a few doors from the unfortunate Evelyn Hatton - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the corner of George Yard, at 82 Duke Street once sat the Barley Mow public house; a five storey, corner-building built of brown brick and pale Portland stone with black wrought-iron detailing. Built in 1851 at 40 Duke Street, it was entirely renumbered in 1896 and rebuilt where it remains today. With an open-plan pub on the ground-floor, a kitchen and dining on the first, with an office and a small flat above – given how pretentious Mayfair can be – the Barley Mow was actually a proper pub where you could enjoy a good pint, a hearty meal and some friendly banter. Admittedly, when the rugby was on, it was chock-full of London’s unhealthiest, stretching their sweaty sports tops to the max, glugging back fifty pints, all while wheezing about how - having watched six slow-motion replays on Sky Sports– these “so-called professional sportsmen” are “lazy useless idiots, and other such insights by red-faced pundits whose only body parts they’ve exercised since Thatcher’s era was their gobs and arses. Sadly, like every other pub, it’s being turned into posh flats. The scaffolding is up, a tarp’ covers the crime and a sales sign is there to lure in any overpaid MP looking for a third home to house his mistress. Back on the New Year’s Eve 2001, a private party was in full swing here at the Barley Mow, the beer was flowing and the mood was festive. Seeking to say ‘goodbye’ to the old year and welcome in the new, everyone was dressed as either vicars or tarts. Behind the bar, 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was serving drinks and earning an honest wage before she began her new life - training to be a nurse. As midnight passed and Auld Lang Syne was sung, it should have been a moment of hope, and although this infamous but often misunderstood song asks that old acquaintances should never be forgotten, maybe the man who had come to visit Charlotte was a friend who should have been left in the past? As it was here, on the New Year’s Day of 2002, in the top floor-flat above the Barley Mow pub, that the kindness of Charlotte Flanagan became the cruellest excuse for her tragic death. (Interstitial) (Play audio of Auld Lang Syne) “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne”. Traditionally sung to welcome in the New Year, Auld Lang Syne began life as an old folk song collected and scribed by poet Robert Burns in 1788, having heard the words spoken by an old man on his travels. It tells the story of two friends, catching-up over a drink and their memories of times long gone. Few of us understand it, but often these are the first words many of us utter as the clock strikes twelve... ...they were also some of the last words uttered by Charlotte Flanagan. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was born in 1979 in Darwen, a market town in Lancashire, just south of Blackburn. Described as bubbly, big-hearted and full of life, it was no surprise that Charlotte would enter the ‘caring profession’. Educated at St Cuthbert's primary school in Darwen and later at St Wilfrid's in Blackburn, she was raised locally, she had many friends and her upbringing was good. Raised in a pleasant family home, although Darwen was a former industrial town built on cotton mills and heavy industry, Melville Gardens was a quiet spot which overlooked miles of heathered moorland and peaceful walks. With her mum also being the local practice nurse, there was little doubt that this warm and nurturing environment was a big reason why Charlotte became such a decent person. Which is not to say that, during her life, she hadn’t been plagued by moments of anxiety or depression, but find a teenage girl who hasn’t. And if anything, battling brief bouts of mental illness wasn’t a thing she saw as a weakness, as it only made her more understanding of those who were also suffering. Having left school with a good education, Charlotte worked at the Trinity Partnership in Clitheroe, as a mentor for young children, believing that any future problems could be curtailed through care, compassion and giving a lost child a sense of hope, knowing that they are good, strong and loved. In 1999, aged twenty, Charlotte began working for Blackburn & Darwen Council in their social services department, gaining invaluable training and experience, but always with an eye on becoming a nurse. Life wasn’t particularly hard for Charlotte, as she was raised well, she had a kind soul and – although the most essential jobs are never properly paid - being a hard-worker with an astute head on her shoulders, she got a mortgage on a nice two-storey sandstone terraced-house in Walmsley Street, an eight-minute walk from the centre of Darwen near her workplace, her friends and her family. That year, working in the same department, Charlotte met a social worker called Gary and the two became friends. It was an unlikely relationship but beneficial for both; as needing help to pay her mortgage, Gary became Charlotte’s lodger; and being a little shy, she helped bring him out of his shell. Being a whopping six-foot-eight inches tall and weighing a hefty twenty-stone - looking like a dark-haired Honey Monster - Gareth Richard Horton always eclipsed Charlotte wherever they went and – like chalk and cheese - the two always stood out. And as bubbly as Charlotte was, Gary was a gentle giant, who kept-to-himself, rarely spoke up and - as friends - the two clearly cared for each other. ...but sometimes, even the simplest of friendships can be doomed from the start. In his own words, 29-year-old Gary Horton described himself as a "rather miserable personality”. Being a loner, he had suffered with feelings of rejection, self-doubt and anxiety around others. Spending much of his spare-time by himself; he had very few friends, he had never had a girlfriend and he was incredibly close to his mum Eileen, calling her daily as she was the one person who he truly trusted. Since his childhood and especially through puberty, Gary had gone from being a sweet little boy to a silent shell of his former self. Emotionally, his mental health had sharply declined, but nothing sinister, as he was too shy to be any trouble, too meek to be violent and the only person he hated was himself. His depression had stemmed from his school days when this mini ‘man mountain’ in the making was mercilessly bullied owing to his size, by dickheads too thick to see the real hurt they were inflicting. Riddled with low self-esteem, he under-achieved academically, he struggled to form close bonds and he found it difficult to express his feelings with others. Later diagnosed with clinical depression, across his life, this silent sensitive hulk required psychiatric help, but wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself. Being Charlotte’s friend was the best thing that ever happened to Gary; where-as he was quiet and insular, she was fun and bubbly, and although this match could have made for an unhealthy mix which made him worse, she hoped that by making him part of her world, he would re-find his confidence. Across the three years they were friends, colleagues and house-mates; they often went out in Darwen for a nice meal, a few cheeky drinks and a bit of a dance, as many friends would... ...but when he had been drinking, Gary’s feelings of self-loathing got the worst of him. In June 2001, after a night-out in Darwen’s Market Square, feeling a little bit tipsy after several drinks, Charlotte and Gary were making their way home by foot. As per usual, this eight-minute walk from Market Square to Walmsley Street took them north up a partially-lit semi-empty street. What they had spoken about that night remains between them; maybe she had spoken about her ex-boyfriends, maybe he had spoken of having never had a girlfriend, or maybe he told her how he felt? But whatever it was, maybe this boozy heart-to-heart had ignited something dark inside Gary’s mind? It was shortly after chucking-out time, when Charlotte and Gary stumbled up Atlas Road. Home was only a quick totter away, so they had no need to hail a taxi or a bus. But as they passed Darwen station, Gary ran up the concrete stairs and - from the platform edge– hurled himself onto the train tracks. Chasing after Gary, Charlotte pleaded with him to stop fooling about, but he refused to move. Instead, he just lay there, crying, with his head and body sprawled across the hard metal lines, as he awaited the swift slash of a passing train which would sever his body into bits with a fast clean slice. “Gary, stop being a dick”, Charlotte barked “this isn’t funny anymore”, but still he refused to budge. As the tracks rumbled, in the distance, she could hear the Rochdale train approaching - speeding like the grim reaper clutching a lamp - as its burning light drew ever nearer. But still, Gary remained still. Knowing they had just seconds to spare before her pal was pulverised, Charlotte grabbed his oversized hand and tried to pull him up off the tracks. But being over two metres tall and weighing 280 pounds, even with help she would have struggled to shift him, but – right there and then – Charlotte was alone. Only, as the train sped ever nearer, having grabbed hold of his hand to save his life, now he wouldn’t let go of hers. His grip was tight, her hand was held and the only thing she could do to save them both from a certain death was to make him see sense. (Noise silences) “Gary, come on now, let’s go home”. Because he liked her, he listened to her, and so – if only for that reason - he did as she had said. We can never be certain if Gary really wanted to die that night... ...but some had said he did it because he loved her. Around that time, barely six months before her murder, Gary had sought-out psychiatric help for his anxiety and depression. Again, he was not considered a threat to anyone but himself, and although Charlotte was a truly caring person who knew how to listen and to get the best out of those who needed her help, living and working with Gary had proven to be impossible. The terraced-house on Walmsley Street was hers, but now her little home felt like the kind of place where she didn’t feel happy or comfortable. Spending more time at her parents in Melville Gardens, her brother Luke once asked her why she wasn’t at home, Charlotte’s reply was simple - “he’s there”. She could have found anyone to be her lodger, but more out of kindness than need, she had welcomed him into her life, her home and her world, but now he was acting as if they were husband and wife. Whenever they went out, he always insisted on paying for the drinks. He squandered most of his life-savings on her, he even considered buying a car for them both, even though he didn’t have a driving licence. He once bragged to a mutual friend “we’ve got engaged”, only to claim it was just a lame joke moments later. But becoming possessive of who Charlotte saw and where she went, having booked a week’s holiday in Ibiza with a few girl pals, Gary pestered her with calls pleading with her not to go. She had made it abundantly clear – in the nicest way possible - that she was not attracted to him. But whether Gary’s obsession with her was less about sex, and more about the fact that he had never had a close friend and didn’t want to lose her is hard to fathom, as Gary kept his feelings to himself... ...but just four months before her murder, his life would be upended by chaos. In September 2001, Charlotte moved to West London. It was the break she needed being her first time away from her home-town of Darwen, seeking a fresh start with a promising new career training to be a nurse. To save money, she worked as a bar-maid at the Barley Mow pub in Mayfair and had begun seeing the step-son of one of the pub’s regular, a teacher from Nottingham called David Ivmey. Life was going well for Charlotte... but mentally, Gary was struggling. Without his only friend, he had regressed back to his old miserable self, sitting in isolation and brooding over the failings in his life. Seeing his decline and worried about her pal’s mental health spending Christmas by himself, Charlotte invited Gary down to London from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day. Only, having already planned to take his own life, he regarded this trip less with festive cheer... and more as a farewell to a cruel world. On Christmas Eve 2001, Gary travelled three-hours from Darwen to London, staying for one week in a single room at the County Hotel, situated close to Euston station. Owing to the late hours she worked, he was unable to share with Charlotte, as she lived in the top-floor flat above the Barley Mow pub. It is uncertain if – at any point across the Christmas week – Gary either met, or was made aware of Charlotte’s new boyfriend, David Ivmey, but except for his usual gloom, nothing untoward happened. On Christmas Day, with the pub open, Charlotte worked and saw Gary when she was free. When she wasn’t, he kept himself amused watching the festive fare on the BBC, with such delights as; the original Mary Poppins featuring Dick Van Dyke’s god-awful cockney accent, the TV premiere of Sliding Doors and after the Queen’s Speech was Rolf’s Merry Christmas, starring convicted sex-offender Rolf Harris. On Boxing Day, she met Gary and then went out on a date with David at TGI Fridays in Leicester Square. And on Thursday 27th December, at King’s Cross station, Charlotte and David shared a kiss as he caught a train back home. She had planned to come up and stay with him in Nottingham on New Year’s Day... ...and although their kiss was only meant as a ‘see you soon’ smooch... ...for both, it was actually a ‘last goodbye’. The New Year’s Eve of 2001 began like an ordinary day for most. It drizzled, the sky was gloomy, the fireworks would be a wash-out as always, and the West End shops were full of idiots believing they were buying bargains, when in fact, they were paying over the odds for old tat the shop couldn’t shift. To get a few days off, Charlotte had worked Friday 28th, Saturday 29th and Sunday 30th December, and with David away, this gave her more time to spend with Gary. As far as we know, they hadn’t argued, Gary didn’t seem unusually depressed, and he hadn’t told her that he had thoughts of killing himself. At 4pm, having finished her afternoon shift at the pub, Charlotte and Gary went out for a meal, during which she told Gary about her boyfriend. What he said is unknown, but he gave no emotional reaction; there was no anger, no cross words and no tears, but neither were their congratulations, best wishes or kisses. He would later describe his mood that night as being his “normal rather-miserable self”. At 6pm, Gary phoned his mum (Eileen) to say he was “having a good time”. At 8pm, they returned to the Barley Mow where a private party was taking place. To ring in the New Year, everyone had dressed-up in costumes, with the theme of the party being ‘Vicars and Tarts’. Not being one to let the side down, Charlotte dressed as a sexy French Maid wearing a short black dress with white frills and black stockings. And although, even the simplest of vicar’s costumes would be nothing more than a suit and a cardboard dog-collar, Gary didn’t dress-up as he wasn’t in the mood. At 9:30pm, once again Gary called his mum, and again, (for him) he sounded in good spirits. At 11:30pm, Gary texted his friend, stating he was at the party, that he was enjoying himself, and that he was dressed in a skirt and that he had shaved his legs. Why he lied about this? We don’t know. And at the stroke of midnight, Big Ben rang out and fireworks erupted, as across the small bar-room of the Barley Mow, fifty-or-so merry regulars reverberated the room with that most-famous of songs. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne” (continue underneath). Being personable, Charlotte kissed and hugged her regulars, as everyone else had done, and she wished a “happy new year” to her friend and house-mate, Gary. 2002 would mark a fresh start, with a new boyfriend and a bright future in nursing ahead. Only, for Charlotte, her future was to be a lot shorter than she could ever imagine... ...and although she had done so much to help her friend when he needed her most, maybe Gary Horton was an “old acquaintance” who should have been forgotten? Simply to save her life. A few minutes after the rousing reverie of Auld Lang Syne had quietened and the party-goers had sunk back a few more slugs of cheap champagne, Gary and Charlotte were seen at a table by the bar, having what many described as “a few minor words”. Something not unusual in a pub, post-midnight. At 12:15am, feeling a little drained after a long day with a tiring friend, she told the two barmen she was taking a break and headed up to her bedroom at the top-floor of the pub, leaving Gary in the bar. That is where he stayed; by himself, saying nothing, dressed in his own clothes and nursing a drink. At 1am, as Charlotte had failed to return from her break, Gary had said he would go and check if she was okay. The barmen didn’t need her as the party was dying down, but still, Gary seemed concerned. From the bar, he ascended the stairs to the first floor, and although her bedroom was still three floors higher (whether by chance encounter or deliberate choice), he made a brief stop at the empty kitchen. In court, the prosecution described this action as a “significant degree of planning or pre-meditation”, but the defence would argue that - owing to mental disorder – in that very moment, Gary had flipped. Opening a ‘staff only’ door, he climbed the stairs to the upper floors until he got to Charlotte’s room. And there she lay, curled-up peacefully on top of her bed, her head on a pillow. Still in her French Maid’s outfit, as if she had only planned to shut her eyes for a moment, but had drifted off to sleep. With her eyes shut, her breathing soft and her mind miles away in a land of dreams, she had no idea of what was about to happen, no way to defend herself and no idea that her friend wished her dead. Clutching a ten-inch knife stolen from the kitchen, with a fast single blow, Gary stabbed the blade with such force that it penetrated through the full width of her neck. With her jugular vein severed, her windpipe slit and being partially paralysed; she awoke and saw, but she could not move. And as every pint of blood spewed from the gaping wound in her neck, within the minute, Charlotte was dead. Why he did it, we don’t know? Maybe it was love? Maybe it was jealousy? Maybe it happened in a moment of madness? Or maybe the thought of losing his only real friend was too much pain to bear? And yet, the pathologist would state, he had intentionally cut part of her costume leaving her genitals exposed, but there was no obvious sexual motive and she had not been sexually interfered with. At 1:30am, Gary calmly left the pub, saying he needed “some fresh air”. Two hours later, from a public phone-box by Embankment tube, he rang his mother and confessed “Mum, I've killed Charlotte". With nothing left to live for, the man-mountain tried to drown himself by wading into the icy muddy silt of the River Thames, but failing miserably, at 4am, he called his mum, and she phoned the police. Thirty minutes later, at 4:30am, the body of Charlotte Flanagan was found and she pronounced dead. (End) Examined by a police doctor at Walworth Police Station, Gary was described as “orientated, but not confused”. In the presence of a solicitor and a social worker, he refused to answer any questions about the murder, but he gave a statement about his mental health. Interviewed for a second time, at 1:12am on 2nd January 2002, Gary Horton was charged with murder at Bow Street Magistrates Court. Tried at the Old Bailey between the 1st and the 11th October 2002, he pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, but he denied murder. The prosecution stated his actions “showed he had an obsession with Charlotte that was both sexual and emotional. The thought of Charlotte going out with another man was too much for him". And although both sides agreed he had a genetic pre-disposition to depression, exacerbated by “low self-esteem probably caused by years of bullying at school” over his height and weight, Gary denied that he was motivated by jealousy. After deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of guilty of murder by an 11 to 1 majority. Judge Brian Barker stated: "This was a horrendous crime which has resulted in the senseless waste of a woman who had everything to look forward to. You took the life of the most important person in the world to you, a person who you thought might be moving on". Gary Horton was sentenced to life in prison, with a minimum of 12 years to be served, after which he can only be released if the parole board feels he no longer poses a danger. And even then, he will remain on licence for the rest of his natural life. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was returned to Darwen, where she was buried, near her family. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who take great pleasure in hearing a bloated baldy stuff a lethal number of cakes into his face, whilst he waffles on about rain, wind, Eva and coots. Stay tuned after the break for a non-compulsory bit of fun, with a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are K Reid and Cheryl Lyon. A big thank you to both of you, I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the show, and leaves kind reviews of Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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The bridleway at the back of Ismailia House in Fulham, where Ismailia Road once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making.
THE LOCATION
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The location of the attack is located with a red cross at the middle near the words Fulham and Swedish Wharf. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making. 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 155: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part Two. Today I’m standing on the corner of De Morgan Road and Townmead Road in Fulham, SW10; a few roads south of Jane Andrew’s attack on her sleeping boyfriend Tommy Cressman, a ten-minute stroll from the home invasion by the Devil’s Child, and a few feet from the spot on the River Thames where an infamous murderer supposedly disposed of an unrecorded victim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Being typical of the hotch-potch way that most of London is built, this street is a mish-mash of styles from the last two centuries; there’s a long row of identical Victorian terraces, an old wharf refashioned as office space and posh flats, a 1970’s tower block with a recent lick of paint, an ugly Sainsbury’s, and - of course – near to what used to be Ismailia Road sits a set of flats imaginatively called Ismailia House. Like most new builds, Ismailia House was constructed in the time-old British tradition of whack it up fast, bish-bash-bosh and claim it’s for locals, only to flog-off 90% to a Saudi before a single brick is set. With the worst three flats reserved for council tenants and the obligatory 10% set aside for “local amenities” which means a few bins, a dentist’s, a Tesco Express and bookies – oh yes, all the essentials. Behind these flats once sat Ismailia Road, a small road connecting to Wandsworth Bridge Road, but - long since demolished - it is now just a bridle-way. On the ground-floor of number 5 lived Mabel Jean Hill, a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three who had provided a safe place for herself and her family. By sheer misfortune, whilst travelling home from a nice night-out, she had struck-up a conversation with a small baby-faced youth who looked harmless enough. His name was Michael Douglas Dowdall. And it was here, on Saturday 10th October 1959, that Mabel would meet this fledgling serial-killer who had already murdered one woman, and – it looked likely – that Mabel would be his next. (Interstitial). (Michael) “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn... I had sex with her and went to sleep”. (snoring). When questioned, her attacker would claim it was an accident and that was also what the evidence would suggest. On Friday 19th December 1958 at roughly 6pm, the body of 31-year-old sex-worker Veronica Murray was found in her first-floor bedsit at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. With no signs of forced entry and two sets of fingerprints on a tea-cup, this suggested she had let her attacker in and had sex with him. Naked, except for her brown pullover pulled-up over her head, Veronica had been brutally bludgeoned to death, with her skull smashed using ornamental cast-iron dumbbell taken from her mantlepiece. This suggested her attack was not pre-meditated, but was most likely a provoked act of aggression. With no items of any obvious value known to have been stolen from her room - except for a bottle of whiskey - the motive was unlikely to be a robbery, but more of an opportunist theft by drunken punter. So far, for the police, this case hadn’t any of the hallmarks of a fledgling serial-killer in their midst. If anything, it resembled any number of attacks on lone sex-workers in their own homes across the last several decades... although this one did have one or two unusual details which made it stand-out. Around her abdomen three identical circular abrasions in a V-shape marked her flesh. Inflicted post-mortem, they had been made using “a manufactured item” of unknown origin. They’re meaning was baffling, but as any sex worker will tell you, everyone has a strange sexual perversion; whether pain, pee or poo; tickling, smearing or strangling; some like feet, food, feathers and some like to inflict scars. It was an odd quirk, possibly accidental, which didn’t match any other cases the police had ever seen. Found with her legs splayed, it was difficult to determine if sex had taken place, but the pathologist had hypothesised that her attacker may have raped her using a wooden coat-hanger. Potentially being impotent, it is not uncommon for rapists to only become aroused by pain, strangulation and death. And having fled without reporting his offence, again this wasn’t unusual among pimps and punters. The police investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies who found more dead-ends than fresh-clues. With no witnesses, they had no description of the assailant or an accurate timeline leading up to her murder. They had fingerprints, but it matched no known felon in their files. The taxi-driver was found, but remembered little of this unremarkable fare. And being such a private woman who very few people knew, they interviewed her friends, canvassed her haunts and made a public appeal on the front page of Britain’s most prominent tabloid... but no-one came forward. Having exhausted every possible avenue of enquiry, the case stalled and ground to a halt. Given the evidence, there was a high possibility that this was a one-off; a random attack by a drunk who got violent with a prostitute over something as simple as money. And given the clandestine nature of sex-work, the likelihood is that the man who murdered Veronica would never be caught. No-one suspected that this was the first flattering step of a potential serial-killer. And why would they? That night, having headed back to the Union Jack Club at Waterloo Station (a hostel for servicemen), Michael destroyed his bloodstained suit and shirt, erasing key evidence, and although the murder had briefly appeared in the newspapers, by the time that New Year had passed, it had been forgotten. Even Michael Douglas Dowdall thought that he had got away with murder... ...but this motive which caused him to kill would be awakened once again. The little drummer boy had served in the 1st Battalion of the Welsh Guards for almost four years. Being one of the lowest ranks, the boy was mercilessly bullied for being little, weak and Welsh. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important”. To prove his manhood; he drank, smoked and shagged to excess and unconsciousness. It was a fruitless mission which only made him look foolish and - far exceeding his pitiful wage - he needed another scheme. It seemed innocent enough – to pay his fellow soldiers to scrub his shirts and bull his boots to a high mirror shine for a few shillings a time – and the more the squaddies earned, the quicker Michael’s bullying ceased. No-one knew where he was getting the money from and nobody bothered to ask... ...but this money-making scheme helped to sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. Many times, Michael went AWOL from the barracks at Pirbright and Chelsea, but this wasn’t just to sink some suds or dip his dirty wick inside a prozzie - this was part of his second career as a burglar. It seems almost unconceivable when you look at him; given his head shaped like a doughy little egg, popped with two dim dots for eyes and a set of ears like a crashed mini-cab with the doors wide open. And being too big for his weasily little body, at best he resembled a mixing-bowl spoon. It’s laughable that this boy was even considered a soldier, and being so unthreatening, he didn’t look like a burglar. But maybe that was it? Being small and weak, no-one suspected him. As the mark of every successful serial-killer isn’t the sadistic nature of their crimes, but how – in ordinary life – they seem to blend in. Across 1958 and 1959, this teenage tearaway committed a spree of at least twenty brazen burglaries in the more affluent parts of London, including Mayfair, Chelsea, Knightsbridge and Fulham. On Saturday 10th October 1959, at the exclusive Westbury Hotel at 37 Conduit Street in Mayfair, having wandered the corridors, he gained access to the penthouse suite, costing a whopping £35 per night. It’s occupant, who was in Paris that day with his wife Benita was the Hollywood actor George Sanders. Michael “I did not know it was the Hartnell Suite until I came out and saw it written across the door”. Having ransacked the drawers, he stole an undetermined stash of ladies’ jewels, a bottle of whiskey, a tube of toothpaste “I liked the taste of it... it belonged to George Sanders”, and having stolen a pair of George’s shoes, he left behind a pair of his own size sevens outside the door, which – seeing that “they looked like they had been through a mangle” – the service staff promptly had them polished. Having fled - feeling either a sense of guilt or knowing that one item in particular was too hot to handle - “I was going to send a bracelet back, but I threw it in the river”. As far as we know, it’s still there. When police investigated the scene, they had no witnesses to the crime and no description of the burglar, but his fingerprints did match those of a known sneak-thief who operated in the local area. His actions may seem harmless, even comical, but it was lucky that George & Benita were not there that night, as although petty theft was Michael’s motive, when confronted, he also had a sadistic side. One week later, on Sunday 18th October 1959, he broke in via a small window at the rear of 4 Skinner Place, at the back of Sloane Square. It was a small Victorian brown-bricked terrace sat in a dark unlit alley and was the home of 71-year-old seamstress Annie Belcher, who was fast asleep in her bed. As he ransacked every drawer and cupboard for valuables, the noise startled Annie and she began to scream, hollering so loud that it startled her neighbours Eric & Joyce Christmas at house number 1. Panicked and angered at his plans being thwarted, Michael repeatedly beat the defenceless old lady over her head with a cast-iron fire-poker, leaving her for dead. Rushed to St George’s hospital with a fractured skull, a broken wrist and her face so swollen she risked losing her eye, Annie returned home one week later to stay with her daughter, and – at least physically – she would make a good recovery. As before, although he had stolen nothing, he had left behind fingerprints matching the sneak thief. On Wednesday 21st November 1959, one month later, Michael broke into the home of William Sloane, an Australian businessman living on Markham Street in Chelsea. Thankfully, neither he nor his family were in, so no-one got hurt, but – as before – the burglar had left behind his fingerprints; stealing a clock, a pair of gloves, several bottles of gin and vermouth worth £10, several packs of cigarettes, and a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with the words and logo of ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’. The police had no idea who this prolific burglar was. Having heard that his name was possibly ‘Mick’ and that he was either a local labourer or a West End musician, they canvassed the building sites and nightclubs and interviewed hundreds of men, but drew a blank. His description was vague; he was aged between mid-twenties to mid-thirties, he was slim to slightly-built, his height was “not short, but not tall”, and – possibly owing to political upset – many said he was Irish, when actually he was Welsh. In fact, the only detail they got right was that ‘Mick’ had a long scar down the right side of his nose. But who was he? The fingerprints found in almost all of the twenty-or-so burglaries he committed, matched those found at the murder scene of Veronica Murray, but they didn’t match any known felon in the police’s files. His MO was often similar; he stole saleable items like jewels, cigarettes and alcohol; when disturbed he would inflict a high level of violence whether by bludgeoning or strangulation, and in some cases, he marked their thighs and abdomens with three circles in a V-shape using “a item” of unknown origin. By November 1959, eleven months after the unsolved murder of Veronica Murray, having attributed at least twenty known burglaries and assaults to the man known only as ‘Scarface Mick’, Scotland Yard would launch “one of the largest man hunts” since 10 Rillington Place killer - John Reginald Christie. Police knew he had murdered one woman, and believed he had also killed five more... ...but uncertain of his exact description, Michael Douglas Dowdall was free to attack again. The date was Saturday 10th October 1959, barely a few hours after the burglary of George Sanders’ hotel room. The location was four-and-a-half-miles south-west in Fulham. And the victim’s name was Mabel Jean Hill; a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three living in a ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road. As a busy single-parent to Alan, Leslie and Jean, all aged between six and twelve, once in a blue-moon she rightfully felt she deserved a night-off, especially as that night was her birthday. As planned, she met her friends for drinks in Streatham, she went shopping with her mother in the West End, she had dinner in a good pub, went to the cinema, and caught the last tube out of Leicester Square station. Carrying bags of presents, as she stood on the southbound platform of the Piccadilly line tube, a young man with a babyish face asked her for a light. Given his slight slurring, it was clear he had been drinking and although his white overcoat was a little tatty, his shoes were unmistakably shiny and expensive. “Where you going?”, he asked, beaming a smile to this lady almost twice his age. “Home”, she politely piped, wisely giving him nothing more, but for him that was enough. Joining her in the carriage, for the rest of the journey he spoke about his Army career, the band and he said his name was Mick. And although she spotted the scar on his nose, his description was still days away from being in the papers. Hoping to lose her unwelcome admirer, Mabel changed at Earl’s Court, bidding him a polite goodbye. Only he continued his conversation, following her onto the southbound District Line train to Fulham. Again, she tried to shake off this little pest at Fulham Broadway, but he followed her out of the station and onto the deserted street, all the while rambling on about how he should come back to hers for “a coffee, or something”. It was 1am, the last bus had gone and with no taxis in sight, he persistently matched her step-for-step; south down Waterford Road and Harwood Road, west along New King’s Road, dog-licking onto Wandsworth Bridge Road and – after 25 minutes, during which he had tried to kiss her twice – she turned onto the unlit gloom of Ismailia Road, with Michael a few feet behind her. Opening the door to her ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road, Mabel “I went in. He came in too. I said I did not want him in because it was late. He said he just wanted a cup of coffee and then he would go”. Wanting him to leave, to Mabel, a quick cuppa must have seemed like a harmless solution... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. Having seated her unwelcome guest at the kitchen table, she put on the kettle and popped into the bedroom to check on her three children, who were all fast asleep. For what must have seemed like an interminably long time; they sat, he talked and she waited for the coffee in his cup to be finished. But barely a few minutes in - without any provocation from Mabel - he removed his shirt and his jumper. Mabel “I told him to put the things on and go home... that’s the last thing I can remember”. It’s unlikely that this was a planned robbery or a premeditated murder, but as often happened in the sadistic mind of this fledgling serial-killer was that - with the sexual advances having been rejected – maybe his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted? Having grabbed a pair of stockings off the radiator, wrapping them both around her thin white neck, with his knuckles tight he pulled both ends, and – before she could even emit a decent scream to call out for help – Michael strangled Mabel on the floor, straining until she drifted into unconsciousness. Fixing the knot behind her head, as the nylons twisted about her crucifix, the sadistic maniac savagely ripped at her clothes until her pale white thighs and abdomen were exposed. And just as he had done with Veronica Murray, he could do something truly unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. Only, in his mission to mutilate Mabel, Michael had forgotten about three little things... ...her children. Disturbed by a brief but blood-curdling scream, dressed in just their pyjamas, 12-year-old Alan tiptoed from the bedroom followed by 11-year-old Joan and 7-year-old Leslie. Having fled, her assailant was nowhere to be seen and – thankfully - no danger to the children. But seeing their half-naked mother lying on the kitchen floor, her legs splayed and her head swollen and purple – terrified and unsure what to do – they ran into the Ismailia Street screaming “come quickly, we can’t wake up mummy”. Patrick Mahoney, their next-door neighbour cut the stockings, called the Police, Mabel was taken by ambulance to St Stephen’s Hospital, and being - saved by her children – she made a good recovery. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Peter Vibart of Chelsea Police Station. Questioning Mabel from her hospital bed, she bravely gave a solid description of a five-foot-seven-inch baby-faced Irish or Welshman called Mick, who was a heavy-drinking chain-smoking drummer in an Army band in the West End. She even remembered the long-scar down the right side of his nose. Robbery was ruled-out as a motive, as the only item he stole was a half-bottle of whiskey, but forensics did find several sets of fingerprints on a blue-patterned coffee cup, a cigarette tin and two milk bottles. Although (in this case at least) they could never determine why he had touched a wooden coat-hanger. Examined in hospital, the most startling aspect of the case were the marks on Mabel’s body. Made by a “manufactured item” of unknown origin, in several places were found a set of circular abrasions in a strange ‘V-shape’, as well as similar marks on her stomach, her chest and her feet. What they meant? He didn’t know, and not being part of the original investigation one year earlier at 58 Charteris Road, he had never seen anything like this before. But having contacted Kilburn Police, now he had a match. The notorious sneak-thief known only as ‘Scarface Mick’ was – without any doubt – the same sadistic maniac who had murdered Veronica Murray and had attempted to kill Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill. One of London’s largest man-hunts had been launched with Police working in shifts, but who he was remained a mystery? They had fingerprints and witnesses, but what they didn’t have was a name. So, who was he? Trawling through an extensive history on ‘Scarface Mick’, DI Vibart noted that = after 21st November 1959 - several assault victims had stated that ‘Mick’, who was a heavy-smoker, had used a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’, as stolen from William Sloane’s home. It seemed a long-shot, but desperate for any fresh-clues, a photo of the lighter was published in the newspapers. Having been sold for five shillings to a guardsman at the Welsh Guards Camp, on the 24th November 1959, just two days after Mabel’s attack, Michael Douglas Dowdall was arrested. (End) Interviewed at Chelsea Police Station, Michael came across as cocky and arrogant; a remorseless thief who stole to feed a petty addiction to drink and sex, and who was AWOL from his barracks at the time. Without any emotion, he confessed and was charged with several counts of burglary and theft. At that moment, he must have thought he had got away with murder, pleading to few light offences which could – if convicted – lead to a few months in prison. But the burglary charges were just a ploy, as the second he admitted to those robberies, that evidence would directly implicate him elsewhere. That same day, DCI Acott stated "In addition to housebreaking, we are investigating several serious offences I believe you committed in Chelsea, Fulham and Kilburn". At which, Michael’s face dropped and he gave a full confession stating “it is when I drink, I do these things. I am all right when I am sober. It has been worrying me for a long time. I am so glad it is all over ". Assessed by Dr Archibald D Leigh of Bethlehem Hospital, Michael was described as a ‘psychopath’ and a ‘sexual pervert’. In a two-day trial held in Court One of the Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. With the death penalty soon to be abolished, on 20th January 1960, Michael Douglas Dowdall was sentenced to life. Having served fifteen years in prison, suffering a lung infection and chronic hepatitis, in July 1975 he was released on licence, but died on 10th November 1976 at the Royal Free Hospital, aged just 36. Outside of Veronica Murray, Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill, he never confessed to any further murders or attempted murders, although the Police believed that he may have killed as many as five. So, was he just fledgling serial-killer in the making... or a fully-fledged sadist with many victims undiscovered? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy wondering how many cakes a fat bald man can stuff into his mouth without swallowing, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter, who is Lesley M – ooh, very mysterious. I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and support Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
58 Charteris Road in Kilburn, as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer.
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 murder is located with a black cross at the top left by Kilburn. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer. 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 154: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part One. Today I’m standing on Charteris Road in Kilburn, NW6; right in the middle of the St John’s Wood home of Teddy Sieff where Carlos the Jackal botched his first assassination, the Harlesden house where 8-year-old Peter Buckingham took his last gasp, the Cricklewood Arms pub where Stephen Holmes met the ‘Kindly Killer’, and an unsolved attack by another potential ‘Ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Charteris Road is lovely little residential street comprising of two long-lines of two storey terraces from the 1920’s and 30’s. It’s very quiet and very orderly, with a smattering of silver birch trees, the road carefully marked with white lines to denote who parks where and when, with a covered bicycle rack which is almost certainly chock full of Brompton’s. There’s no noise, no kids, no smells and no mess. The worst crimes you could imagine happening on this street might be a yappy little rat incessantly yipping for its millionth morsel that minute of roast-chicken tit-bits, a 90-inch TV briefly blurting too loudly and risking the neighbours knowing that they watch trashy shite like Love Island, something plastic being put in the glass recycling bin, or – scandalously - an Acado delivery replacing their beloved avocadoes with tins of baked beans. And not the good ones but the cheapo own brand. Oh, the shame. But every street has its dark secrets, and this street is no different. At 58 Charteris Road sits a nice two-storey terraced-house; with cream brick walls, white window sills, a thin front garden reserved for three bins, and a UPVC entrance door to the right. It’s currently someone’s home, but back in 1958, this was a lodging house. On the first floor was a bed-sitting room occupied by a new tenant named Veronica Murray, but being new to the area, almost no-one knew her name, her occupation, her history, or anything else about her life. She was a mystery. And yet, her death would become almost as mysterious as her life itself. As it was here, on Friday 19th December 1958 that her body was found. And although it asked more questions than it answered, it also marked the fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer. (Interstitial) (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. It’s hard to tell what made Michael into a sadistic little monster; maybe it was the bullying, maybe it was the trauma, perhaps his appearance, possibly a crossed-wire in his genetic make-up, or maybe it was a mixture of them all? This is not to excuse his actions, as everybody’s life has challenges, but it’s how we choose to embrace these trials, which either shapes us for the better or for the worse. Michael Douglas Dowdall, known as ‘Mick’ was born on the 12th December 1940; fifteen months into the Second World War and three months into an eight-month-long blitz, a time of trauma and death. Gestated in the terrified womb of a lone woman whose husband was a British Army captain serving overseas, Michael entered this world to the persistent bang of bombs, as the hospital violently shook. Right into his adulthood, Michael would always look like a baby. With a stick-thin body perched above an oversized head, a mop of Charlie Brown hair, a set of sticky out ears and his skin the hue of stale porridge, although for some this youthfulness would be a blessing, for Michael, it was a curse. Raised as the youngest of two sons to a struggling-mother, Michael never knew his father and he never would, as Captain Dowdall was killed-in-action when the boy was barely one. With no memory of the man whose loss made his mother weep, it left a void in his life, but one he could never explain. Uprooted from a nice cottage in Uckfield (Sussex) to a lodging house in Paddington in West London, he was desperate to be the hero his father once was, but Michael was no military man. Being small, weak and prone to outbursts of tears, the little boy spent his early years clinging to his mummy’s leg. Without a father-figure to guide him, to admonish him or to rain him in, although his mother did her very best by herself; he resented his school, his teachers, and – being persistently bullied for looking and acting like a ‘baby’ – by the age of six-and-a-half, he was referred to a child care officer, owing to his volatile outbursts, his hysterical moods, his cruelty to animals and his uncontrollable violence. Mocked for being a mummy’s boy, he always felt he had to prove himself to the bigger boys. And yet, barely held together by a single speck of stability, that was about to vanish forever. In 1948, when he was only eight, his mother died. With both parents’ dead, once again he was uprooted from the big city of London to his aunt’s house in the remote mining village of Llanhilleth, near Abertillery in Wales. Michael was now a foreigner in his own family; surrounded by relatives he barely knew, in a place he had never lived, hearing a language he didn’t understand, and again, at school, this fragile little boy was mercilessly bullied for being an outcast and a nobody. And after a vicious fight where the length of his nose was slashed with a knife, he would forever be given the nickname of ‘Scarface Mick’. But no matter how hard his Aunt Alice tried, it was like Michael was driven to bring misery and pain. During his turbulent teenage years, twice he had tried to burn his aunt’s house to the ground. He often drank himself insensible going drink-for-drink with the men, like he had something to prove. Like a little magpie, he persistently stole anything which wasn’t nailed down, not because he needed it, but because he wanted it. And as his hormones raged – feeling sexually inferior, as a late-bloomer who the girls rightly avoided – as his sexual aggression grew, his desperation led him to pay for sex. In his eyes, a man was defined by how much he drank, fought and fucked... ...but no matter what, Michael would always be a baby. Not just because of his boyish body and a cherubic face, but because of his actions. Always bragging about his conquests, if anyone dared not to believe him? Tears welled, lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and a hate-fuelled violence erupted. In 1955, having left school, 15-year-old Michael Dowdall joined the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion of Welsh Guards; based out of Pirbrlght in Surrey, and later at the Chelsea Barracks in West London. Having enlisted in the military (as his late father had) this should have been the making of him. Earning an honest wage, learning new skills and being mentored by a flank of disciplined father-figures, this wild little boy could easily have been modelled into a good little man... only the rot had already set in. Being a drummer boy - a role far from the fight of his heroic father and one of the lowest ranks in the battalion’s band - being surrounded by bigger boys, this only increased his anxieties. His commanding officer Lt Col Mansell Miller described him in court as “a bit odd... the boy had delusions of grandeur despite being small and weak”. Few knew him, even less liked him, and because of that, he was bullied. The torment would be so merciless, that in 1956, aged 16, he tried to hang himself in the guardroom. During the three years he spent in the Welsh Guards, he often went AWOL, disappearing from his duty to visit sex-workers in the West End. On his 18th birthday, he convinced three other guardsmen to join him for a few celebratory drinks at a hotel in Guildford, and although they only sunk a few beers to be polite - unable to reign-in his desperation - he sank three pints of gin and had to be carried home. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important. Once I started the heavy drinking, I liked it and kept it up. When I was drunk, very drunk, I would try anything. I wasn’t fussy about what I did, or what woman I went with. It made me feel... different”. Routinely mocked by squaddies for being a baby-faced mummy’s boy, he began paying the others to wash his shirts and to clean his boots. No-one knew where he was getting the money from, but seeing him less as a target and more of an extra income, the bullying stopped and it made him feel superior. For Michael, he had finally found a way to prove his masculinity... ...but what the soldiers didn’t know was that they had helped sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. It’s unlikely that Michael knew much about his first victim, as very few people did. Veronica Murray was born in the Northern Irish town of Londonderry in or about 1927; she was raised a devout Catholic and she was educated at a convent, but – for whatever reason – she didn’t stay. Why she left, we shall never know; maybe she was fleeing an abusive father, maybe she was kicked-out having had sex out of wedlock, or maybe this was an act of rebellion against her strict upbringing? It’s hard to pin down exactly who Veronica was, as she changed her age to suit her needs, and although vivacious and chatty, many people knew her, but not well. She was personable but kept a professional distance, she rarely spoke about her private life, and she was mostly known as Ronnie or Monica. On an unspecified date in 1958, 31-year-old Veronica moved to London, seeking work in West End clubs. Being a fashionable lady with a neatly-coiffured brunette bob, Paris eyebrows and a thick set of red lips - she had a hint of the Hollywood star about her. So, it’s not surprising that she found work as night-club hostess... and yet, she also worked as a sex-worker. Police would later confirm that she had a criminal record for soliciting, but she didn’t turn to prostitution owing to desperation or addiction. Sex-work was a conscious choice; she chose the hours, the places and the punters. She was financially astute enough to spend and save her money well, hence she was always immaculately dressed. But also, she had the foresight to be able to afford her own rented flat at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. It was only small, but this first-floor front-facing bedsit was perfect. Perched on a residential street, it was the perfect space for such a private person, but it also afforded her the privacy to her bring clients back home, which is why neither her landlord nor any of the other lodgers knew very much about her. Being far from a shrinking wallflower, life in the big city didn’t scare Veronica, as she had street-smarts, she was savvy and she was cautious. She was chatty enough to make even the most nervous of men feel calm, but also, she had the confidence to stand her own ground when they got rough with her. Veronica was in a dangerous world where she knew how the handle herself... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. It was the bitterly cold winter’s night of Monday 15th December 1958. There was no snow, but typically it was cold and wet, as Veronica stood to the side of Trafalgar Square. This was a regular pick-up point for horny punters being conveniently situated near pubs, hotels, a train station and several theatres. Nearby, a Salvation Army band made merry music, the bells of St Martin’s rang, chestnuts (of dubious origin) slowly roasted in an old steel drum as (allegedly) mulled-wine was hocked from a cask, and the city was blessed with a Christmassy feel now that all of the war-time rationing was well-and-truly over. At an unspecified hour, in or near to midnight, Veronica was approached by a punter. He was just a boy, no bigger than Veronica but easily a few stones lighter. With a weak little body and a babyish face, he was barely out of his teen; but was desperate to act like a Billy Big Bollocks bragging about all of his sexual conquests... and yet, experience had told her, it was most likely his first time, Dressed in civvies, although he claimed to be in the Welsh Guards, with his dark suit and starched shirt hanging-off his weasily little frame like a sack of spuds, the best he could be was as a drummer boy. (Michael) “I had been drinking in the West End and I got very drunk”, he would later state. To Veronica, this would have been obvious given his slurred speech and staggering limbs, so perhaps she didn’t see this tipsy little boy with a boner as a threat? Maybe, he was easy money? She had been with pathetic little man-babies many times before, so it’s highly likely – having paid his £1 – he would struggle to raise his pointless little pecker, or as a two-pumps-and-a-squirt-merchant, he’d fart and fall asleep. “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn”. The journey took 30 minutes, as the cab rode past Hyde Park and up Edgware Road. In his nasal Welsh drone, maybe Michael tried to impress her with a few bullshit tales, at which - being professional - she smiled. But so unmemorable was the journey, that during the investigation it was almost impossible for the Police to track down the driver, as to him, it was just a regular fare. Sometime after midnight, the cab pulled up at 58 Charteris Road. He paid the agreed amount, they entered the house, and both Michael and Veronica were quiet, as neither of the other tenants nor the landlord on the ground-floor heard them. “We got to her house and climbed the stairs to her room”. It was a small clean room with a floral double-bed, a wardrobe brimming with fashionable clothes, a neat dresser covered with curling tongs, brushes and a fine array of cosmetics, with a coin-operated meter for both the lights and the gas-heater, and on the mantelpiece for a fire which no longer existed lay a few personal possessions – some photos, a postcard, a trinket, and a pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells weighing 6lbs each. What they meant to her isn’t known but clearly, they held importance. According to his statement, “I had sex with her and went to sleep”, and that was that. But how much of that was true? When questioned, Michael Dowdall would state “when she woke me up, we had a row over something and she called me a ‘filthy little Welsh bastard’”. Only nobody heard a fight. “I threw a vase at her. I believe it smashed”. Which was true, but no-one knows how it smashed or when. “She came at me and hit me with something on the back of the neck and head, and scratched my nose and eyes”, but by the time he was interviewed, no marks or scars could be seen. So already, his statement had gaps. “I rushed at her, and I knocked her down and then grabbed an ornament off the mantlepiece and hit her on her head or face. I think she was half-getting up, I pulled her onto the bed and I remember chucking some clothes over her. I took a bottle of whiskey and then I left the place”. But why? Did she mock his tiny manhood, did he struggle to sexually perform, was this simply a bungled robbery, or did this man-baby erupt into an uncontrollably violent tantrum, because he couldn’t get his own way? “I went back to the Union Jack Club and went to sleep”. His stay at the serviceman’s hostel at Waterloo Station was proven, although this would suggest he was sober enough to travel back from a place he never knew, and begs the question, how he could have slept having inflicted such a level of violence. “When I woke up, I found blood on my hands, my shirt and suit. I chucked the shirt away in the dustbin having tried to wash it, and I sent the suit to the cleaners. A day or two afterwards, I read in the newspapers that a prostitute had been found murdered in Kilburn, and I knew I had killed the woman”. It seems likely, so perhaps this was an accident? Or maybe - for the most immature reason imaginable – his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted... ...marking this as one of the first-fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer? By Friday 19th December 1958, a girl-friend of Veronica’s had grown concerned, as no-one had seen or heard from her for five days, neither at the nightclubs she worked at nor on the Soho sex scene. At 6pm, she phoned the Turkish landlord of 58 Charteris Road – a man named Ratomir Tasic. He assumed that he wasn’t in; as the lights were off, the room was cold and the door was locked from the outside. But using his master key to gain entry, the inside of her room told a very different story. Drawers were opened, contents were scattered, and although the room was in disarray, nothing of any real value had been taken, except maybe a bottle of whiskey, to either be drank, sold or traded? On the bed, partially obscured by sheets lay a woman’s body, all silent and still. Her skin was sickly pale yet mottled with patches of purple, as the excitable buzz of flies and wriggle of maggots formed amidst the sheets caked with blood, and within the impacted recess of her very obvious wounds. Veronica had been dead for five days maybe six, but exactly what time she died - whether as she was going to bed, or just getting up - was impossible to tell, owing to her clothes. Sprawled across the bed, with both legs splayed, she lay naked except for her brown pullover, which had been partially pulled up over her head, as if her killer no-longer wanted to see into the black haemorrhages of her bloodshot eyes, but instead, he dreamed of doing something unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. What the pullover hid was what ultimately ended her life. From the mantlepiece, he had grabbed one of the pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells, made from heavy cast iron and weighing 6lbs a piece. One had remained untouched and clean, but the other lay on the floor, matted with her hair and dripping with her blood, as with the uncontrolled force of a petulant anger, he had bludgeoned her senseless, inflicting six wounds to her forehead and multiple fractures to her cracked and crushed skull. “I knocked her down and hit her on her head or face. She was half-getting up and then I left the place”. As her face swelled, fluid constricted her skull and the pressure forced her eyes to protrude from their sockets, a brain haemorrhage would have taken several agonising minutes for Veronica to die. But had her killer been so panicked at his actions, if this had been merely an accident? He wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to switch off the lights, to lock the door, and do what he did to her next. For this, he was calm, steady and in a state or either arousal or enjoyment. With steady hands, he had inflicted a most unusual wound. Around her thighs and abdomen were three identical marks, a set of circular abrasions on her skin, which formed an intricate v-shape. What it meant? We don’t know. What he had used? That was missing, but noted pathologist Dr Donald Teare concluded that they were not bite marks, but made by “a manufactured item with a flat end”. They made no sense, but one detail was certain. As each mark had occurred post-mortem, her killer hadn’t fled in panic. Instead, he had waited in that room with her body; and calmly inflicted each wound, either after her death, or as she lay dying, as the terrified woman helplessly lay there; her body bleeding, her eyes fixed and unable to breathe or scream – the mark of a true sadist. (End) The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies of Scotland Yard. The room was preserved for evidence and a set of fingerprints (other than Veronica’s) had been found; one on a teacup suggesting she had invited her killer in, and one on a bloodied coat-hanger, which was never conclusively proven, but he may have inserted it inside her. The fingerprints were examined, but they did not prove to be match to anyone with a criminal record, and neither did the MO of this murder. With no witnesses to the crime, being a sex-worker who kept herself-to-herself and a Northern Irish woman who was new to the area, Police contacted her friends and family but drew a blank. In the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Mirror, Police posted her picture on the front-page pleading “did you see this woman?”, but with no witnesses, this produced no suspects and the investigation went cold. 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall was an unlikely suspect, being small, weak and baby-faced. With no prior convictions, this nobody had never come to the attention of the Police, therefore he was not on their radar; not even for theft or assault. But within this little boy lurked the heart of a sadist. (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. Veronica Murray was his first, but more victims would feel the wrath of the sadistic little drummer boy. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who love hearing cake-crumbs fall from a fat man’s mush, while he waffles on about stuff n things, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Barbara Anderson, Zoe Taylor and Julian Barnes. I thank you all for supporting the show and I hope you’ve received your goodies. With a special thank you to Bernadette H and an anonymous friend for your kind donation via the Supporter link. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls (The Mansion House Fire)24/11/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
67 Queen Victoria Street as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths.
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 is on the far right hand side marked with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 a fire in an old building fitted with modern innovations to ensure its workers safety, and although everyone should have survived, it was the old-fashioned attitude towards one particular group of workers, which led to ten unnecessary deaths. 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 153: GEC and the Fourth Floor Girls. Today I’m standing on Queen Victoria Street by St Paul’s Cathedral; the furthest east we’ve been so far, being two streets north-east of the hanging of God’s banker Roberto Calvi, but very little else. Situated by Mansion House tube, sits the busy intersection between Cannon Street and Queen Victoria Street. It’s a dull vague space with little to see, so you’re more likely to pass through it, than to stop. Like most junctions, it is dotted with every conceivable safety measure to ensure you’re less likely to get hurt having not paid a basic level of attention for doing something as simple as walking. Therefore, there’s signs which say stop, go, slow, no-stop, no-go, no-slow, exit, entry, one-way, no-way and naff off. There’s hand-rails to hold, foot prints to follow, bollards at a good height to rest your bollocks on, and even a flashing green man to show you when to walk and (for the real thickies) how to walk. Often, this over-cautious molly-coddling by the Health & Safety Executive does feel like we’re one step away from every pedestrian being fitted with an inbuilt system which issues a cacophony of warnings each second of our lives; like ‘look left’, ‘mind the car’, ‘avoid poop’, ‘oh-oh charity mugger’, ‘BO ahead, limit breathing’, ‘cake is a no-no fatty’, ‘warning potentially unnecessary purchase ahead’, and for a certain niche subset of man-servants ‘get Eva her 3pm cocktail now, or feel her wrath you loser’. It may seem like over-kill, but what we forget is that before any laws are changed and measures are set-up, usually a tragic accident will have happened first. Pedestrian crossings and speed-cameras are often as a result of a loss of life, being a grim memorial to a life lost and the price we pay for progress. At 67 Queen Victoria Street now sits a six-storey concrete building. The original has long-since been demolished, but the third and fourth floors were once owned by GED, the General Electric Company; an innovative maker of electrical devices (like fire alarms) in an era long before electricity was standard in many homes, who prided themselves on their practices designed to ensure the safety of its workers. So, when a fire broke out on the second floor, everyone should have survived... only they didn’t. As it was here, on Monday 9th June 1902, that although the company’s methods were modern, their old-fashioned attitude towards the fourth-floor girls led to ten easily-avoidable deaths. (Interstitial) In 1901, Queen Victoria died, and although the country was gripped in grief for our then-longest reigning monarch, the impending coronation of Edward VII would mark the start of a modern era... The final years of the Victorian era saw many innovations we take for granted today; beginning with the first electric light bulb invented by Joseph Swann in 1878, the first electric iron by Henry Seeley in 1882, the fuse by Thomas Edison in 1890, the first electric kettle by Arthur Leslie Large in 1891, and the first transmission of radio waves in 1901, with many more modern inventions to swiftly follow. Electricity heralded a new era of innovation, it was rightly seen as the way of the future, and although most of London’s street-lamps had been converted from sodium and gas to electricity lamps by 1881 – the same year that Britain built its first public generator at Godalming - the country’s power supply wouldn’t be standardised and co-ordinated until 1926. By 1919, only 6% of homes had electric lighting, a prohibitive luxury reserved for only the most affluent. So, by 1901, even Buckingham Palace had only had been illuminated by electricity for the last thirteen years. But it would come to the masses. One such company ahead of the curve was GEC, the General Electric Company; a business similar in name and in spirit with the American multinational partly co-founded by Thomas Edison. Established by German immigrant Gustav Binswanger, G Binswanger & Co was already a successful electrical goods wholesaler, when in 1886 he partnered up with entrepreneurial salesman Hugo Hirst to produce the first catalogue of electrical appliances; such as bells, telephones, switches and wiring. Trading all across the world, the General Electric Company Ltd was formed, it became a private limited company and established its head-office on the top three floors of 67 Queen Victoria Street in London; with admin and executives on the third floors, and product assembly and packing on the fourth. Innovations in electricity was progressing at a previously unparalleled speed, as each company strove to be the first to invent the next mass-market appliance for the modern household. But electricity was dangerous and everybody knew it, as a single spark could ignite a devastating fire, especially in a city like London with so many old buildings constructed out of highly flammable materials. As a stark reminder, GEC was just half-a-mile from Pudding Lane, the epicentre of the 1666 Great Fire of London. It takes an event of such devastation to change laws, and – although the blitz helped form today’s fire brigade - between both of those events, little innovation had been made to prevent and control fire. It was said “firemen were asked to fight twentieth-century perils with nineteenth-century machinery”. As modern methods of construction meant that buildings grew ever taller, the out-dated appliances the fire crew used remained the same. The ineffective Factory and Workshop Act of 1895 had left the installation and regulation of safety equipment to the companies themselves, and - until 1938 and the creation of the Auxiliary Fire Service - fire crews were privately owned, many by insurance companies. Therefore, the fire-crew’s job wasn’t to protect lives, but to protect the buildings and its contents. Thankfully, GEC was a modern company who were better prepared to defend against fire than most businesses in that era, and even by today’s standards. Proudly proclaiming to be makers of ‘all things electric’, GEC was one of the first buildings in London to be fitted with a fire alarm, with ‘break glass buttons’ on every floor and in every stairwell, it had heavy iron fire doors between buildings, the staff conducted fire drills on a weekly basis, they had their own fire hoses connected to an endless water supply being two streets from the River Thames, and just 100 feet away was their own fire brigade. If a fire were to break-out at 67 Queen Victoria Street, everyone should have survived... ...but not every worker at GEC was treated as equally as the others. The day was Monday 9th June 1902 and the weather was bright with very little wind, as before 8am, a flank of workers exited the Metropolitan District Railway at Mansion House station. For the executives and admin staff employed by GEC, the location was perfect as this five-storey half-block wide building was both the train terminus and their workplace, with a Spiers & Pond restaurant above for luncheon. But for those less-well-paid workers - like the assembly girls on the fourth floor - many would arrive by public omnibus or by foot, dressed in a neat pinafore with their sandwiches wrapped in a cloth rag. The ground, first and second floors were occupied by Messrs Murdoch Nephews - purveyors of fancy goods, the kind of frivolous non-essential trinkets used to make a modern home look nice - with an enclosed central stairwell leading to the top two floors, owned by the General Electric Company. Being typically hierarchical, execs and admins were on third with the manual workers on fourth. Each floor was split, with the seniors sat by the windows and the juniors stuck in the shadows. This was not uncommon as being in keeping with the very Victorian class system; separate bathrooms, eating areas and even entrance doors ensured that those deemed important weren’t sullied by less vital staff. Only the workers wouldn’t have time to worry about things as trivial as equality, as with King Edward VIIth coronation two weeks’ away, GEC had to finish an order of electric street decorations. Desperate for cheap labour, they keep costs down by hiring the poor, the young and – of course – females. Hidden away on the top floor was the work-room, where GEC’s products were assembled and packed. In the middle, a large spiral staircase split the room in half; with the men sat separately, as - being staff – both their sex and seniority afforded them a better place to sit, beside the wood-burning stove. Where-as the thirteen young girls sat at a long bench, silently assembling the light’s floral wreaths. That day though, there was only one man at work, David Eveson, who managed the thirteen girls, many of whom – hired very recently - were new to the department, the company and its practices. Around the bench included 18-year-olds Violet Hodgson from Peckham and Florence Amor of Forest Gate, 17-year-old Mabel Amos from Clapham, 16-year-olds Mable Garrett from Camberwell and Lily Mansell of Brixton, 15-year-olds Jessie Hastie of Camberwell and Ada Steel from East Ham, and fresh out of school, 14-year-old Phyllis Elliott from Hackney and Gladys Chambers from Clapton Park. All were young girls earning a pittance to help their struggling parents feed and clothe their siblings. The most senior there - but far from the oldest - was 15-year-old Alice Thompson; one of four from Brixton who was hired 18 months earlier as an Electric Light Assistant, with her role to screw together the brass and porcelain parts before packaging a dozen completed lamps into a cardboard box. But that day, Alice would be forced to undertake a new job... ...one she hadn’t sign up for, but if she hadn’t, more girls would perish. As inequality at GEC wasn’t just as simple as what door you walked in or who sat nearest the stove, as the temporary staff and especially the young girls were not given the same basic training as the men, this included the assembling of lights, the repairing of circuits and – most important of all – fire safety. On the surface, GEC looked like a modern progressive company, but not everything was as it seemed. Fire escapes had recently been introduced to the UK from New York where they had been successfully used on inner-city tenements, so they could have fitted one to the building’s flat-front and thin ledges, or even at its unseen rear? But they didn’t. It was considered an eye-sore and an unnecessary expense. It’s true that GEC was one of the first companies in London to fit a fire-alarm system, only – two years since Pearson’s had installed it – they were yet to connect the switchboard to the local fire station. So, although the alarms would sound, no fire-fighters would be alerted until someone saw smoke. And that included their own fire brigade, situated two doors away at 71 Queen Victoria Street. They were a small crew of part-time fire-fighters working as full-time engineers whose ancient equipment was designed to cope with fires at a time when commercial premises were three-stories high, not five. And yes, each floor had been fitted with a ‘break glass’ button in case of emergencies, but only senior staff were trained and authorised to use them. To the regular workers, these were just decorations. Fire drills were regularly held, but only after working hours when most of the staff had gone home, and with the fourth-floor girls only ‘temporary staff’, they weren’t deemed ‘essential’ enough to train. So, in a company where different bells were used to communicate between different departments – with bells for deliveries, phone calls, tea-breaks or shift changes - only those deemed important to the company knew how to differentiate between the office bells, the warehouse bells and the fire bells. As an employer, GEC was regularly assessed by the Factories Inspectorate and each time they passed with flying colours, but as the fourth floor was not officially a designed workspace - it was really just a storage room repurposed for producing decorations for the King’s Coronation – it had no emergency signage and was the only floor in the building with no copies of the evacuation procedure on the wall. As the longest-serving of the girls, 15-year-old Alice Thompson was savvy enough to eavesdrop on the men’s chatter and pick-up a few titbits. So, she knew about the three ladders hidden under the bench in the packing room, but she didn’t know about the trapdoor leading from the fourth floor to the roof. And like the other girls, Alice had neither heard of nor was informed that – in case of an emergency – each floor had eight designated ‘fire police’ whose job it was to ensure that the staff were evacuated. Theirs was a man called John Tyndall; but they had never met him and they had never heard of him. This was a disaster waiting to happen... and it is about to get worse. Working with Messers Murdoch Nephews to create the coronation lights, the boxed-up floral wreaths on the second-floor were made of a mix of linen and wax. They were pretty, durable and waterproof, but when exposed to a naked flame, the wreaths didn’t just blacken or burn like any other decoration, a single heat source would cause them to explode in a flash of brilliant white light, like gunpowder. When questioned at the inquest, other than the electric lights and wires in the store-room, there were no other heat sources, but some staff did admit to smoking on the premises – which was forbidden. But that wasn’t the worst. As in that room, GEC had stored what they described as “a small quantity of liquid”, but was actually 76 kilos of Commudine – a highly flammable and very combustible fluid. The fuel had been stocked, the touchpaper had been set. and it was only a matter of time... ...before someone would die. The day had been uneventful for the girls on the fourth-floor. Assembling the wreaths had kept them busy and with all but a handful of the men no-where to be seen, they could chatter a little louder. One floor below, the admin staff were packing-up, but the assembly workers still had a few hours to do. At roughly 5pm, a fire broke-out in the second-floor stock-room. Whether its ignition was caused by an electrical spark or a carelessly discarded cigarette is unknown, but nobody noticed the blaze and the alarms wouldn’t activate until someone pushed a button, having seen a fire or smelled the smoke. So, for the next fifteen minutes... nothing happened, except the swelling of an angry inferno. At 5:15pm, a fire alarm was tripped, and the building echoed to the shrill of a persistent piercing bell. Trained to react, David Eveson, who managed the girls, recognized the bell and swiftly left via the stairwell, taking fourteen-year-old Stanley Chapman with him, but leaving the thirteen girls behind. Having never heard that particular bell before and smelling no smoke, being too afraid to leave their posts for fear of losing their badly paid jobs, the girls took a tea break and stayed on the fourth floor. With alarms ringing, four of the eight designated ‘fire police’ on shift began to evacuate the building’s 200 employees. They were methodical and calm to ensure no-one got hurt. Only John Tyndall, whose job was to clear the fourth-floor, only made it as far as the second step up the stairs, from where he shouted “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”, except his words which were lost amid the alarm’s din. And ordered by his seniors to undertake a more vital task, he assisted in shuttling the accountancy ledgers across the street to the City & Midland Bank - putting a few books full of figures over the lives of the girls. It was a journey he would undertake three times, before he realised his tragic mistake... ...thankfully, there were others who took their roles seriously. The second the alarm sounded, the 25-strong crew of GEC’s own fire-brigade sprang into action, being co-ordinated by its captain, Max Byng. Alerted towards the second floor stock-room, Charles Frederick Trippe passed through the heavy iron double door connecting 67 and 69 and witnessed the inferno. The second floor was the epitome of hell; as acrid air swirled with thick black smoke which whiffed of gunpowder, heaving waves of reddish orange flames licked the dark peeling walls like the devil’s own tongue, and stacked boxes of wreaths exploded in white hot flashes, making breathing impossible and the stairwell impenetrable, even for a moderately experienced fire-fighter like Trippe. Outside on Queen Victoria Street, a crowd had begun to gather; a crew of fire-fighters, numerous nosy bystanders all gorping at the flames, and an excitable mess of close-to 200 employees, all recounting their own exciting tale of what might have been... but wasn’t. Doing his job, Captain Byng asked the lead of the ‘fire police’ “is everyone accounted for?”, and he was told they were, but this was untrue. From the street, through the rising flames and up beyond the thickening smoke, bystanders began to scream, as at the windows of the fourth-floor, the terrified faces of thirteen young girls peered down. The girls were trapped by smoke and heat which slowly filled the stifling room. Taking control, although only 15, Alice had led the girls down fiery stairwell towards an exit, but as they descended – being blinded by smoke, choked by fumes and with the sizzling hot metal of every handrail and door-knob scorching their skin – they were forced to retreat back-up to the fourth floor. Ironically, they had three ladders (which Alice knew of) and an escape route was just a few feet away. But having never been told of the trapdoor leading up-and-out to the roof, here they were trapped; stuck on the top floor of a flat-fronted building with no fire escape and windows with very thin ledges. The terrified girls of the fourth floor could do nothing but rely on the fire-fighters... ...a team of courageous but badly-funded and tragically equipped fire-fighters whose hoses had only enough pressure to pump water to the third floor, whose ladders could only reach to the second floor, and – having been only partially installed by Pearson’s two years earlier – the system wasn’t connected to the switchboard, which meant that the professional fire-fighters were not aware of the fire. Innovation had failed, but having been notified by Captain Byng, within minutes the professional crews of both Watling Street and Southwark fire stations were alerted and some were already on the scene... ...but even that wouldn’t be enough. Created and funded by an amalgam of 36 insurance companies, the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and the London Salvage Corps had what was described as “a deplorable lack of equipment”, with engines so old-fashioned that only “a museum would be glad to get London’s archaic fire-fighting appliances”. Their ladders were also ten-feet too-short; their engines lacked the necessary pressure to hit their marks, their hoses struggled to fully extinguish the flames and the ‘jump sheet’ (a twenty-foot-square patch of canvas designed to make a fall from a five-storey building survivable) - that was missing, But this didn’t prevent their bravery. Fighting the intense heat and smoke, one officer crawled on his belly to rescue Emily Johnson, dragging the unconscious girl up to the roof. Another called Hillman, dangled precariously from a wire, grabbing one girl from a burning window and lowering her to safety as the flames shot out. Calling out in the darkness and seeing the skylight beginning to collapse, Officer West succeeded in rescuing 17-year-old Mabel Amos from the flames, but she was so taut with terror, the young girl died of heart attack. With the heat and smoke becoming too intense for the firemen, they were unsure if any would survive, and with a 70-foot ladder on-route from Southwick, by the time that arrived, it may be too late. With quick thinking, a bystander ripped the tarpaulin off a fruit-vendor’s cart and gripped tight by two dozen firemen, they had made a makeshift ‘jump sheet’. “Jump!”, the crowds willed the girls, “Jump!” they called, but through the smoke, five-stories high, the sheet looked no bigger than a postage stamp. Five were trapped, four girls and a boy; as the flames licked their skin, the heat caused their clothes to combust and the smell which stung their nostrils was the scorching of their own hair. All wept and all prayed, as these children were given an impossible choice – burn to death, or jump into oblivion? It takes real courage to make that kind of life-or-death decision... ...so, it’s no surprise that the first to jump from the burning building was Alice. Smashing the far-west window, Alice perched herself on the thin window ledge; shutting her eyes tight, with her back to the world, she rolled backwards and from five-stories up, she disappeared into the dense smoke. (END) Hitting the sheet dead-centre and escaping with only cuts and burns, as the crowd erupted in cheers, Alice’s bravery encouraged the others to follow. Norah Jones, Emmeline Ambrose and Dora Cutter all survived. Jessie Hastie jumped, as her burning blouse streaked the sky like a firework, and she too was one of the lucky few. But having fainted before she could leap, Phyllis Elliot died inside, and 21-year-old Arthur Paget, a clerk with a widowed mother, jumped but missed the sheet, and died of his injuries. The 70-foot ladder arrived shortly afterwards and rescued those who were trapped on the roof, having escaped via the trap-door. And with the fire extinguished within twenty-minutes, the bodies of seven young girls were later recovered from the charred remains of the building and buried; Mable Garrett, Ada Steel, Lily Amelia Mansell, Gladys Chambers, Phyllis Elliot, Violet Hodgson and Florence Amor. An inquest was held two days later, at the Coroner’s Court in Golden Lane. 65 eyewitnesses gave their testimony, including Alice Thompson who spoke eloquently through her burns, cuts and trauma. After twelve days of testimony, on the 29th July 1902, the court found the London Building Act of 1894 to be inadequate, and recommendations were made to cover existing buildings. No-one was found guilty of manslaughter and although GEC admitted to negligence, a criminal trial was not requested. Except for a privately-funded plaque to two of the girls, a memorial to the dead was never erected at 67 Queen Victoria Street. Today, it is occupied by an office and a Sainsbury’s. And although forgotten, this little-known fire helped to shape many of the innovations and processes we use today to prevent more deaths. So, next time you hear a fire alarm? Forget about how this is a slight inconvenience to your busy day, and instead, think of the tragic souls who have already given their lives to save yours. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy listening to the wibble-wobble of a tubby loser droning on about pointless shit? Join me for a little quiz and some extra details about this case in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Tom Gillett, Sarah Freer and Sophie Chadwick. I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying all the exclusive online treats, the lovely thank you card of goodies you will have received in the post, and (even while Murder Mile is off-line in January & February, when I do my research), you’ll still be receiving lots of goodies to keep you entertained. If that sounds lovely, you too can join Patreon and support the show, via the link in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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The flats above King's Mall off Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about a family; cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness, it’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder.
SOURCES:
http://hundredfamilies.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/MARIA_CALERO_LON_06.07.pdf https://www.hammersmithtoday.co.uk/#!pages/hammersmithtoday:info:concrime117 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7625269.stm MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 a family cursed with a history of mental illness and hereditary blindness. It’s a strange relationship where their condition both united and divide them, but with sexual abuse added into the mix, it would lead to a brutal and horrifying murder. 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 152: Blind Obsession. Today I’m standing... (static and muffled street sounds) somewhere in the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham in West London, possibly in a flat above Ashcroft Square in Hammersmith, W6. But none of this can be verified, as the most of the details were never published and many were redacted. If so, we’re streets from the home of one of John Monckton’s killers, the garage where the First Date Killer pulled up with Kate Beagley’s body in the boot, the house where schoolgirl Katerina Koneva died at the hands of The Beast, and the obsessions of Winston Goulbourne - coming soon to Murder Mile. It is often said that some stories are never meant to be told, as there are deep dark secrets that exist in a family which no-one would dare to discuss until someone steps over the line of what is right and wrong. This is a case which did not appear on the TV news and it barely made it into any papers, which is why – at times – the details may be vague and many statements cannot be independently verified. A detailed report by the mental health trust provided a fascinating insight into the life of the young woman involved, and although she was only referred to as Ms T, we know her name was Maria Calero. What follows is some of her story. (Interstitial) (Static) The date was Sunday 17th June 2007. It was early morning, at roughly 3am. And as for the exact location, that was never disclosed, but it was possibly a flat somewhere off Ashcroft Square. From an upstairs window, two unidentified boys, aged 12 and 13 attracted the attention of a passer-by having been locked inside their bedroom. With no smoke, alarms nor screams, this could have been a prank? Only the children were in a state of panic; not in fear for themselves, but for someone else. The Police were called and concerned for the boy’s welfare, they gained entry. Physically, they were unharmed, but mentally they had been through an ordeal, having heard a man being cruelly tortured. On the floor lay their father – Eduardo; slumped in a cold motionless puddle of his own blood, his walls and doors were spattered red as a kitchen knife and a set of scissors has ceaselessly severed his veins and arteries. As across his once-clean carpet, the sticky shadows of his bloodied hand-prints lay where the terrified man had dragged his body far from his assailants, leaving a long red trail like a dying slug. It was a brutal murder by someone with a lot of hatred in their heart. An attack so sustained, that if it began right now (insert torture sound and use throughout) it wouldn’t end until this episode stops. Three people were arrested for his death, his niece, his nephew and his brother. But proving who the culprit was would be problematic, as with the children locked in the bedroom, they saw very little. One of the accused would claim “I did not take part in the murder”, the other said “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, and with all three either partially sighted or almost entirely blind, that could be true? Only there was one who saw everything; a reliable eye-witness who could replay every second, every stab and every slash of the murder, and recount it in a court of law with irrefutable detail and accuracy. But that is for the end... so let’s go back to where all this began. (Rewind) Referred to in the report only as ‘Ms T’, Maria Calero was born 1986 in the South American country of Peru, with her brother Richard born one year later. The circumstances of their plight were unknown, but following a brutal conflict in their homeland - although their father Ricardo remained behind - six-year-old Maria, five-year-old Richard and their mother sought asylum in the UK in 1992. It made sense, as their mother’s brother - uncle Eduardo - was living in a West London flat with his wife, his daughter and - soon-to-become pregnant with the first of two sons - although Maria’s mother had very little to call her own, what she did have was a close-knit family for when times got tough. In April 1993, her mother’s mental health deteriorated as her immigration status remained uncertain, and against medical advice that she needed to be fully assessed, she discharged herself from hospital. A few days later, this lone mother stood on London Bridge looking across the dark and muddy waters of the raging River Thames. In her arms, she held all that loved - her children. Clutching them tight and kissing their heads – seeing this drastic measure as her only way out - she hurled both children off the bridge, herself following behind, as they plunged thirty-feet to a certain death at this suicide spot. Quick-thinking passers-by called the police, a nearby marine patrol was dispatched, and all three were rescued. The fall should have killed them and the water should have drowned them, but thankfully, their physical injuries weren’t critical. Their mother had fractured her spine, Richard suffered face and elbow abrasions, and Maria had fractured her pelvis. In time, they would all make a good recovery... ...but the psychological scars would never heel. In February 1994, Maria’s father Ricardo came to England seeking asylum, and given the fragility of his wife’s mental state, he was assessed as the ‘protective parent’ of Maria and Richard. Earning a living as a dental assistant, he supported the family while his wife sought the help she so badly needed. Only, she would struggle to find peace in her mind. Maria and Richard witnessed their mother’s mania on a regular basis; her outbursts, her threats and her suicide attempts. In one she sliced-up her wrists, in another she took an overdose of pills, and again, she would try to destroy those she loved most. In 1995, when Maria was aged only 11, her mother tried to drown her in a bath. For their safety, both children were placed on the child protection register, they were put into foster care, and Maria and her brother received child therapy from a Spanish-speaking therapist. The abuse she suffered made Maria feel “unloved and vulnerable”, and she struggled to form healthy relationships with her family. In 1998, when Maria was 12, her mother fled the family. Their relationship was torturous, so this break-up should have been a moment for Maria to rediscover herself? But having been bounced from foster homes, to temporary housing, to living with her uncle, daughter and his two sons, Maria’s early years were incredibly unstable, especially as this young girl entered her hormonally-charged puberty. Life was hard and although times were bad... ...for all of the Calero family, it was about to get worse. That same year, Maria’s father Ricardo was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, known as RP; a rare genetic disorder where the light-sensitive tissue in the retina aggressively degenerate, making even the simplest of tasks – whether reading, walking or recognising faces – difficult without assistance. Within the year, her father would be completely blind... and although his vision meant the family lost their main income, this diagnosis came with a terrifying footnote - Retinitis Pigmentosa is hereditary. Maria’s vision was fine for now... but how long would it last? (Torture sounds) By the turn of the millennium, Maria’s homelife was a mess. Her mum was back and her father was blind, so when she wasn’t in foster care, she found sanctuary in her uncle’s flat, off Ashcroft Square. Two years earlier, uncle Eduardo had separated from his wife, but stayed in the small flat with his two sons and their older sister. It seemed like a stable place for his niece to escape to, but depending on whose story you choose to believe, Maria and Eduardo had a very strange bond - one of love and hate. That same year, aged 14, Maria locked herself in her uncle’s flat and refused to come out. This makes some sense as this hormonal teenager had made allegations of bullying and abuse against her mother. Later in 2000, Maria claimed that her uncle had abused her, a social worker investigated the allegation but no action was taken, and having absconded from foster care, Maria returned to stay at his flat. Again, that same year, she alleged that her uncle had sexually assaulted her, an accusation backed-up by parents and some of her uncle’s children. Both the Police and Child Services were involved, but no action was taken, as often she would deny the assault took place, or withdrew the allegation. And yet, it is said – that being unable to maintain a healthy relationship within her family - she continued in a “sexual relationship” with uncle Eduardo, as finding very little love elsewhere, she feared his rejection. In February 2001, Maria’s parents alleged further ‘inappropriate behaviour’ by her uncle, a complaint was made to Child Services, but as both Maria & Eduardo denied this, again no action could be taken. Rightfully, the Police criticised Child Services for allowing this minor to sleep-over at her uncle’s while an allegation of sexual assault was pending, but they were powerless to take action. So, with no foster carer at that time, a social worker was assigned to monitor Maria while she stayed with her uncle. But there was only so much monitoring a social worker could do from a distance. In July 2001, another official allegation of child sexual abuse was made against uncle Eduardo and his now 15-year-old niece. This time, by his own daughter. Having fled, she told the Police she “was afraid to go home”, having seen Maria & Eduardo on the sofa - he was shirtless and putting on his trousers. Again, the allegations were denied by both, and being powerless to proceed, no charges were made. Allegations and denials flew thick-and-fast, and with the system designed to protect Maria seen as helpless or hopeless, her parents took matters into their own hands. They smashed his car windows and assaulted him in the street. It did nothing and it solved nothing, except to vent their frustrations. ...only, the stresses and strains of a fractured family were piling up on top of Maria. (Torture sounds) By February 2002, concerns were raised about Maria’s mental health, having been diagnosed with an “adjustment disorder with dissociative symptoms”. She had cut-off her hair, dropped-out of school and told her child therapist how “unloved” she felt, stating “even my spit isn’t worth anything”. And having become agoraphobic, she had become virtually housebound, living inside her uncle’s flat. Two years later, Child Services had to remove Maria following allegations that her uncle had punched one of his pre-teen sons in the face. Right then, the council had proved it had the power to protect a child from abuse... but for Maria, it was too-little-too-late, as by September 2004, she had turned 18. Officially an adult, the care order had ended with Hammersmith & Fulham Children’s Services, but she was transferred under the authority of Adult Mental Health Services, as Maria had “complex needs”. Her mental decline was understandable given her chaotic upbringing. Nobody could hope to come out unscathed, given what she seen, what she had heard and what she experienced; truancy, depression, anxiety, isolation, infighting, with allegations of physical assaults and sexual abuse (which – although unproven – could easily be real), as well as her own mother’s attempts to kill herself and Maria; once in a bath as a child and once having thrown her off London Bridge. It’s no surprise that Maria lacked trust, she felt no love, she was full of anger, and suffered with bouts of anxiety and depression. And yet, a psychiatrist would state she had “no major mental illness” and “medication was not required”. To those who knew her, Maria’s mental health was in a rapid decline, but this wasn’t just because of her past, as one very specific aspect of her future had been plaguing her mind for almost a decade... ...and now, her greatest fear had become a reality. In the summer of 2006, Maria was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, the same hereditary condition which had taken her father’s sight, and given how fast her vision had degenerated, her prognosis was not good. Specialists had confirmed that - within the year – she too would be almost entirely blind. Weighing heavy on her spiralling mental health, Maria admitted to her psychiatrist that - as the once-bright world around her became ever-darker – burning feelings of anger had begun to swell inside her, as she became more impulsive, anxious and started to experience hallucinations. In November 2006, she was prescribed the anti-depressant Sertraline, as - like her mother before her – she had expressed suicidal thoughts, as well as deep feelings of aggression towards others... especially her uncle. (Torture sounds) ...in less than one year, Maria Calero would brutally stab uncle Eduardo to death in a sustained torture in his Hammersmith flat, which would leave his two teenage sons traumatised... ...but who was the victim at this point, and why wasn’t the alleged abuse stopped? Unable to restrain her bubbling rage, Maria had assaulted her mother and admitted to her psychiatrist her desire to stab and blind her uncle. Born on the maternal line, Eduardo was not afflicted by this family curse, but – regardless of whether her hatred for him was fuelled by the abuse she had allegedly suffered, or (if you take the other side) as he had rejected her love - Maria wished blindness upon him. The psychologist was so concerned that he wrote to Eduardo making him aware of Maria’s desire to do-him-harm, and for him to consider this when and how he made contact with her next. And although her parents openly attacked him claiming he raped their daughter, Maria returned to his flat. To say that their relationship was confusing would be an understatement. Crippled with depression, anxiety and with her last vestiges of vision rapidly deteriorating to the point where even the simplest of tasks had become impossible without assistance, Maria became reclusive, a shut-in at uncle Eduardo’s flat and almost entirely reliant on him for food, clothes and prescriptions. With her mind plagued with thoughts of self-harm and aggression, as was her prerogative, she stopped seeing her therapist, ignored the calls from her social worker and often failed to take her medication. Having isolated herself inside her uncle’s flat, her anxieties and delusions only got worse; she would claim that voices would talk to her in the night and sometimes she saw their faces too. Whether real or imaginary, she became ever more distressed as her uncle’s sons mocked her, that her and Eduardo’s relationship had descended into frequent verbal fights, and again, she talked about “ending it all”. And although, she had threatened to harm him... ...her words soon turned into wounds. On the morning of Friday 15th June 2007, just two days before, Maria called her social-worker to confess “I’ve stabbed my uncle” and repeated her allegation that he had raped her seven years earlier. In an incident which erupted when he allegedly started to wind her up by threatening to bring his own daughter from Peru - in his words - “to make your life hell”, Maria stated “I felt rage, then I stabbed him in the back with a knife”. But was this assault fuelled by anger, jealousy or rejection? Assessed at the A&E of Charing Cross Hospital, Eduardo covered for his niece by claiming it was a work-related injury having fallen backwards onto a sharp metal tool, he was treated and discharged. Accompanied by her care-worker, Maria re-iterated her story at Hammersmith police station and later to the Sapphire Unit in Fulham (a specialist police team who handle sexual offenses against adults and children) for further investigation and she returned home, not to her uncle’s flat but to her parent’s. ...but by the time the investigation got underway, uncle Eduardo would be dead. (Torture sounds) On Sunday 17th June 2007, at roughly 2:30am, in (what is believed to be) a two-floor flat at the Ashcroft Square complex above the King’s Mall; stood Maria, her brother Richard and their father Ricardo. Exactly what happened may remain as vague as their vision, as with all three virtually blind and often helpless without some assistance, the details of this night are shrouded in a thick fog of confusion and allegations. How and when they got into the flat is unknown; maybe they had a key, maybe they broke in, or maybe they were let in on the ruse of this fractured family making peace? But at some point, Eduardo’s boys were locked inside their bedroom, and the real reason for the visit would come out. The torture of uncle Eduardo was slow and protracted. Clutching a kitchen knife and a set of scissors, Maria plunged and pierced each blade into his flesh, screaming at the top of her lungs “he raped me, he raped me” - an allegation she had both repeatedly admitted and denied over the last seven years. Seeking revenge for a rape only he or she would know was true, over the next twenty-four minutes, she would stab and slash the uncle (she both loved and hated) a total of one hundred and eleven times. An attack so sustained, if it began at the beginning of this episode, it still wouldn’t have stopped. In his last few moments alive, Uncle Eduardo pleaded for his life. And although his terrified sons heard every second of their father’s brutal murder, having flagged down a passer-by, the Police were alerted, the flat was sealed-off and all three members of the Calero family were arrested and charged. The evidence was irrefutable – the blood, the knife, the scissors and the testimony of what the boys had heard – but with all three suspects either visually-impaired or blind, as one claimed “I did not take part in the murder” and the other “I didn’t kill, because I couldn’t see”, how could this be proven? It was simple, unable to fully see what they were doing - whether to aid the attack, or as a sick souvenir of Maria’s revenge - Richard had filmed the entire murder on his mobile phone; every second, every stab and every slash of Eduardo’s demise which could be recounted in court, as an irrefutable fact. So shocking was the footage, that many jurors needed counselling over what they had seen and heard... ...but in that flat, that night, those 24 minutes of footage was the only reliable eye-witness. (END) Eduardo Mendoza was transferred to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, but was pronounced dead on arrival, owing to blood loss and shock. Richard, Ricardo and Maria Calero were arrested on the charge of murder. With Maria sobbing as she was led away from the crime-scene “the voices made me do it”. But if this was true, which voices made her commit murder – the angry ones, or the jealous ones? Ricardo and Richard were held in custody to wait their appearance at West London Magistrates Court. Having been assessed at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, suspecting that Maria was hallucinating, she was held under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and was transferred to a mental health hospital. So distraught was Maria’s mother upon hearing news of her brother’s murder at the hands of her own husband, son and daughter, that again Mrs Calero took her own life, only this time she did not survive. In a month-long trial at the Old Bailey, on the 30th June 2008, 21-year-old Maria – whose fingerprints proved she was solely responsible for the attack on Eduardo - admitted to his murder and pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. She was given an indefinite prison sentence with Judge Morris insisting that she serve at a minimum of three years. Cleared of both the charges of murder and manslaughter, Richard and Ricardo wept as they were released. And as for the rape and sexual assault allegations made by Maria against Eduardo? They remain unresolved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy listening to the pendulous jowls of a cake-filled fat man, as he waffles on about his stupid little life in which pretty much nothing happens, except his imaginary relationship with the goddess Eva Green? Stay tuned till after the break for more info and a little quiz in Extra Mile. If you’ve ran out of episodes of Murder Mile, just to say there are more than 50 episodes of Walk With Me – the companion piece to Murder Mile – available via Patreon, as well as location videos and exclusive photos for more than 100 episodes, as well as our regular feature Cake of the Week. Yum. You can become a Patreon subscriber for as little as $3 a month, that’s £2 in real money, and I’ll also post you a very exclusive pack of goodies and a thank you card from me. Life can’t get any better. And if you fancy a Murder Mile mug of goodies, you can order one via the Murder Mile merch shop. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael 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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