Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Russell Square, as seen from Bedford Place (where Zakaria was arrested), looking towards Southampton Row where the last four attacks happened
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-SIX:
On the evening of Wednesday 3rd August 2016, a young Muslim man ran amok in Russell Square, he was armed with a knife and had killed one person and injured five, but as the press jumped to lazy conclusions and branded him as a ‘terrorist’, they missed the fact that he was (literally) fighting demons of his own.
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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 Russell Square is where the pinky/purple triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; one of myself showing you Russell Square / Bedford Place where the attacks took place, and another video via Reuters of the aftermath of the attacks. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Views: top left to bottom right; Russell Square facing the Imperial Hotel (where Darlene Horton was murdered), Bedford Place (where Zakaria was arrested and the last three attacks took place), a different view of Russell Square (where the first two attacks took place) and the road leading from Russell Square to Bedford Place.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: As there isn't a police investigation file in the National Archives I had to use news and court sources to compile the research, these include:
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: ZAKARIA BULHAN - THE "TERRORIRST" WHO NEVER WAS 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 city is a state of panic as with a young Muslim man running amok, armed with a knife, who had killed one person and injured five, as the press jumped to lazy conclusions and demonised him as a ‘terrorist’, they missed the fact that he was (literally) fighting demons of his own. 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 96: Zakaria Bulhan – The Terrorist Who Never Was. Today I’m standing on Russell Square, in Bloomsbury, WC1; three roads east of the Charlotte Street robbery, two roads west of the unusual death of Vera Crawford, two roads north-east of the Denmark Place Fire and one street east of the deadly Meaux Brewery explosion - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the opposite side of Soho, just over Tottenham Court Road and surrounded by the familiar districts of Fitzrovia, Covent Garden, Holborn and St Pancras is Bloomsbury - a pricey residential area full of second homes for politicians, a huge university campus and very little else except the British Museum; where overseas visitors all flock to see the treasures we pinched from them many moons ago, like the Elgin Marbles (“cheers mate, I’ll have that”), The Rosetta Stone (“lovely jubbly, chuck it in the van”), Egypt’s famous Cat Mummies (“nah mate, we’re not nicking it, we’re liberating it”), and the Easter Island statue (“yeah, I’ll write you a receipt for it when I get home. Ha-ha-ha. Bye suckers”). Bloomsbury is a great place for tourists to find a hotel with a truly awful name reflecting very English things, such as The Windsor, The Churchill, The Dickens, The Battle of Britain, the 1966 World Cup, the Fry-up, the Fit Princess, the Racist Prince and the Pizza Express Paedo, all the way down to appallingly named motels like ‘The AAA’, ‘The A1’ and the ‘E Z Hotel’ (dating back to when being on page one of a phone directory actually meant something) and those with names to suit an internet search like ‘the London-England-UK, top-best-great-stay, happy-cheapy-creepy, hotel-motel-B&B-brothel’. Tourists also flock here is it’s local, peaceful and safe. But during the summer of 2016, with the city on high-alert and the Police presence high, Russell Square was rocked by a murder and five attempted murders, all in the space of a few minutes. The grinning killer was described as a radicalised terrorist hell-bent on death, when in fact, he was just a terrified boy who believed he was fighting for his life. As it was here, on 3rd August 2016, having armed himself with a large knife, that nineteen-year-old Zakaria Bulhan came with the intent to kill… but those he attacked were not his targets. (Interstitial) (Distortion/Mixed) “At 10:33pm, Police responded to reports of a stabbing in Russell Square, just yards from the 7/7 tube bombing…”, “…we can confirm that one woman is dead and several are critically injured…”, “…eye-witnesses said the killer was grinning…”, “…he was skipping…”, “…in a frenzied knife attack…”, “…armed Police Tazered a young black man…”, “…an Asian male …”, “….described as either of Iraqi or Somali descent…”, “… Police are investigating links to terrorism and radicalisation…”, “…once again, we ask the question, how safe are we (the people) in our own city?” (Fades out) In the years after the 9/11 attacks, the tensions of the western world were set on a knife-edge, as no longer did a terrorist originate as an unscrupulous stranger from a foreign land, many were now born and raised inside the society they sought to destroy. But their targets wouldn’t be military or political, as seeking to pummel the people into a state of absolute fear, they opted for soft civilian targets and indiscriminately killed as many bodies as possible, as these innocents went about their everyday lives. On the 7th July 2005, suicide bombers exploded four devices on London’s bus and tube network, killing 56 people, injuring 784 and inspiring a copy-cat attack two weeks later. On the 26, 27 & 28th November 2008, in Mumbai, India, terrorists shot and killed 174 people, wounding at least 300. 22nd May 2013, Royal Fusilier Lee Rigby was hacked-to-death in broad daylight by recent Islamic converts. 7th January 2015, satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo is attacked, 12 are shot dead, 11 are injured. 13th November 2015 in Paris, bomb attacks and mass-shootings kill 130 people, 413 are injured. 14th July 2015, Bastille Day in Nice, a 19-tonne truck is used by its radicalised driver as a weapon, 86 people are dead and 458 are injured. And on 22nd March 2016, in Brussels, three suicide bombers kill 35 and injure at least 300. And that was just a small sample, as by 2016, attacks by home-grown terrorists seemed to be hitting home-soil on an almost weekly basis, and the perpetrators were almost always identical; mostly Asian or black youths with shaved heads, bushy beards and innocent faces who came from good families, but being bored, disillusioned and deluded, they were radicalised into committing Jihad. They were young, impressionable and dangerous, but – worst of all – they came from out of nowhere. By the summer of 2016, the UK treat level has been increased to ‘severe’, meaning a terrorist attack was ‘highly likely’. Armed officers patrolled the streets, London Mayor Sadiq Khan called for the public to remain “calm but vigilant”, and – ironically - on the 3rd August 2016, Scotland Yard had announced that an extra 600 officers would be deployed in the city following the recent terror attacks. That night, in Russell Square, a young man of Somali origin went on a bloody killing spree, armed with a large knife and his victims were white and Western. As always happens, we had to blame someone or something; whether drugs, music, films, bad parenting or computer games, but in this case, our gut reaction was to blame it on his “possible” radicalisation by a terrorist group, based on his colour. In truth, it was us who were to blame, we just couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t see it. Zakaria Bulhan wasn’t a crazed terrorist on a mission from God, he was just a frightened young boy who needed our help. Zakaria’s parents were born and raised in Somalia, an East African country bordered by Ethiopia, Kenya and the Gulf of Aden. As an unstable region steeped in poverty, corruption and ethnic tension - as war lords, armed militias and government forces fiercely ripped the impoverished nation apart – in 1991, when it’s British rulers unceremoniously dumped yet another dirt-poor country it had stripped of its assets and couldn’t be bothered to clean-up the mess, the second we “graciously” granted Somalia its independence, it descended into a bloody civil war. So violent were the clashes, that in December 1992, the United Nations peace-keeping force intervened, and the civil war remains in place to this day. In 1994, seeking a better life, Zakaria’s parents fled war-ravaged Somalia to join their relatives in the calmer, cooler and more-peaceful country of Norway. Three years later, with an older sister Segal and later followed by a younger brother Salah, Zakaria was born, and he was healthy, happy and bright. In 2002, having emigrated to Britain, the five-strong Bulhan family moved into a small council flat on the second floor of Robertson House in Tooting, South London. They worked hard, they lived well and they raised their children to be good decent people, with a smile on their faces and love in their hearts. It was an unremarkable upbringing typical of many families, they had their ups and downs, struggles and successes, and although Zakaria’s parents would eventually split, for the sake of their children, his mother remarried, his step-father moved in and Zakaria remained in-contact with his father. So, it’s no surprise that the other tenants described them as the “best neighbours you could hope to have”. Zakaria, nicknamed “Zaky” was a perfect example of a good upbringing by devoted parents who gave him love and support. Raised by a lady who everyone said was “delightful”, Zakaria modelled himself on his mother and - although shy and socially-awkward - being described as a “little gentleman”, he was always polite, helpful and charming, having been blessed with a baby-face and a big bright smile. In fact, there are no traumatic incidents in his life which would foreshadow the horrifying violence he would bring to the streets of Russell Square, as the sweet-faced killer skipped, grinned and danced, silently slicing, slashing and stabbing a series of innocent people he had never seen or met before. Zakaria was quite ordinary; he loved football, basketball and music; he had a loving family, a good group of friends and he was never in any trouble; he had no interest in gangs, knives or violence, he had never committed any kind of crime; he liked reading but he wasn’t political, he was proud but he didn’t get into fights, and he didn’t drink, do drugs and he wasn’t keen on social media Educated at Graveney School in Tooting, as a quiet bookish-boy he was teased for being a “teacher’s pet” simply because he was good at maths, and although he was bullied, he didn’t let it get him down. So, having resat his GCSE’s at sixth form, he went on to study a B-Tech in IT at South Thames College. Obviously, once the tabloid press discovered that he was young, black and Muslim, the lazy suspicion of radicalisation reared its ugly head, as an easy scape-goat for the horrors which would unfold, but Zakaria was never subverted or coerced. Being too intelligent, loved and open-minded to have his mind poisoned, he was always a moderate Muslim raised to use his faith as a guide to live his life right. Zakaria didn’t have a bad bone in his body or an evil thought in his heart… …but by the end of 2015, just six months before the attack, things had started to go wrong. 19-year-old Zakaria had struggled with mental illness for the last four years. What began with anxiety and depression was brushed aside by his GP as a phase that many teenagers experience and grow out of, but as he aged – being cursed by a stigma surrounding mental illness in Somali culture which makes them less likely to seek treatment – his symptoms only escalated the more he sought to supress it. Becoming more isolated, Zakaria stopped going out, ceased seeing his friends and he quit his college course. Withdrawing within his own mind, his cheeky-face became sullen, his beaming smile was erased and replaced by a terrified grin, and his once eager-eyes were etched red - as with the boy too frightened to fall sleep - over the next six months, Zakaria would try to kill himself three times. On 20th April 2016, as an out-patient at the National Hospital for Neurology on Queen Square, just one street over from Russell Square, Zakaria was initially diagnosed with anxiety and a depressive disorder. His symptoms were a perfect fit – sleeplessness, irritability, isolation, depression, lack of motivation and concentration – and given that he had no history of violence to anyone but himself, he was deemed a low-risk, prescribed anti-psychotic drugs and was monitored by the mental health team. But as a science still in its infancy, it is often said that a person’s mental illness isn’t correctly diagnosed for the first ten years, as many symptoms can be suppressed, masked and can even incubate until they are triggered, and Zakaria’s diagnosis was no exception. Many aspects of this sweet-natured boy may actually have been a symptom, which begs the question; why was he shy, why was he quiet, why could he never speak up, and why could he never look a person in the eye? Was this him, or his illness? By May, as he withdrew further from the routine of an ordinary life and hid in his bedroom, his hygiene was poor, his thoughts were muddy and he struggled to see where reality began and ended. Out-of-character, an unusually volatile anger rose within him causing his mother to hide the kitchen knives as she worried what he may do, but it wasn’t a hatred that fuelled his fury, but a fear. No longer could Zakaria tell the difference between spoken words and imaginary ones, as a ceaseless cacophony of voices tortured him day-and-night, convincing the terrified boy that he was possessed by a devil. Only able to trust his brain to tell him the difference between right and wrong, even his senses colluded against him; as in his head he heard voices, in his eyes he saw demons, and on his tongue, he tasted sulphur. After his arrest, Zakaria would finally be diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia and all the warning signs were there that he was about to enter a full-sensory schizophrenic psychosis… …but this diagnosis would come too late. Deemed a low-risk, prescribed a mild-drug and with his psychiatric help on a strictly voluntary basis, by the summer of 2016, he wasn’t a powder-keg of religious anger and anti-West hatred, what was bottled-up inside him was absolute terror, as the demons inside his mind conspired to kill him. And yet, it was all hidden behind the smile of a sweet-faced angel who would never harm a fly. (Distortion/Mixed) In a statement, the Met’ Police’s Assistant Commissioner said “The UK’s terrorism threat level remains at severe, meaning an attack is considered to be highly likely. As a precautionary measure, Londoners will wake up this morning to notice an increased presence on the streets of armed officers. We would urge the public to remain calm, alert and vigilant”. (Underneath add in different voices) “Russell Square, 56 dead”, “Mumbai, 174 dead”, “car bombs”, “mass shootings”, “trucks as weapons”, “airplanes hijacked”, “Lee Rigby”, “Charlie Hebdo, 12 dead”, “Paris, 130 dead”, “Nice, 86 dead”, “Brussels, 35 dead”, “a killer in our midst”, “a young black male”, “a young Asian male”, “born in this city”, “heard screaming ‘Allah Akbar’”, “raised just around the corner”, “a good Muslim”, “terrorists”, “a Muslim family”, “death to the West”, “Muslim parents”, “burka”, “hajib”, “jihad”, “Koran”, “attended a local mosque”, “possible links to radical Islam”, “radical Muslims”, “radical views”, “extremists”, “ISIS”, “ISIL”, “radicalisation”. (Build to a crescendo / fade). Wednesday 3rd August 2016 began as an unremarkable day; there were highs of 25 degrees, blue skies and a cool breeze; the summer had started, the city was busy and as the public holiday had begun, so Mrs Bulhan and her youngest son went to visit her family in Holland, as Zakaria stayed with his dad. But just hours later, the West End would be rocked to the sounds of screams and sirens, as in a six-minute bloody rampage, five people would be stabbed and one person would be dead. (Call to prayer) Three miles from Russell Square in Whitechapel, Zakaria and his father walked into the East London Mosque for their late afternoon prayer. Being devout Muslims, this was the third of five Salats for the day and to aid Zakaria’s recovery, they prayed to Allah and were counselled by the Imam. Stigmatised by a cultural shame of mental health, a distrust of modern medicine and a belief that their faith can conquer all, they did what they thought was right. But paranoid schizophrenia doesn’t adhere to the seven pillars of Islam, it barely complies to the laws of medical science and when psychiatric counselling is left at the patient’s discretion, it’s as good as useless, especially when the only voices he could trust were the ones inside his head. (Voices – “don’t listen to them”, “they’re spies”, “it’s not a drug, it’s a bug”, “they talking about you”, “they’re out to get you”, “to harm you”, “to kill you”. Somewhere in the Mosque, a telephone rang (as it had many times before), but gripped in a paranoia that everyone was conspiring to kill him, Zakaria panicked, ran and - moments later - he had vanished. That night, fearing for his life, Zakaria couldn’t remember where he ran, who he saw, or what he did. Terrified that his mobile phone was bugged, he threw it into a bush. Fearing that the plain white robe he had worn to the mosque was poisoned, he stripped down to a white t-shirt, black tracksuit trousers and a pair of trainers. And as the people were spies, their eyes were cameras and their spit cast cruel spells upon him - as The Devil closed in - to protect himself, he stole an eight-inch kitchen knife. Zakaria was alone and terrified. Security footage briefly captured the boy wandering aimlessly, but his movements were confused and chaotic. Everyone was a threat and a danger, and although he fled as the demons chased him, he was unaware that they weren’t behind him, but inside him. Somehow, maybe as an automatic impulse to seek a safe place, he ended up at the National Hospital for Neurology on Queen Square, where his illness was first diagnosed. But as a non-emergency service, it was shut. So, unsure what do to, the lost and frightened boy wandered the dark foreboding city - with a voice in his head, a demon on his back and a knife in his hand - one street from Russell Square. At 10:27pm, as the theatres emptied, the restaurants refilled and the pubs readied for last orders, entirely by chance six strangers converged on Russell Square. They were all of different ages and they were all from different places; they were just six people chosen at random who were enjoying life. They had never met before, but across the next six minutes, their lives would be fatally intertwined. They were 67-year-old Bernard Hepplewhite, a conservation volunteer from Kent who’d been to the theatre with a friend. 23-year-old Lillie Sellentin, an Australian primary school teacher who was yards from her hotel. 64-year-old Darlene Horton, a retired special-needs teacher who had enjoyed a final meal with her husband before their flight back to Florida, as well as 59-year-old US national Martin Hoenisch, 40-year-old Australian David Imber and 18-year-old Israeli Yovel Lewkowski. Only Zakaria wouldn’t see them as people, as in his eyes, every one of them was a demon. As the baby-faced boy weaved about the busy pavement, to his first victim – Bernard – Zakaria didn’t look like a threat, as the small cherubic lad skipped along silently, swinging his arms like he was playing in a park. As the boy banged into him, Bernard uttered an “ouch”, only then did he realise he hadn’t been punched in the stomach, he had been stabbed. And as Zakaria joyously skipped on, grinning wildly - after years of terror - the petrified boy had finally slayed his first beast. (dying demonic growl) Yards behind him, it all happened so fast that – before Bernard even knew he was bleeding – as the emotionless prancing lad approached his next victim, Lillie Sellentin felt a sharp pain in the right of her ribs, as with no shouts of triumph and no cries of relief through his gritted teeth, Zakaria skipped on silently, as a second beast was slain (dying growl). From out-of-nowhere, screams began, someone shouted “he’s got a knife”, and although two people lay bleeding, as this wasn’t a TV fiction but a reality in life, no-one was quite sure what was happening. As Zakaria darted over the road, approaching a couple silently from behind, with a single fast blade he stabbed Darlene Horton in the back. Unaware of her injuries, her husband gave chase, only for the small-framed lady to slump against the garden gates, as an odd dark pattern formed down her back. By now, everyone was watching, people were screaming and as distant sirens grew closer, with a seizure of flashing blue-lights illuminating the entire square as the patrol cars of armed officers flooded the streets, Zakaria ploughed on, as a third beast was down and dying. (dying growl) In quick succession - as Zakaria ran past the Imperial Hotel and dashed up Russell Square towards Bedford Place – he stabbed three more innocents; Martin Hoenisch in the armpit (growl), David Imber in the chest (growl) and Yovel Lewkowski in the right arm (growl). But as the screams echoed, the sirens wailed and the people scattered, suddenly Zakaria was all alone, with no more beasts to slay. Within minutes of the attack having begun, armed officers had Tazered, subdued and arrested Zakaria. Six people were injured, two seriously and – having been stabbed in the lung and the heart – Darlene Horton was later pronounced dead. But for once, the demons in Zakaria’s head had ceased. (Distortion/Short) “At 10:33pm, Police responded to reports of a stabbing in Russell Square, just yards from the 7/7 tube bombing…”, “…we can confirm that one woman is dead and several are critically injured…”, “…eye-witnesses said the killer was grinning…”, “…he was skipping…”, “…in a frenzied knife attack…”, “…armed Police Tazered a young black man…”, “…an Asian male …”, “….described as either of Iraqi or Somali descent…”, “… Police are investigating links to terrorism and radicalisation…”, “…once again, we ask the question, how safe (the people) are we in our own city?” (End) As happens during any moments of panic, misinformation had spread in those crucial few minutes, as some eye-witnesses claimed he had shouted “Allah, Allah”, where-as others said he was silent, and although we may all say that we’re not inherently biased, if a white person goes on a killing-spree we usually call it a mass-murder, but if the perpetrator is dark-skinned, often we assume it’s terrorism. To quash any rumours by the trashy tabloids (who – by that point - were too distracted by the sexy Instagram photos of 18-year-old Yovel Lewkowski in a skimpy bikini to bother to report the truth), the Met’ Police Commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe said: “Mental health remains a substantial focus for our investigation” and reiterated they were “keeping an open mind as to the motive”. Zakaria Bulhan was arrested, charged and having been sectioned under the mental health act, he was sent to Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison where he was finally diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. On 7th February 2017, Zakaria Bulhan was tried at the Old Bailey, and although he had no memory of the attack, he pleaded guilty to one count of manslaughter by diminished responsibility and five counts of wounding with the intent to cause grievous bodily harm - which should warrant a life sentence - but as it was universally accepted by the defence and the prosecution that he had suffered a psychotic episode, was detained at Broadmoor, where he would remain for the rest of his life. One person was dead, five people were injured and a young boy’s life was destroyed forever. Had he got the help he needed, had we seen the warning signs and had (not just his culture, but ours) not been blighted by a stigma surrounding mental illness, then a good boy who was polite, shy and decent would be living a good life today. And although we are all terrified by the spectre of terrorism, often the biggest demons we all need to fight aren’t on the outside, but are the ones inside our minds. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall be discretely slurping a tea, crinkling a cake wrapper (but not actually eating it), droning on endlessly about something or other, and then I shall press stop. Thank God. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Bernard Airlie and Steven Walker, I thank you. Plus a thank you for all the new five-star reviews you’ve been leaving on your favourite podcast app. They’re very much appreciated and really do mean a lot to me. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
55 Upper Brook Street, W1, where Elsie Goldsmith died, it has since been demolished (it was where the middle tree is) but used to look like No 55 to the right
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-FIVE:
On the 21st November 1927, in the backroom of a well-respected abortionist at 55 Upper Brook Street in Mayfair, recetnly pregnant Elsie Goldsmith went in to have her little problem solved. His illegal technique was hailed as non-invasive, safe and revolutionary, and yet he destroyed not only the baby's life... but also hers.
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 55 Upper Brook Street in Mayfair where the abortionist's clinic once stood (before it was demolished to make way for the former US Embassey) is where the dark grey triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's a short video of 55 Upper Brook Street where Charles Palmer's medical practice once stood and where Elsie Goldsmith died. And on the video marked 'Bomb Damage' in Grosvenor Square, it shows you 55 Upper Brook Street before it was demolished. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: To research this, the main source I used was the original police investigation file into the murder / manslaughter of Elsie Goldsmith from the National Archives https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257675 MUSIC:
SOUNDS: Assam Folk - https://freesound.org/people/soundstew/sounds/67117/ Indian Wildlife - https://freesound.org/people/genghis%20attenborough/sounds/27492/ Hindu Priest - https://freesound.org/people/kevp888/sounds/440140/ Bug Zapper - https://freesound.org/people/CGEffex/sounds/107005/ Electrocute - https://freesound.org/people/aust_paul/sounds/30933/ TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: ELSIE GOLDSMITH AND THE PARASITE INSIDE 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 young woman cursed with a very deadly conundrum. Her life was perfect; she was wealthy, pretty and married to a good man, but discovering that she was pregnant, either this terrified lady would endanger her tiny body to adhere to the law, or risk her life to end it all. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. 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 95: Elsie Goldsmith and the Parasite Inside. Today I’m standing on Upper Brook Street in Mayfair, W1; three roads west of the senseless stabbing of Seydou Diarrassouba, four roads north of Roberto Troyan’s greedy accountant, three hundred feet from the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko and a short walk from the home of Joseph King who slaughtered his entire family over a debt of just a few shillings – coming soon to Murder Mile. Mayfair is a posh part of West London bordered by Hyde Park, Green Park, Piccadilly and Soho which is home to many famous hotels, galleries, institutes and embassies. Where-as this part of Mayfair is so posh, there is literally no dog-shit on the streets. I know! Amazing! But wealth can’t buy you style. The only businesses you’ll see are tailors for tacky oil-barons who’ll waste a King’s ransom on a shiny gold suit, a showroom for thicky footballers who’ll blow millions on a hyper-car only to wrap it around a lamppost, art galleries so pretentious you’ll often see critics applauding the bin, a surgery for ancient heiresses who’ve had so many facelifts that when they blink their arse cheeks wiggle, and restaurants by celebrity chefs which are only open to the finest shysters, dictators and celebrity paedos, but locked to Brummie scum like me, as – with alarms wailing – the posh police boot me out, scrub me with bleach and tattoo the words “unclean” on my forehead, for fear that I may infect their beloved money. Before the construction of the former US Embassy, at the west end of Grosvenor Square stood a three-storey 18th century townhouse at 55 Upper Brook Street, which was sadly destroyed in the blitz. As an elegant home to many lords and ladies, it was the epitome of high-society and sophistication. And yet, it wasn’t the bombs which took this lady’s life, but an accident, a lack of education and an unjust law. As it was here, on the 21st November 1927, in the backroom of a well-respected abortionist, that Elsie Goldsmith went in to have her little problem erased… only the life he destroyed was hers. (Interstitial) Elsie was raised in a world of great privilege and wealth, but also of fear and ignorance. Elsie Goldsmith was born Elsie Alice Fawkes on 5th March 1906 in the district of Mussoorie, India; an affluent town at the foothills of the Himalayan mountains, blessed with lush green valleys, stunning waterfalls and the dawn-rise shadowed by the snow-capped peaks of Kathmandu and Mount Everest. With India firmly under the tyrannical boot on the British Empire - even though the self-titled Empress of India (Queen Victoria) was long since dead - throughout the 19th and half of the 20th century, the British Government ruled every aspect of this country, denying it’s people a say in how their lives were run, and Mussoorie was no exception. But Alice wouldn’t know this as she was only a baby. Dotted with ancient huts and stunning temples, the British imposed their own stamp on this foreign land by bulldozing the bits they didn’t like and fashioning themselves a home-from-home, filled with roads, a railway and even a five-star Savoy Hotel, where they played cricket on the lawn, drank tea for elevenses and signified lunch by cannon-fire, with all of the signs in English, churches singing Christian hymns and – in this Hindu region – they lived on a deeply offensive diet of eggs, milk, beef and alcohol. Mussoorie was incredibly wealthy, but only if you were white and British. And yet Alice wouldn’t know this, as this young lady was shielded from the unpleasant truth, as she would be for the rest of her life. As the smallest and youngest of four siblings, with her father as a high-ranking official in the British Military and her mother aided by a mass of maids and butlers - living in a palatial colonial-style home behind large iron gates, where a servant was always on-hand to fetch her food, pour her water, to iron her clothes and solve even the smallest of problems – she was mistakenly raised in the belief that her opulent cocoon was would protect her from harm, and yet, it wouldn’t prepare her for the worst. In 1910, following her father’s death, the family moved back to Britain and settled into a three-storey home at 18 Wilbury Gardens in Hove near the English south coast. Being an independently wealthy widower Florence gave her daughter the best education which – at that time – was in a Convent. Raised to be a lady, with it deemed improper for her to ever discuss love, sex or even her own body - from her childhood through her teenage years – Elsie received no sex education at school, or at home. Tutored by celibate nuns in a Catholic Convent, this highly-strung and sensitive girl was riddled with guilt and force-fed cruel tales of Eve’s sin – as with no understanding that her periods were perfectly natural – each month she bled red, Elsie wept terrified tears, and blamed herself for defying God. By 1927, aged 21, being a small-framed virgin with tiny hips – as her only chance at happiness was to marry a man and to bare his babies – Elsie was petrified of childbirth, especially as she lived in an era where only a quarter of children survived to the age of five, and their mothers (especially those whose bodies weren’t built to be stretched, torn and ripped) frequently died in childbirth. On 20th June 1927, after a short courtship, Elsie got engaged to 41-year-old Valentine Harry Goldsmith; the son to an affluent family, former Paymaster Commander for the Royal Navy and now, the Assistant Controller of newly formed British Broadcasting Corporation. On 8th September, they married at St Simon’s Church in Kensington, and – still remaining true to her faith and her God - during their three-week honeymoon in Paris and the French Riviera, Elsie had sex for the first time and became pregnant. Ten weeks later, barely showing a bump and being six months from childbirth, the terrified newly-wed was forced to make a drastic decision which would prove fatal for her baby… and herself. (Interstitial) A wonderful moment in many women’s lives is the discovery that they are pregnant, but for Elsie, the news was met with absolute terror, as – in her eyes - this little blessing could be a death sentence. Outside of statistics, medically there was no evidence that she was in an abnormal amount of danger. Giving birth two decades before the National Health Service was formed - being wealthy with access to fresh food, clean water and the best a doctor money could buy - although small and slight, she was also young and healthy, but her irrational fear of childbirth had been stoked by years of guilt. Shortly after their honeymoon, Elsie confided to her husband that she was ‘late’. It’s meaning flew over his head as although twice her age, Valentine was little more than a posh military man with next-to-no experience of women’s anatomy except for some cursory fumblings, but seeing the fear well in her eyes and hearing the word “baby” tremble on her tongue, it was clear that Elsie was petrified. A few days later, seeing bloodspots in her knickers, Elsie breathed a sigh of relief and put her delay down to getting a chill while taking a bath, and although this was an old wives’ tale, it reassured her. By the end of October, with her period late but again seeing spots, her fear dispersed. Only this time, as the blood was accompanied by an itchy rash around her vagina and anus, her doctor diagnosed her with threadworm - a tiny parasite ingested by eating infected pork and cleared up with a mild enema – but having missed a second period, the terror of impending childbirth left her in a deadly quandary. As abortions were illegal, being forced to go full-term if she went to a hospital, this tiny lady risked injury, disability and even death owing to tearing, ruptures, infection, shock and broken bones. Where-as if she tried to induce a miscarriage herself - by falling down stairs, drinking turpentine, swallowing poison, overdosing on laxatives, or by procuring a backstreet abortion where an unnamed man of dubious qualifications sluices out the womb with disinfectant, fishes out the foetus with a wire scraper and flushes it away - every option to terminate her pregnancy risked her health and possibly her life. Elsie was terrified; she didn’t want to have a baby, and she didn’t want to die. By the first week of November, having confided to a close friend, Elsie was advised to visit a specialist at 55 Upper Brook Street in Mayfair; he had a solid reputation, a polite gentlemanly manner, a long-list of very exclusive clients and – having agreed to help her – he also had a new-fangled apparatus which could solve her little problem. His name was Charles Palmer… but he wasn’t a doctor. Charles Jackson Palmer was born in 1868 in the Irish city of Cork, although he wasn’t Irish, as with an English father and a Welsh mother, his confusing identity would follow him for the rest of his life. Raised in the middle-class English suburb of Edgbaston, to two working-class grocers who had strived to give their boys a better life than they had been handed, by living in a large house, being catered for by two servants and afforded the best education available – as the youngest, John studied the exciting new science of electrical engineering and Charles studied medicine at Birmingham Medical School. Fuelled by a need to exceed his parent’s wildest dreams, Charles aspired to be a wealthy respected doctor who was accepted by the cream of London’s high society, but as a Welsh-Irish-Brummie afflicted with an odd accent, even though he adopted a plummy voice, a bowtie, a nice suit and a cane to try and fit in, his success would always be an uphill struggle, as – academically – he was not gifted. After fourteen years of private education, with three years studying biology in Birmingham, four years of anatomy at University College and (supposedly) an apprenticeship under Sir Alfred Fripp (chief surgeon to The King), Charles never gained a medical degree and therefore he never became a doctor. But that didn’t limit his ambitions. Fascinated by modern technology and utilising his brother’s wizardry of circuitry, in 1903 he set-up his own medical practice treating all manner of ailments using the wonder-drug of the age – electricity. Known as ‘vibro-massage’, this revolutionary technique could cure everything from nerves, backpain, headaches and muscle strain, using a set of electrodes, a treatment table and a steady current. By 1907, he was so respected among the upper-classes that having acquired such affluent clients as the Duke of Argyll, the Duke of Grafton, the Duchess of Devonshire and Lady Lonsdale, he moved into a larger premise in St James’, and later, to the more exclusive 55 Upper Brook Street in Mayfair, hiring a maid and a butler, with a reception up-front and a consulting room outback. So legitimate were his credentials that he was although unqualified, in 1921 London County Council issued him a licence. Dubbed by the tabloid press as a “quack” and a “fraudster”, in fact he was far from it. His reputation was solid, his clients were satisfied, he never went by the title of ‘doctor’ (instead he used the more accurate ‘medical electrician’), and as a wealthy London professional everything he did was legal and above-board. But his desire to carry favour with the society elite would be his undoing. In March 1926, the Countess of Kinnoull discovered that she was pregnant and in need of a discrete professional with a non-invasive solution to her little problem. Electricity was a miracle, it could cure as much as it could kill, and although Charles wasn’t keen on this kind-of-thing, he agreed to help her. A few weeks later, Countess Kinnoull miscarried, she was unharmed and Charles Palmer unwittingly became the secret abortionist to the London elite - one of whom would be Elsie Goldsmith. By November 1927 - with her second period absent, her third period late and her tiny body deformed by a barely noticeable bump – unlike the threadworms, a very different kind of parasite was growing inside of Elsie’s womb; sucking her fluids, distorting her organs and making her vomit. There was no cure, only nine months of agony, capped-off with an excruciating torture, which she might not survive. Elsie was almost three-months pregnant, but not a single day of it had been a blessing. Every day she wept, every night was spent awake, every moment she asked God (given that she hadn’t sinned) why he had was punishing her, and - although she was still only young - the stress had aged her. Being absolutely terrified, Elsie just wanted this thing out of her body right now, but the law had said no. So, when a close-friend recommended a “medical specialist” with an impressive roster of high-profile clients, who used no cutting, no scraping, no poisons and no risk of infection, just a new revolutionary technique which gently stimulated the womb’s muscles to induce a very natural miscarriage, Elsie saw this as a ray of hope, and – seeing his wife’s distress - Valentine wanted what was best for her. Her first appointment was on 8th November at 9pm. Elsie was escorted by her husband as he wanted to get a measure of the man and his machine, but any doubts he had were very quickly dismissed. Situated just shy of the corner of Grosvenor Square, 55 Upper Brook Street was a neat, clean and well-presented townhouse in the heart of a very exclusive part of Mayfair. As their taxi pulled-up and the black front-door opened, the Goldsmith’s were greeted by Charles’ butler and offered a cup of Earl Grey tea by Charles’ maid, as they sat - holding hands - in the stylishly ground-floor reception room. At 9pm precisely, Charles Palmer, a dapper man in his late fifties - dressed in a tailored suit, a smart bow-tie, small round glasses and confidently speaking in an educated and affluent timbre (as any hint of his Brummie accent had been drummed-out after three decades working in London’s most exclusive districts) - explained his equipment, answered their questions and reassured Mr & Mrs Goldsmith that after twenty-four-years as a “medical electrician”, who was fully licenced by London County Council, that his services would be safe, private and discrete. Instant results were not be guaranteed as the ‘vibro-massage’ technique required a thirty-minute course twice-a-week for the next four-to-six weeks, but all previous clients had successfully miscarried. As Valentine was satisfied, Elise felt comfortable and Charles was available, having sent her husband home – as she preferred to discuss such delicate matters without him present – Elsie Goldsmith had her first treatment that night. By midnight, being back home at 44 Gordon Square, she was smiling, she was tired, she was unsure if had worked as she only felt a mild tingling, but she had already begun to look and feel a little brighter. She attended her second appointment was on 11th November, a third on the 14th, with three further sessions booked for the 16th, the 18th and the 21st. The course would last several weeks, but by the end of her sixth appointment, Elsie would be dead. Monday 21st November 1927 was a very ordinary day; the sky was a gloomy grey, the air was soaked with an incessant drizzle and a gritty bitter wind howled around 44 Gordon Square. Inside, Elsie sat by a roaring fire, fitfully dozing in short interrupted bursts, as – having barely slept in weeks – her heart thumped, her nerves surged and her little body lay slumped in the chair, all limp and lethargic. Ten weeks in, not knowing whether she was pregnant was worse than actually knowing, but with this thing still being too small, she had yet to feel the horror as it writhed and slithered inside of her. In her mind, having sucked her energy dry, the parasite had grown and the swelling was proving harder to hide, so even in her own home – for fear that her staff may gossip about her immoral deeds – she had to conceal her shame under thick dark layers; a billowing black dress, a vest, a pullover and a fur coat. Except the darkness of her disguise only accentuated her ghostly pale skin and her red-raw eyes. At 4:30pm, Elsie drank her last ever cup of tea. At 5:30pm, she left her home for the very last time, and – being dressed in black - she hailed a taxi, like a corpse catching a hearse to its own funeral. But Elsie wouldn’t know any of this, as today was just an ordinary day for a very routine appointment. At 6pm, arriving at 55 Upper Brook Street, Elsie was greeted by the familiar smile of Charles’ butler, welcomed with a curtsey from Charles’ maid, ushered into the consulting room, and as always, she was assessed by her specialist who had a calm voice, a caring tone and a reassuring bedside manner. As she had done five times prior - behind a modesty screen - Elsie disrobed, placing each garment neatly folded on a chair. To allow the treatment to be unimpeded; she removed her corset, suspenders and silk knickers, but to keep her dignity intact, she kept on her dress, a vest and knee-high stockings. Only once she was comfortable, Elsie announced that she was ready, Charles re-entered the consulting room, popped on the electric light above, and gently guided his patient onto the ‘treatment table’. To the far side, away from the drawn blinds, stood a large stainless-steel table; six-feet long by three-feet wide and high, which brightly gleamed as it was pristine clean. At the top was a soft white padding for her head, with the same at the base for her feet, and as Elsie lay herself face-up on the table, she winced as the cold metal touched her bare skin, for which Charles apologised, and they both giggled. The process was simple and painless. Wired up to the mains supply at the skirting board, a small engine powered four small motors on the corners of the table, each fitted with variable resisters which fed a constant electrical flow to the patient’s skin via padded electrodes and sterilised rods, stimulating her nerves and heating her muscles over a period of thirty minutes. And although the mains outlet gave a deadly charge of 200 volts, through its intricate circuitry, the appliance reduced this to a consistent flow of just twenty Ohms, resulting in a mild vibration, a pleasant warmth and a tingling sensation. It was very successful in treating muscular pain, but for abortions, it needed to be more invasive. As before, Elsie had padded electrodes placed on her temples, with one on her spine and – having first syringed a soapy solution into the wall of her uterus to aid the miscarriage - a sterilised stainless-steel electrode, shaped like a five-inch rod, was inserted deep into her vagina, millimetres from the foetus. Having placed a bath towel over her lower half, the treatment began at a little after 6:30pm, and as the tingling would last roughly thirty minutes, Elsie distracted herself with pleasant thoughts, of her beloved husband, of her holiday plans, and of a life free from the parasite inside her. (mild buzzing) For Charles, it was key to keep his equipment in good condition, but being keen to carry favour with those well-to-do ladies who preferred to be treated in the privacy of their own home, often his kit was dismantled (spark), transported (spark) and re-assembled (spark), again and again and again (spark). At 7pm, with the session coming to an end, (voltage up) Elsie complained of a cramp in her stomach, beads of sweat had formed on her forehead and her breathing was short and erratic (voltage spikes). Before Charles could react, abruptly her fists clenched tight and white, as with almost superhuman strength this tiny lethargic lady sat bolt-upright, fast and unaided like she was possessed - with her back arched, her face contorted and her whole-body convulsing - as a thick white froth foamed around her screaming lips. For a several painful seconds, as a resister had blown, Elsie was rocked by the full flow of 200 volts of electricity, until the circuit popped and she slumped back onto the cold steel table. Having been electrocuted, she was barely breathing, barely conscious and barely alive. Charles Palmer panicked; he didn’t have a nurse, he wasn’t a qualified doctor and (even after fourteen years of medical school, and twenty-four years mostly dealing with muscle pain) he didn’t know what to do. So, having wafted smelling salts under her nose and administered a very antiquated version of CPR which involved raising her arms above her head and bringing them down to her sides, after fifteen minutes of flapping, he called for a proper doctor. But by then, Elsie and her baby were dead. (End) A woman was dead, but Charles Palmer was less concerned about her than he was for his reputation, as any bad publicity amongst high society’s elite could ruin him, so - as he wasted the next three hours trying to coerce a doctor to sign-off her death as ‘natural causes’ - by her side, stroking her hand and kissing her cooling cheek sat Valentine, copiously weeping over the woman he had only just wed. At 10pm, the Police were finally notified and although Charles was full of excuses, seeing the electrical device, his treatment table and a full abortionist’s toolkit, as well as her small pale body marked with a series of tell-tale signs like bruises to her thighs, burns to her temple and a white soapy liquid which frothed and bubbled from her scorched genitals, Mayfair’s most prominent ‘medical electrician’ was arrested, taken to Vine Street Police Station and charged with the death of Elsie Goldsmith. At a five-day trial held at the Old Bailey on 31st January 1928, Charles Jackson Palmer was found guilty of manslaughter and unlawfully using an instrument to procure an abortion. He was sentenced to seven years penal servitude, which he served at Maidstone Prison, and died a few years later. Of course, everyone blamed the abortionist, some blamed his equipment and where-as others blamed Elsie, shaming her with unfair accusations of adultery and debauchery. And where-as she was entirely innocent, as often happens, the real culprits were never caught or brought to justice. Elsie Goldsmith was a young girl, raised in an era where any talk of sex was silenced, in a family where body matters were taboo, in a religion where a woman’s reproductive organs were both praised and shamed, and it was (and still is) all wrapped up in a dictatorial legal system which forced a good woman to make a deadly decision to terminate not only the life of her unborn baby… but also herself… having been given the right to create life, inside her own body, but with no decision how she should end it. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I’m going to do my usual thing; waffle a bit, slurp a bit, maybe breathe, have a sit down, chat about coots and do some talking for roughly half an hour. Ooh exciting. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Cat Lady Christina, Rebecca Latham and Liss Hand, I thank you all. Plus a thank you to Vlada Beaumont for the very kind donation, I thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE NINETY-FOUR:
On Tuesday 15th June 1948, in the 'The Maltese Club' situated basement of 3 Carlisle Street, one of Soho’s deadliest and most feared gangsters known as 'The Terror of Maltese London' was murdered by Joseph Farrugia? But who was 'The Terror' and why did he have to die?
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 3 Carlisle Street, where 'The Maltese Clulb' was based and Amabile Ricca was murdered is where the lime triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Top left to right: Carlisle Street today (looking the full length towards Soho Square), 3 Carlisle Street, Soho Square, the middle photo is 56 Greek Street (where the Tulip Restaurant was, in the basement) and to the right was Amabile & Francis' flat at 66 Frith Street (slightly out of shot).
The original UK police criminal records for Amabile Ricca, Joseph Farrugia, Phillip Farrugia, Cecilia Courtney and Emanuel Vassallo (who owned the club), as well as the original autopsy report on Amabile Ricca.
Original newspapers clipping relating to the murder and trial.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: To research this, the main source I used was the original police investigation file into the murder Amabile Ricca. Death of Amabile Ricca in a club at Carlisle Street, W1 on 15 June 1948: Francis & Joseph Farrugia http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258463 MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE TERROR OF MALTESE LONDON 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 an infamous day in Soho’s history, when one of its most feared gangsters got his comeuppance having been gunned-down in a dingy basement. He was so hated and despised, that his death was covered-up to protect his attacker. But who was Amabile Ricca and what was the truth? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. 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 94: The Terror of Maltese London. Today I’m standing on Carlisle Street in Soho, W1; one road east of The Blackout Ripper’s second victim Evelyn Oatley, one street north of the mafia hit on Alfredo Zomparelli, three roads south of the Charlotte Street robbery, a few doors up from the Canadian masturbator Richard Rhodes Henley, and home of the final victim of one of Britain’s most terrifying serial-killers - coming soon to Murder Mile. Carlisle Street sits at the top of Dean Street; it’s a tiny side-street, barely one hundred feet long, with a dead-end to the left, Soho Square to the right, Old Compton Street below, and the ‘Tottenham Court Road’ exit to the Elizabeth Line above - even though it’s nowhere near Tottenham Court Road and is actually on Oxford Street, but hey, don’t the planners love confusing the tourists? This street has all the essentials that any aspiring Soho resident would ever need; there’s a jazz club, a piano bar, two pubs, a secret gin-joint, a posh hotel (for the rich), a posh hostel (for the not-so poor), and loads of Air B & B’s (for those who aren’t choosey about sleeping in a part-time brothel), as well as two pizza shops, a hair-dressers, a nail salon, a lap-dancing club, a centre of drug addicts, a sexual disease clinic and the headquarters of satirical newspaper Private Eye. Oh yes, all the essentials. Next to Pizza Pilgrims is 3 Carlisle Street; a four-storey brown-brick premises with an anonymous black door, which is now the office for a developer of boutique hotels. Oh joy! So, expect another swanky pad to be build real soon; with pillows woven from yak’s scrotums, bedsheets washed in Perrier, loo-paper folded into shapes of the guest’s name, stunningly beautiful meals that can only be eaten using tweezers, a mini-bar with 52 different varieties of tap water, and an entirely un-ironic gallery featuring photos of the old Soho they bulldozed to make way for this fake Soho. Sigh! And yet, it was here, on Tuesday 15th June 1948, in the basement of 3 Carlisle Street, that one of Soho’s deadliest and most feared gangsters called Amabile Ricca was erased forever. (Interstitial) Amabile Ricca was known by everyone as ‘The Terror of Maltese London”. (Thunder) Mwah-ha-ha-ha. The whole of Soho and beyond knew about this monster; he was part man, part myth but pure evil. A nasty brutal bully with crazy eyes, fast fists and furious temper, and - as this crazed killer stalked the shadows - curtains closed, doors shut and streets fell silent, as every man, boy and gangster trembled and quaked, as they lived in fear of ‘The Terror of Maltese London”. (Thunder) Mwah-ha-ha-ha. In court, petrified witnesses muttered their description of him as “he’s a monster, a real monster”, “he truly is a very dangerous man”, “no-one can touch him, not the Police, not the bosses, no-one”, and although (it is said) many witnesses were too scared and intimidated to testify against him at trial, everyone agreed “we’re all frightened of him”, “he has killed before, he will kill again”, and – always being armed with a knife, a gun and a knuckleduster, as Soho’s most feared gangster who would hurt any rival with impunity – word got around that “he is the most dangerous Maltese man in the country”. Why have you never heard of this beast? Why?! Because no-one in all of Soho and beyond ever dared to speak the name of ‘The Terror of Maltese London”. (Thunder) Mwah-ha-ha-ha. (Clears throat). Or so they say. You see, the problem with gangsters is there’s often a large discrepancy between the man and the myth, as the bulk of a gangster’s work is to build their reputation. Fear is a greater weapon than a gun, so it’s simpler to have a rival back down, than to risk a fight to the death. Every gangster claims to be the biggest, the baddest and the cruellest, and when you live in a world of lies, where no-one confesses to the coppers about their crimes but openly brags to their buddies about a caper they claimed to commit, reputations are created with rarely an ounce of truth or proof, except by the pals of this wannabe gangster, as – just by knowing them - they also benefit by making a myth. Amabile Ricca was known as ‘The Terror of Maltese London’. (Thunder) Mwah-ha-ha. Yes, enough of that crap. (Thunder off) Let’s ask the question - how truthful was his reputation and who was he really? In 1910, Amabile Ricca was born in Valletta, the capital city of Malta, a tiny island in the Mediterranean Sea between Italy, Libya and Tunisia. Little is known about his upbringing, except the basics; his father died young, he was one of six siblings, aged thirteen (being rude and unruly) he was sent to borstal for theft, he left school uneducated, he had no known occupation, he married aged nineteen and fathered four children. In fact, the only accurate details we have about his life are from his criminal record. On paper, there is no denying that Amabile Ricca was a criminal, who was well-known to the Maltese police having amassed forty-seven convictions by the age of twenty-eight, and part of his terrifying reputation was built on the fact that he’d served prison time for GBH, attempted murder and murder. In truth, he was little more than a mindless thug, who was hot-tempered, fond of his drink and handy with his fists, so although his number of convictions was impressive, the crimes themselves were not. His forty-seven convictions included; twenty-seven counts of fighting (while drunk), eight counts of assault (while drunk), two counts of wilful damage (while drunk), five counts of insulting a policeman, three counts of “uttering immoral words in public”, one count of trespassing and another count of being a stowaway on a ship (meaning he didn’t buy a ticket). Oooh, what a bad boy. He was imprisoned twice, fined often, and all of his heinous crimes were marked on his record as “minor offences”. His reputation as a big-time gangster was built on the foundation of being a small-time crook, but a big part of this myth-making was that he had murdered a man in Malta. (Echoes) “we’re all frightened of him”, “he’s killed before, he’ll kill again”, “he’s the most dangerous Maltese man in the country”. Yes, he held the gun. Yes, someone die. And yes, he was found guilty. But the truth of what happened isn’t exactly the kind of myth which makes a monster. On 17th May 1932, twenty-two-year-old Amabile was tried at Malta Court, the jury heard that whilst he and his pal were fooling about with a loaded revolver, it slipped from his fingers, bounced, misfired and – having been shot in the leg - his pal died a day later of blood-loss and shock. Amabile wasn’t charged with murder, manslaughter or even GHB, he was found guilty of the minor offence of “causing death through negligence and non-observance of the regulations”. He served four months in prison. Amabile wasn’t a killer, he was an imbecilic, whose incompetence caused his pal’s death, but having fudged the facts, a legitimate lie had become a terrifying tale for those with no access to the truth. In 1938, Amabile fled Malta with his wife and eldest son; he served briefly in the Army, separated from his wife, shacked-up with a “gypsy” woman in Kent called Louisa, and had four more children. By war-time, with the rise of Maltese gangsters like the Messina brothers and the Vassallo gang, even though he went by such preposterous nicknames as ‘the Maltese barber’ or ‘Ricky the Malt’, simply by being Maltese meant that his name came with a cache of fear, backed-up by the myth that he was a killer. In 1947, he was convicted twice; serving three months for stealing food stamps, and eighteen months for ‘assault’, which he bragged was ‘attempted murder’, but it wasn’t. And this is how his myth grew. On 13th June 1948, the thirty-eight-year-old boasted he had roughed-up a rival in a brawl on Bateman Street, but it was a little more than a slight scuffle with a barrow boy, which left him with a limp. But, as people gossip and words spread, what began as a small fib soon spawned into something truly terrifying… and that is how Amabile Ricca became ‘The Terror of Maltese London’. (Thunder) Mwah-ha-ha. And yet, having got into a beef with a couple of hoods, two days later, he was dead. (Interstitial) Amabile Ricca’s reign of terror was extinguished by the Farrugia Brothers. (Explosion/winds) Dun-dun-duuuurrrn. Unlike their rival who was only one, they were three - Phillip, Francis and Joseph Farrugia. (Explosion) Dun-dun-duurrrn. And just like ‘The Terror of Maltese London’, their reputation as villains, hoods and bad-boys who were feared, respected and blah-de-blah-de-blah, is still a lie that’s trotted-out in those tawdry semi-literate toilet-paper books, usually titled ‘geezers and gangsters’, which over-glorify the criminal acts of massive morons to a mythical status, without a single shred of proof. So, in fact, the truth about the Farrugia Brothers is less terrifying, and rather more pathetic. Born seven years apart – with Phillip in 1912, Joseph in 1919 and Francis in 1926 - the Farrugia Brothers were raised in the Maltese city of Zebbug to a farmer mother and a stone-mason father. They had a basic education till the age of thirteen (as many men did), they married young and had several kids, with Phillip becoming a cook, Joseph working as a stevedore (unloading cargo in the dock) and Francis as a labourer in Valetta harbour. It was a pretty normal upbringing for three pretty normal brothers. As with Amabile, the only facts we have about these “big-time villains” is from their criminal records. Joseph Farrugia, commonly known by the nickname of “Joe”, or when his mum was angry with him, by his birth name of Giuseppe; he had two convictions of brawling, one for disturbing the peace, one for “using immoral words”, one for “throwing stones” and one which – as we’ve seen – he could have used to balloon his bad-boy image by fudging the facts to suggest it was an ‘attempted murder’, but having accidentally discharged a gun near his father and causing a very superficial wound, it was deemed such a minor misdemeanour that he was given a slap on the wrist and sent home. Joseph was bound-over twice, he served no prison time and he paid fines that totalled a whopping twelve shillings. He came to London in April 1946, leaving his wife and two children in Malta; he shacked up with sex-worker called Cecilia Courtney, he served four months for ‘living off immoral earnings’ as (being broke) he lived in her Notting Hill flat, and he worked as a waiter at the Premiere Restaurant on Oxford Street. Yep, he is a big-time gangster through and through. As for his other brothers; Francis, nicknamed ‘Frank’ but born Francisco was charged twice for fighting, once for using immoral words (like damn, God and maybe even bugger) and fined ten shillings, he moved to London in December 1946 and joined Joseph as a cook on Oxford Street. Where-as Phillip, although he claimed to be a decent hard-working man, with a wife, a child, a nice home at 34 D’Arblay Street in Soho, and a successful career as head chef at the Melita Restaurant also on Oxford Street, in April 1948 he was found guilty of running a brothel, and was fined £52, which he paid. And that is the infamous and terrifying Farrugia Brothers. (Explosion/winds) Dun-dun-duuuurrrn. They’re not exactly big-time criminals, but this need for a fearsome status does make sense; as living and working in post-war Soho, being Maltese men whose nationality came with a criminal cache, it’s less likely that their reputation was a true reflection of who they were, and it’s more likely that they adopted a persona to protect themselves from others, as fear is a greater weapon than a gun. So, there you have it. Four of Soho’s most infamous villains comprised of little more than a mouthy ruffian who limped like a lame puppy having bashed up his tootsies in a brawl with a barrow boy, and three part-time cooks with a brief history of fisticuffs, chucking stones and uttering dirty words. Ooh. And yet, on Tuesday 15th June 1948, Joseph Farrugia would shoot Amabile Ricca dead, but why? Was it a revenge attack, a turf war, a gangland hit, or a sadistic execution to send a message to the criminals of Soho that a new ‘Terror of Maltese London’ was in town and he was not to be trifled with? Sadly not. Their rift was a rather petty affair and it all began in the place where it would end. In November 1945, two-and-a-half-years before the murder, Phillip Farrugia decided to treat his wife Olive to a lovely evening at ‘The Maltese Club’ at 3 Carlisle Street. Sashaying in via a squeaky side door, the giggling couple sauntered down the dark alley it shared with a pub, a café, a brothel and a funeral parlour. Having passed the overflowing bins, Phillip escorted his beloved down a rickety metal stairs, into two dimly-lit rooms - filled with a mishmash of thread-bare chairs, wonky tables and the stale odour of sweat, smoke and bum-guffs - where she would be spoiled by a choice of either tea or coffee, a game of billiards or rummy, and the inane waffle of several part-time cooks and pretend gangsters who bitched and moaned about all manner of pathetic shit, like a gaggle of old ladies sat around the biscuit tin at their weekly sewing circle. Oh yes, Olive Farrugia was a very lucky lady. That night, as a regular at ‘The Maltese Club’, Amabile Ricca was there with his new floozy. As always, being drunk, brusque and potty-mouthed, this nasty bastard began to abuse this girl whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn, by slapping her and whacking her with a billiard cue. Without doubt, he was a gold-plated piece-of-shit. So, doing the decent thing, Phillip & Olive stepped in, Amabile pushed Olive – a lady half his size - to the floor, and squaring off against Phillip, with his chest puffed out and acting like he was a billy big-bollocks, Amabile warned Phillip “if your wife go to Police, I kill you”. Obviously, by “I kill you”, he probably meant that having fumbled a loaded gun in his fat fingers, he’d drop it, and accidentally cause his death by negligence, in contravention of the appropriate gun law. But at that point, the spat between Amabile Ricca and Farrugia brothers had begun. Over the next two years, Amabile repeatedly taunted the brothers; he chided Francis saying “don’t speak to me no more, I break you three up, run you out of London” and twice he taunted Joseph by cursing “I will kill you all, I will cut you up in pieces and bits and throw you all away”, but he never did. Wisely, Phillip stayed out of his way, but (for various reasons) his two brothers could not; as they all frequented the same club, often worked in the same restaurant, and - as if this wasn’t weird enough - Francis lived in a top floor flat, at 66 Frith Street in Soho, and his flat-mate… was Amabile Ricca. So scared was little Francis of his burly room-mate - who had eyes like Satan’s nostrils, fists like meat-hooks and (it is said) slept with a knuckleduster on his fist, a knife in his hand and a loaded gun in his underpants - by the end of May, even though he was paying the rent, Francis was sleeping elsewhere. Francis was petrified, but just three weeks later, Amabile Ricca would be dead. Tuesday 15th June 1948 began as a very ordinary day… The two Farrugia brothers awoke in Cecilia Courtney’s flat at 17 St Luke’s Road in Notting Hill, with Joseph in his girlfriend’s bed and (being too afraid to head home) Francis kipping in their spare-room. Francis hadn’t slept a wink all night. As a small and slightly nervous man who hid in his big brother’s shadows; he didn’t like confrontations, he wasn’t much of a fighter and usually froze when faced with danger, but then he never needed to be the tough-guy, as he knew that Joseph always had his back. Over a late tea of egg, chips and fried bread, Joseph reassured his baby-brother (Joseph) “if he start on me, I won’t give him a chance”, and winked as he tapped his jacket pocket, which ominously bulged with a .32 calibre Walther pistol he had purchased three weeks earlier. But these were big brave words coming from a short-order cook with only minor convictions for blasphemy and rock-tossing. At 6pm, being low on basic rations like bread and milk, Joseph and Francis caught the bus to Oxford Street, where they did their shopping, collected their pay-slips, chatted with chums, and then treated themselves to a nice cup of tea at The Tulip, a basement restaurant at 56 Greek Street, situated smack-bang in the heart of Soho, just one street from Amabile, Francis’ flat and ‘The Maltese Club’. In less than three hours, Joseph Farrugia would shoot Amabile Ricca to death, but he didn’t know that. This was his first violent crime and his only murder, as he wasn’t a villain, a gangster or a killer. He was a cook, with a wife, two kids and a girlfriend. Like many, he dabbled in black-market goods, he skirted the law, he drank a bit, he fought a bit, he had an overblown reputation (as many Maltese men did for protection), and although it was said that ‘fear is a greater weapon than a gun’, when that threat isn’t real, the terrified then reach for the next-best thing - a gun – with no plans to use it, only to show it. That night, Joseph was here for billiards, not a bloodbath. But by 10pm, all that would change. Sat inside The Tulip, supping tea, although Joseph (and his gun) had left to pot some balls, Francis felt safe, as around him were his pals. The mood was casual, fun and calm, until the door swung open. (Thunder) Suddenly, a silence gripped the room, as mouths dried, throats gulped and hearts stopped. Being part man, part myth and pure evil, many had heard of him but very few had ever seen him, it was too late to leave or even to flee, as being a bad-dude with forty-seven convictions for assault, attempted murder and murder, including a brutal attack on a barrow boy who some said “was lucky to be alive”, everybody fell in fear of ‘The Terror of Maltese London’ (Thunder). Mwah-ha-ha-ha. But Amabile Ricca was only here for one man – Francis Farrugia. Looming ever closer; wincing at the foul smell from his sweaty brown suit, his yellowy crooked teeth and his bad breath (owing to his passion for pickled eggs), Francis’ petrified pals shuffled further away in their seats, as within an inch of Francis’ ear, Amabile hissed “I run you out of town, I kill you bad”. Perhaps this was an empty threat, one he had reneged on many times before, or maybe it wasn’t? Francis was alone, afraid and (unlike his brother) he was unarmed. Spotting his moment, Francis fled the restaurant and a few seconds later, he was safe… …except, as he reached Soho Square – allegedly being a big-time gangster - he realised he hadn’t paid for his cup of tea, and returned to the Tulip with an apology on his lips and a tuppence in his hand. Amabile saw him, got up and stalked his tiny prey all the way to ‘The Maltese Club’ at 3 Carlisle Street. Thirty minutes later, Amabile Ricca, The Terror of Maltese London’ and one of Soho’s most infamous and brutal gangsters would be gunned-down in a hail of bullets and blood. Well… sort of. Through the dark back alley, passed the overflowing bins and down the rickety metal staircase, Francis dashed into the safety of The Maltese Club. Inside sat the usual band of misfits and part-time kitchen staff, all sipping tea and acting tough, shielded from danger by a bluff reputation and a silly nickname. In the billiard room, Joseph played against the club’s co-owner “Big George” Mifsud, as watching from the side was Nicky “the Malt” Borg, Giovanni “The Meat” Portelli, George “Fish Eye” Talutti and a man known only as “Cush” because his surname was Cusherson. And in the card-room playing gin-rummy was Franky “Jurdin” who had a squint, “Nicky the butcher” had a double thumb on his right hand, and John Borg known “Hanzira” - as being short, fat and pale - his nickname translated as “the Pig”. They were joined in a game by Francis, as – outback in the kitchen - Harry Ardino was making the tea. As notorious gangsters go, these guys were (at best) slightly surly and (at worst) laughable. At 10:15pm, the heaving sweaty bulk of Amabile Ricca limped down the stairs of The Maltese Club. To the left, in the card-room, he saw no sign of Francis whose weak bladder meant he had popped to the loo, so he walked into the billiard room. Slumping his flabby backside on a thread-bare chair, the fat oaf groaned and moaned, as having removed his shoe, a dirty bandage and massaging his stinky foot, the Maltese terror whinged about his blisters like an old biddy with a dodgy hip. Unwittingly admitting that his foot wasn’t injured in a bloody fight with a barrow boy, but that his shoes were rubbing a bit. But across the billiard table - seeing Joseph Farrugia - suddenly Amabile’s mood changed. Popping on his shoe and standing nose-to-nose with his rival, as he hovered his hand just inside his jacket, Amabile shot Joseph a filthy look and cursed “I kill you, I kill you both”; only to then grin, laugh and back away. For now, the threat was over and the danger had looked as if it had passed… but by the time that the laughing bully had limped back to the hallway, in the card-room, he saw that Francis had returned. They traded glances. With Amabile stood by the stairs, glaring and grinning, taunting the tiny terrified man whose playing cards violently shook in his terrified hand, as this infamous killer – feared all across Soho - mouthed the words “I kill you, I kill you”, with his hand in his jacket, he lunged forward (BANG). Fired from a distance of just half-an-inch, the first shot ripped into Amabile’s back, breaking his third rib and fragmenting into bits, as one piece pierced his heart and the main chunk of lead sliced through his left lung. As he sunk to his knees, Joseph fired again (BANG), but his piss-poor aim scared the shit out of the card-players, as a smoking hot bullet rivetted itself into the heart of the wooden table. Clutching his chest, Amabile cried “Kattuni! Kattuni!”, which in Maltese means “they’ve killed me”. Being slumped like a sweaty lump at the foot of the stairs, his painful demise was marked by his wrist watch which shattered at exactly 10:29pm, the moment this nasty bastard struggled to clamber up the stairs and out to the safety beyond, as his slipping feet swam in a pool of his own sticky blood. Dying and wailing, no-one stopped to help him, no-one came to his aid, and – being so despised - even though there was a phone just above his head, no-one called the Police until ten minutes later. Amabile Ricca was rushed to Charring Cross Hospital, but by 10:55pm, he was declared dead (End). When the Police arrived, the crime-scene was strangely empty; they had a dying man, two bullets, an empty cartridge and a lot of blood; but no gun, no culprit and not a single eye-witness. A few had stayed, but all claimed to have been indisposed, distracted or suffering from an odd kind of amnesia, when the shooting took place. And as there were no regulars in this club that evening, only strangers, the manager could only remember his customers by nickname. By the next morning, as - Soho’s Maltese community was small, the list of possible suspects were few and all of the known felons who frequented that club weren’t difficult to track down - every witness was identified, interrogated, and although their memories were vague and many miraculously lost the ability to speak a single word of English, the only two who were missing were Joseph & Francis. Joseph & Francis Farrugia were tried at the Old Bailey on 16th July 1948; they both pleaded ‘not guilty’ on to the grounds of self-defence, but as dead man was unarmed, twenty-one-year-old Francis was charged as an accessory and sentenced to six months in prison, and twenty-nine-year-old Joseph was found guilty of murder, and sentenced to five years, but he served barely three. And that was the story of Amabile Ricca. Supposedly he was one of Soho’s most dangerous and feared gangsters, who died from a badly aimed shot, by a part-time cook, having bitched about his feet, made faces and cursed some empty threats in a club which only sold tea. He sounds pathetic, but this need to have a reputation is common amongst frightened boys trying to play big in a man’s world. So, was this a myth created as a form of self-protection, was it concocted by those who witnessed his death as a form of self-defence, or was Amabile Ricca really ‘The Terror of Maltese London’? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I’m going to eat a biscuit, slurp my tea, entertain you with a quiz (part of which I’ll probably ruin) and I’ll impart from more facts about this case, in an exciting instalment of Extra Mile. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Dreaded Frankie and Estelle Sullivan, I thank you both. Plus a thank you to everyone who took part in my secret Live Reading, which happened last week. I hope you enjoyed it. For those who missed it, there’s more on that shortly. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
4 Landor House on Wesbourne Park Road, W2, where Ashraf Amrani murdered his parents - Hassan & Zohra
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-THREE:
Today’s episode began as a violent sexual assault on a young woman, a humiliating and traumatic rape which changed her life forever, but this isn’t the victim’s story and neither is it the culprit’s, it’s about two innocent people who the system was designed to protect, but ultimately failed.
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 4 Landor House where Hassan & Zohra were murdered is where the lime triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: As this episode is recent, there was no police file available at the National Archives, so I used court records, first-hand accounts, local knowledge and press articles.
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE LANDOR HOUSE MURDERS. 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 began as a violent sexual assault on a young woman, a humiliating and traumatic rape which changed her life forever, but this isn’t the victim’s story and neither is it the culprit’s, it’s about two innocent people who the system was designed to protect, but ultimately failed. 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 93: The Landor House Murders. Today I’m standing on Westbourne Park Road, in Bayswater, W2; to the west this road leads to Reg Christie’s murder house at 10 Rillington Place, to the east leads is Felic Sterba’s twisted death-pact at Ralph Court, we’re three streets south-east of the culprit’s homes of the Wormwood Scrubs police massacre and two roads north of the mysterious death Emmy Werner - coming soon to Murder Mile. Westbourne Park Road is the architectural equivalent of a cinema hotdog. At first, you’re drawn in by its alluring sights, sounds and smells, and as you take your first bite from either end, it’s proves to be a real treat to your senses, but by the time you reach the middle, you realise it’s nothing more than a disgusting, soggy, smelly mess made of the cheapest off-cuts from a dying donkey’s arsehole. Being not quite Notting Hill and not exactly Bayswater, this part of Westbourne Park Road is a nowhere land stuck between the posh bits - where the millionaires quaff quail’s-egg smoothies, the celebrity paedos discretely skulk like nonce ponces dressed in gold lame tracksuits and the tax-dodgers shuffle their sixty-two credit-cards wondering which pseudonym to use - where-as here it’s so grim, anyone who strays too far, usually stop, thinks “maybe I’ll turn back” and tucks their wallet into their shoe. This is the land where time forget, but the debt-collectors and the discount pizza parlours didn’t. On the junction of the Great Western Road is the Brunel Estate, a series of mismatched flats and tower blocks covering a square block right up to the A40 flyover. It’s a dull, old and imposing rabbit’s warren of garages, bin-chutes and concrete stairs, that no-one dares enter except the residents. But it’s not a bad place; as designed to provide affordable homes for good people in a pricy area, the Brunel Estate houses many vital key-workers who keep the city alive and (in return) receive very little pay or credit. Squashed between a looming tower-block and two colossal sets of flats is Landor House; a 1960’s two-storey maisonette with brown brick walls, white window sills, a flat roof and a mishmash of handrails and ramps, as these identically quaint little homes are reserved for the estate’s elderly and disabled. And although they look almost sweet, one of these little flats holds a very dark and recent secret. As it was here, on Friday 13th February 2015, at 4 Landor House, that the parents of a convicted sex-offender became the forgotten victims of a system designed to protect the innocent. (Interstitial) A crime consists of a victim, a culprit, a motive, an incident, sometimes an arrest, an investigation, a trial and (hopefully) a conviction, where those held responsible are punished. But these incidents also impact on those who exist in the case’s periphery - in this instance - the offender’s parents. Hassan & Zohra Amrani were universally regarded by their friends and neighbours as a lovely couple; they were kind, polite, welcoming and hospitable, and although there’s very little we can say as they kept-to-themselves, there is no denying that they were decent people who lived a good life. Having migrated from North-West Africa - perched along the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea - Morocco is a stunning contradiction of geography; with its lush-green valleys to the west, its scorching Sahara Desert to the south and its snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains to the north, but as beautiful as it is, Morocco is a region riddled with instability. As being hacked apart by its former French, Spanish, Portuguese and British invaders who divvied-up its lands, split apart its people and plundered its wealth, what was left was a country in political, religious and economic instability. Having fled to the calmer shores of the British Isles, Hassan & Zohra made a new home in West London; a strange land where the air was dirty, the water was hard and the sun was hidden by a thick grey gloom. Nothing grew here but concrete buildings and tarmacked roads. And being two thousand miles from everything they knew – with the Brunel Estate being crammed full of new faces, new voices and new cultures from around the world - finding a sense of safety here as everyone was a stranger, they sought to create a new stability by embracing others like they were their own family. As people, Hassan & Zohra were raised to appreciate what they had, to strive to do better, to obey the laws and to never forget those values. So, in the mid 1980’s, when they were blessed by the birth of two beautiful babies, these family values were imprinted on the child’s identities; with a girl they named Tohfa (the Arabic word for ‘gift’) and a boy called Ashraf (which means ‘the honourable one’). For the Amrani family, life was simple but good. Tohfa & Ashraf were educated at local schools, they had a good group of friends, they were raised to be devout Muslims, they were never without (as both parents worked), every night they ate well as Hassan was passionate chef, every day they were loved as Zohra was a professional child-carer and an amazing mother, and they lived in a small but beautifully neat maisonette at 4 Landor House, which was kept pristine and clean by their very proud mother. In 2007, Hassan & Zohra were overjoyed when Tohfa gave them a grandson. Family was everything, and this adorable new addition to their brood proved that all their hard work as parents had paid off. But where-as, Tohfa excelled, Ashraf struggled. Like many young men, rebelling against his parent’s more traditional wishes, Ashraf found it difficult to find his feet but also his own identity. Desperate to be his own man with his own life, job, home and freedom, but - unable to settle on a career and living under his parent’s roof and rules - the older he got, the more he felt trapped. As expected, tensions rose in the family home, and although Ashraf was involved in a few minor skirmishes, he never posed a problem or danger to his friends or family. And yet, no-one could have foreseen what was bubbling underneath. In June 2010, 25-year-old Mohammed Ashraf Amrani Marrakchi, known as Ashraf, a trainee plumber from West London stood trial at Southwark Crown Court. Just as any good parent would do, Hassan & Zohra were there to support their son, as sat in the public gallery (surrounded by scribbling journalists, giddy gossips and his victim’s furious family there to witness him receive a lengthy prison sentence) their eyes filled with tears and their heads hung low as their handcuffed son was led into the dock. For Hassan & Zohra, the trial was mercifully short, but during this ordeal, these good parents were confronted with the shocking and irrefutable evidence of their son’s heinous crime, which Judge Stone would describe as ‘a sustained and sickening attack of violence, humiliation and depraved sexual acts’. The details of the attack were never reported and (for her protection) the victim’s name was withheld, but as a key exhibit in his prosecution, the jury was shown the mobile phone footage which he had shot. Only the jurors saw the grainy images, and those in the gallery heard only the sounds, but their uneasy reactions filled in the blanks of what was obviously a brutal, traumatic and distressing assault. (Muffled video) Listening to the video, Hassan & Zohra’s hearts were ripped apart by the appalling truth that, just seven months earlier, while they were out earning an honest income to keep him fed and clothed, their son had lured a 23-year-old woman back to their family home. In the pristine rooms that this elderly couple had shared so many happy memories in, their boy barked orders at his petrified hostage, and having stripped her naked, beaten her black and blue and forced this weeping woman to scrub the bath like she was his slave, having threatened to slash her open with their own kitchen knife - on their bed, in their home - he subjected her to a sustained, brutal and horrifying rape. By the time the video had stopped, with the jury silent, sweating and visible shaken, even before they had left to deliberate, there was no denying that Ashraf, ‘the (so called) honourable one’ was guilt. In front of everyone, as the hacks snooped to snatch a soundbite for their grotty tabloid rag, Hassan & Zohra felt a sickening sense of shame as their little boy – who was now branded as a convicted rapist and a registered sex-offender - was sentenced to seven years and two months in prison. The conviction was a small consolation for a woman whose life would forever be traumatised by his actions, but with it not being a big story, it was briefly reported in the press and quickly forgotten. That night, Hassan & Zohra returned to the Brunel Estate; where their neighbours polite silences spoke volumes, and yet, behind their own walls tongues couldn’t help but wag - “their son’s a convict”, “their boy’s a rapist”, “he attacked her in their house”, “in their bathroom” – and (while Ashraf was locked-up far away) they were forced to return to their family home where the brutal rape had taken place. And no matter how hard Zohra scrubbed, the shame remained. They never spoke of what happened, and out of respect for a lovely elderly couple who deserved better, no one dared to question them. With the offender punished and imprisoned, that is where most stories end… …or, at least, that is where it should have ended. (Interstitial) By the spring of 2014, after four and a half years in prison and with two and a half left to serve - owing to good behaviour - Ashraf was released. The prisoner early release scheme was designed to help convicts re-assimilate back into society, with many tried and tested systems and safeguards in place to protect the target, the perpetrator and any potential victims. It’s not fool-proof, but it does work. So, with strict limitations placed on his movements, Ashraf had to adhere to the terms of his licence: “Rule One – Offenders must be of good behaviour and must not commit any offence”. For his parents, this rule was a blessing as it kept Ashraf in check, as should he be drunk, on drugs or in possession of a knife, it could terminate his licence and lead to his return to prison for the duration of his sentence. “Rule Two – Offenders must keep In-touch with their supervising officer and to receive them where you are living”. This was a second blessing for his parents, as Ashraf’s behaviour, movements and his circumstances would be monitored, on a weekly basis, by an independent professional. “Rule Three – Offenders must permanently live at an address approved by their supervising officer and to get permission if staying one or more nights at a different address”. Again, to prevent him from re-offending, Ashraf was banned from living near his victim or frequenting with other criminals, so although inconvenient, the only place Ashraf could live was with his parents, but family is family. “Rule Four – Offenders must only do work approved by their supervising officer”. This posed a big problem, as prior to his incarceration, Ashraf had started training as a plumber, but as the terms of his licence prohibited him from being near any children or lone females, this career path was over. “Rule Five – Offenders must not travel outside of the UK without the permission of their supervising officer”, which meant that for the next two-and-a-half-years, he couldn’t visit his relatives in Morocco, but then again, he was a convicted criminal who was still serving his sentence for a violent rape. Like many licenced offenders, he had to report to his local police station on a weekly basis, he was placed under a strict curfew which limited the locations and times he was permitted to be out in public, and he would be subjected to questioning, inspections, drug and polygraph-testing, on a random basis. Failure to do so could result in his immediate return to prison for the duration of his sentence. But as a convicted sex-offender, to protect the public, rightfully his restrictions were even tougher. Ashraf was placed on ViSOR (the Violent and Sexual Offenders Register); a nationwide multi-agency system used by the police, probation and prison services to monitor registered sex-offenders, whose risk factors are assessed by the Jigsaw Team, a division of the Metropolitan Police Service. As part of a Sexual Harm Prevention Order, his additional restrictions included: “Rule One – Offenders must not use any device which records images and/or connects to the internet, unless its history is stored for routine inspection”; a rule that no-one would argue against, as part of his conviction related to the recording of violent sexual footage (possibly) for his own gratification. “Rule Two – Offenders must notify their supervising officer of any the information relating to their bank account, passport, mobile phone, credit or debit-cards and details of their vehicle”. At any time, the offender’s records could be inspected for misdemeanours which may revoke their licence. “Rule Three – Offenders must notify their supervising officer when residing in a house with a child for more than twelve hours and are not permitted to be alone with anyone under the age of eighteen, or any lone females”; a rule which would include a girlfriend, his mother, his sister and his nephew. As a convicted sex-offender, who was rightfully being punished, given the length of his sentence and the severity of his crime, even though the terms of his prison licence would expire in two-and-a-half-years, Ashraf could remain on the sex-offenders register for as little as ten years, or as long as life. That was part of his punishment… but it also punished those who the offender was forced to live with. After less than a year of living with their 30-year-old son in their small maisonette at 4 Landor House, both Zohra who was 59 and Hassan who was 72 had retired and earned the right to enjoy their twilight years; to relax, to laugh, to smile, to sing, and to share some quality time with their young grandson. But with a registered sex-offender in their home, their freedoms were curtailed too. As the physical, mental and emotional strain of supporting him took its toll, Hassan & Zohra began to look older and frailer, and although they had always been decent law-abiding citizens, they were being penalised too, except their only crime was being a birth relative of the offender. Unable to support himself, the elderly couple provided their son with everything he needed, but slowly their limited finances drained away. Living in the same house that this convicted rapist had committed his sexual assault, each day was a painful reminder of his horrifying crime. Being shut-in, as he spiralled into a depressive decline, attempted suicide several times and failed to get psychiatric help, tensions began to grow, as - fuelled by cannabis and ecstasy - his aggressive and violent outbursts escalated. But Hassan & Zohra were trapped. In early February 2015, high on drugs, low on mood, mentally collapsing and with none of the systems in place seeming to communicate, even though he had broken almost all of the terms of his licence, friends and neighbours grew concerned for Ashraf’s mental health, as well as the safety of his parents. One-week prior, three friends stated that Ashraf was unusually agitated and tense; one saw him pacing and brandishing a knife, another said he had a face like thunder and looked like he was going to kill someone, and a third stated that he had flown into a blind rage and attempted to strangle him. Ashraf had committed several serious probation breaches – drugs, weapons and assault – just one of which should have led to his immediate return to prison and psychiatric help… but the system failed. And it would fail again, again and again. On Tuesday 10th February at roughly 1am, Police were called to reports of disturbance in Westbourne Park; an Arabic male in his early thirties was witnessed chasing a member of the public whilst wielding a large knife. Assigned to the incident, Sergeant Gordon & PC Gill disarmed the assailant, restrained him with handcuffs and leg-straps, secured him in the back of the van, and arrested him on suspicion of causing an affray and allegedly threatening a man with a knife. As arrests go, it was textbook. With no wallet, the suspect gave the officers a false name, but having used this alias before, the Police National Database linked the suspect’s details to 30-year-old Ashraf Amrani of 4 Landor House. Seeing that he was a convicted sex-offender, out-on-licence, who had violated multiple conditions of his probation, including; curfew, drugs, assault, use of an offensive weapon and giving false details to the Police, he was detained and driven to Paddington Police Station. Again, as arrests go, it was textbook. On route, Ashraf began to deteriorate, and concerned for his health, the officers took him to St Mary’s Hospital, where medics discovered he had taken a nine ecstasy tablets. Being too sick to be detained and requiring two days to stabilise his condition, standard practice was to assign an officer to guard the convicted sex-offender, until he was fit to be formerly charged and returned to prison. But he wasn’t. In a decision that Sergeant Gordon later admitted was “very wrong”, Ashraf was released on ‘street bail’, a discretionary power for front-line officers which requires the offender to volunteer themselves on a later date at a local Police station, a power reserved for minor offences like shoplifting. He then left the prisoner in the custody of the medics, and told them to call 999, should he attempt to leave. At no point during this incident did the arresting officer inform the probation service that one of their violent sexual offenders had been arrested, as there was no law in place which required him to, so no-one at ViSOR or Jigsaw were notified. At 3am, two hours later, Ashraf discharged himself from hospital. The next day, Zohra was seen walking through the Brunel Estate, a neighbour stated she looked tired and talked of wanting to return to Morocco. They didn’t speak long, as Hassan needed her back home quickly. Zohra waved her goodbye, entered her front door, and was never seen again. Nobody saw or heard anything, and although - later that evening – Police were dispatched to reports of a disturbance, as the occupier refused to open the door, they were unable to gain entry to 4 Landor House. On Friday 13th February, just a few hours later, paramedics were called to Mickleton House, a seven-storey block of flats next-door to Landor House. Entering via Westbourne Park Road, and to the left of the rabbit’s warren of garages, about fifteen feet off the floor, Ashraf was found on the first-floor roof of the communal bin-store; he was alive but unresponsive. With high levels of cannabis and ecstasy in his system and several self-inflicted knife wounds slashed across his wrists, Ashraf had staggered-up the circular staircase, leaving an ever-increasing trail of blood right up to the very top, as from its highest point, the chronically-depressed man threw himself from the seventh floor, plunging almost sixty feet, as his body slammed onto the concrete roof below, fracturing and breaking his legs, his ribs, his back, his pelvis and sustaining a severe head trauma. He was rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, but later that day, he died of his injuries. As part of protocol, on Saturday 15th February, Police were sent to 4 Landor House to notify Hassan & Zohra Amrani that their son had died. The officers knocked but got no reply; the curtains were closed, the house was silent and the neighbours were concerned, having not seen the couple for two days. Forcing entry and seeing signs of a violent struggle, Police found two bodies. In the upstairs bathroom, dumped in the bath, 72-year-old Hassan had been stabbed in the stomach, the kitchen knife had sliced into his liver, as slowly the frail pensioner bled-out. And crouched in a foetal position, on the floor of the downstairs toilet, 59-year-old Zohra has been suffocated with a plastic carrier bag and repeatedly beaten over the head. An investigation was launched, but no other suspects were sought. (End) An inquest was held at Royal Courts of Justice on the 9th August 2015, where the jury returned a verdict that Ashraf Amrani had unlawfully killed his parents and committed suicide whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed. His drug-abuse, his mental state and the restrictions of his licence were taken into account, with Sergeant Gordon’s decision to issue a ‘street bail’ raised as a significant factor in all three deaths, as well as multiple failings by ViSOR, Jigsaw, the Met Police and the legal system itself. Mr Richmond QC, solicitor on behalf of the Amrani family wrote to the Home Secretary insisting that all agencies involved in an offender’s probation must be informed of any arrest by those out on licence. Having referred the matter to the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the Met’ Police stated that they would implement the three following recommendations; firstly, that Sergeant Gordon would be issued with a written warning for misconduct; secondly, that ‘street bail’ is only authorised by a custody sergeant; and thirdly, that Jigsaw units are informed as soon as one of their offenders is arrested, bailed or charged. As of today, only the first recommendation has been put in place. The prisoner early release scheme was designed to protect the victim, the culprit and the public, but what it often fails to recognise is that when a prisoner is released, and the conditions of their licence is - rightfully - strict to stop them reoffending, this can have a serious impact on the innocent, those good decent people on the periphery of the case, like Hassan and Zohra – the offender’s parents. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Up next is my weekly blah-de-blah-de-blah, glug-glug-glug, munch-munch-munch, complete with some aimless waffle and a quiz. Oooh. So stay tuned till after the break for Extra Mile. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Julie Balchin, Caroline Collins, Cecilie Brinkmann and Susy Q, I thank you, with a special thank you to Geoff Leach and Anne-Marie Griffin for the kind donations, which probably haven’t been squandered on cake. Probably. So I thank you. Plus a big thank you to everyone who posted a review of Murder Mile on your podcast app’, I did a shout-out on my social media, and loads of people came rushing to the rescue, so I thank you also. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
45 Chester Square in Belgravia (first and second door from the left) was the former home of King George II of Greece and where Elizabeth McLindon 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, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about Elizabeth McLindon, a lonely lady looking for love who had finally found her future husband in a man named Arthur Robert Boyce, and although this sweet and attentive man seemed like ‘Mr Right’, he was actually a liar, a thief, a bigamist and - soon enough - her murderer.
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 45 Chester Square where Elizabeth McLindon was murdered is where the rum & raison triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Lef to right: a previously unreleased ballistics photos of the bullet used to kill Elizabeth McLindon, examples of the cheques Arthur drafted, and two false letters from Arthur to Elizabeth sent after he had murdered her to make it look like she was still alive and he was actually concerened
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This episode was researched using the original police investigation files from the National Archive, two were availble.
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: ELIZABETH MCLINDON AND THE WRONG 'MR RIGHT' 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 Elizabeth McLindon, a lonely lady looking for love who had finally found her future husband in a man named Arthur Boyce, and although this sweet and attentive man seemed like ‘Mr Right’, he was actually a liar, a thief, a bigamist and – just months later - her murderer. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. 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 92: Elizabeth McLindon and the Wrong ‘Mr Right’. Today I’m standing on Chester Square in Belgravia, SW1; four roads west of the McSwan family whose bodies were dissolved by the acid bath murderer, three streets north of Victoria Station where Patrick Mahon dumped the hacked-up bits of Emily Kaye, a few doors down from the murder house of Lord Lucan and four streets south of the infamous Spaghetti House Siege - coming soon to Murder Mile. Being tucked behind Buckingham Palace, Belgravia is so posh it makes Mayfair look like the discount bin at Poundland. Everything here is super expensive to keep the riff-raff out, nothing is signposted so the tourists stay away, there’s enough back streets so the nannies need never-be-seen, and just like its residents, Belgravia is extremely wealthy, but it has no style, soul or personality. It’s ugly, old and has had so many lifts that you can’t see its wrinkles, and yet it’s so sour-faced, it never smiles anyway. So if you’re a pointless posh thing with a huge inheritance and no real purpose, here you can buy all manner of useless crap to fill your vapid empty life; like doggy tiaras, toddler Lamborghinis, mink tampons, caviar mars bars, smoothies made from snow leopards, a bum-servant for when you’re too posh wipe your own arse and a wet-nurse whose boobs dispense almond milk and chilled champagne. In the centre of Belgravia, on an s-shaped side-street is 45 Chester Square; a five-storey grade-two listed cream-coloured townhouse, with nine bedrooms, six bathrooms, five reception rooms and a sale price of £6.5 million pounds. And even though its most famous resident was once King George II of Greece, its most infamous resident wasn’t those who lived here, but those who died. As it was here, on Saturday 8th June 1946, that Elizabeth McLindon - the housekeeper to the King of Greece - was murdered, having met the wrong man who she believed was ‘Mr Right’. (Interstitial) Given her upbringing, it’s no surprise that Elizabeth was a dreamer. Born in 1905, Eliza was one of ten children raised in a large Irish family, who had emigrated from the rain-soaked poverty of County Derry to the choking acrid stench of Bathgate, an industrial town in the mid-lowlands of Scotland. Like a deep black stain on its lush green heart, Bathgate was a putrid mess of coal mines, slag heaps, shale pits, brickworks and steelyards which loomed over the shabby terraces its workers called home, as day-after-day, their air became dirtier, their food grittier, the sunlight was eclipsed by thick dark clouds and their words were drowned-out by the thunder of machines, as when it rained, the crystal-clear water from the hills oozed down the sooty streets like black soupy rivers. Times were hard, life was difficult and (living a hand-to-mouth existence) when the work dried-up, the family were forced to move onto the next squalid hell-hole, from Bathgate to Newcastle to Liverpool. And although, she was unskilled, untrained and poorly educated, Eliza dreamed of so much more than just warmer clothes, fuller bellies and all-the-basics… only better. For her future, she dreamed big. Unlike her sisters who had married into only marginally better lives, but still struggled having bagged a husband who was only slightly less poor than their parents, Eliza planned to marry a millionaire; a titled gent, maybe a Lord, with lands, estates and servants, who would shower this hopeless romantic with fine foods, mink shawls and sparkling jewels, in a life of indescribable luxury and opulence. But fulfilling her dream was always going to be difficult, and in her case, it would remain just a dream. Firstly, she was a working-class nobody from nowhere up north with no connections to high society. Secondly, as unfair as it was, being a short stout girl who was never the prettiest, the smartest or the wittiest, she was hardly the type to catch a gentleman’s eye. And thirdly, although ambitious, being a flaky lady who hated hard work, she was too eager to live the easy life and too lazy to put in the effort. And yet, fuelled by dreams of falling in love and already planning her big wedding, she never gave up. In 1925, Eliza moved to London and enrolled as a trainee nurse at the Metropolitan Hospital in Dalston, where she hoped she’d meet dishy doctor or a wealthy widow. But with her attendance poor, being slow to learn and unable to stand the sight of blood, after less than one year, she quit. In 1926, she took a short course in domestic service at the Regents Street Polytechnic, hoping to go from a live-in housekeeper to the lady-of-the-house in one-fell-swoop. But with the hours long, the pay poor and her work record a little sketchy, she drifted from job-to-job, unloved and unmarried. In 1930, with her standards set a lot lower, 25-year-old Eliza moved into a tiny flat in Tottenham with William Mutlow, a 56-year-old labourer and petty thief, and even though he was a bad man with a big heart who would do anything for her, she liked the attention, but felt she deserved better. Serving in the American Red Cross as a nurse during the war, Eliza hoped to become the Florence Nightingale to a General, a Colonel, or even a Corporal would do, but being a 40-year-old spinster, her wealthy lover looked illusive, and having got back with her ex, she had considered settling for William. In May 1945, Eliza struck gold, having been hired as housekeeper to Lord Angus Holden in his palatial Knightsbridge townhouse. Being giddy with glee, Eliza fell for this young handsome bachelor and (as she did with every man she had ever met) she dreamed that one day this wealthy Baron would become her husband. But Lord Holden wasn’t ‘the one’, in fact, he wasn’t her lover, he was just her employer. After nine months of service, fearing this scandalously pregnant single-woman would bring shame on the Baron, Eliza was forced to quit her job. Having spent ten days in St George’s hospital, crippled by infection owing to the complications from an illegal abortion – being broke and homeless – her forever lover (William Mutlow) paid for Eliza to rest and recuperate by the fresh seaside air of Brighton. And here, feeling physically weak and mentally drained, Eliza had lost all hope of ever achieving her dream. But it’s when she least expected it that her dream came true. On 3rd April 1946, Eliza met a wealthy businessman called Arthur Boyce; he was a well-spoken, sharply dressed bachelor and a decorated war-hero who had proudly served his country as a Sergeant in the Queen’s Regimental Guards. He was loving, charming, passionate and - being so besotted by Eliza – he was desperate to marry her and to make her happy forever. Finally, Eliza had met her ‘Mr Right’… …but three months later, ‘Mr Right’ became ‘Mr Wrong’. (Interstitial) Arthur was a liar… Every word he uttered was a twisted fact or distorted tale deliberately concocted to wheedle his evil little way into the broken heart of this giddy love-sick lady, but his life was a sham. There was nothing distinguished about his upbringing. In fact, he was as dirt poor as Eliza, but where-as she dreamed of marrying into money, he dreamed of ripping them off. Arthur Robert Boyce was born on 12th January 1901 in Poplar, East London; an industrial dock thick with the chaotic thud and chug of ships, trains and cranes, as day and night, wagons full of fresh fruit, exotic fish and fine wines thundered-by tantalisingly close to the slum house of the Boyce family. With no electricity, no gas, no water and no sewage, they were only warm when their father could earn. In the Spring of 1911, Arthur’s father died, leaving his mother a widow with five children to feed. Some days they ate, some days they didn’t, and although - being the youngest and only semi-literate – life got a little easier as his older brothers went off to war, the family still struggled. Arthur didn’t want to be poor anymore, but without the skills or the discipline to earn it… instead, he stole it. In 1917, Arthur was old enough to fight for his country, to earn an honest crust and (as his brothers did) to support his ailing mother… but he didn’t. Seeing anything which wasn’t nailed-down as his for the taking, Arthur descended into a life of petty crime. Aged 16, he was bound-over for pinching a watch. Aged 17, he served three months’ hard labour for nicking a gold ring. And his theft and deceit continued right up to the moment that he stole Eliza’s heart, with one eye on her employer’s wealth. As a boyfriend, he was no more a loving or loyal man than he was an actual bachelor. Aged 19, Arthur married his pregnant girlfriend Emily Twinley and in 1923, Eileen was born. Being a dad, he could have become a good provider by going straight… but he didn’t, and he celebrated her birth by serving six weeks hard labour for stealing a bike. Again in 1925, Robert was born, whilst Arthur did one month inside for abandoning his wife. In 1927, he missed Leonard’s birth by doing three months for stealing lead, and he missed a year of their childhoods having nicked fags, booze and cash. In 1939, he said he joined the Army, but he didn’t. In 1940, that he had escaped Dunkirk, but he hadn’t. In 1943, as part of the Middle East Expeditionary Force, that he’d been blown-up by a mine, causing a limp and tremor to his right hand, and although his injuries were real, the story was not. And in 1944, as a decorated Sergeant in the Queen’s Regimental Guards, he was discharged on a good pension and would forever regale his pals with tales of his bravery. At least, that’s what he said, but it was all a lie. In truth, having been whacked on the head with a bit of timber, he was in a coma for a day, in hospital for a year and confined to a spinal jacket for three years. In 1940, his fourth child was born, but by then, he had abandoned Emily. In 1942, he served another year for forgery. In 1943, he met Kathleen Whittle and having falsely claimed to be a grieving widower whose wife and kids had died in the blitz, one year later, she became his second wife and Arthur served eighteen months for bigamy. In 1945, he swindled £1500 using forged cheques, but by April 1946, having squandered the lot, he was broke and was earning a pittance as a carpenter at the House of Fun on Brighton’s Palace Pier. The man was a liar, a cheat, a thief and a bigamist, and yet, it was there that he met his next target. As a small frail woman, still weak as she recuperated by the sea air from the pain of a botched abortion, being duped by the promise of love, Eliza was easy prey. And as Arthur attentively listened to her tales of woe, of her wealthy employers, and how this hopeless romantic had dreamed of marrying a well-spoken and wealthy war-hero - before her very eyes - this sham artist transformed into ‘Mr Right’. For Eliza, being so giddy she couldn’t see the truth through his lies, she lived every day like it was a fantasy. But just six days before they were wed, Arthur Boyce would shoot her dead (Interstitial). Eliza was literally living her dream… On 26th April 1946, after a decade of domestic service, with her references poor but an impressive list of past employers, Eliza acquired the prestigious position as housekeeper to King George II of Greece, in his Belgravia residence at 45 Chester Square. Her role was high-profile, her wage was decent, she had a weekly food allowance and – living there, rent-free, in this unoccupied five-storey townhouse whilst it was redecorated - all she had to do was keep it clean should His Majesty arrive unannounced. But better still, her love life was blooming. Eliza had found herself the perfect man, who was attentive, generous and kind; when they were apart their phone calls were loving and heartfelt, when they were together their sex was hot and steamy, and in their letters, they talked of nothing but bright futures. And with her wealthy war-veteran having promised to cash-in £350 from his military pension, to set them up in their first home and to start his own business as a builder, having got engaged and set a wedding date for 16th June, just a few weeks away, being whisked up in a whirlwind romance, Eliza set about preparing for her big day. For his blushing bride-to-be, Arthur’s generosity knew no bounds. On Monday 3rd June, he spoiled Eliza with a meal of champagne and caviar at the exclusive Scott’s of Mayfair. Being a few quid short, Arthur paid by cheque, and even though the Head Waiter’s suspicions were aroused by the misspelling of simple words like “too” and “fore”, taking five days for the money to clear, Arthur would bounce cheques all over town and no-one would notice for at least a week. That day, Arthur called ‘TM Sutton the Jewellers’ and ordered that a diamond ring be brought to King of Greece’s home. With Eliza dazzled by the sparkling gems, as Arthur made out a cheque for £174 (almost £16,000 today), she didn’t spot that he had misspelt “one hundred” but the salesman did, and arranged for them to collect it, only once the cheque had cleared. But some shops weren’t so cautious. Tuesday 4th June, from ‘Joseph Skinner & Co’, Arthur ordered a basket of wild mushrooms and exotic fruits worth £500 today. On Wednesday 5th, from The White Company on New Bond Street, he treated Eliza to a pig-skin handbag, a red lizard purse and a lace wedding veil amounting to £9000, which he paid for by cheque having name-dropped the King every chance he got. On Thursday 6th, Arthur hired a chauffeur-driven limo from Moon Motors Ltd to escort himself and his lover around the West End for a day of shopping, theatre and cocktails. And on Friday 7th, he purchased her so many bouquets of flowers it was impossible to enter her bedroom, as well as a fur coat which cost more than a house. That day, in Eliza’s local paper - the Liverpool Echo - Arthur pronounced the marriage between “Miss Elizabeth McLindon of Liverpool and Mr Arthur Robert Boyce of St Clement Mansions in Putney”, an address he had never lived at, and to assuage her suspicious siblings (Patrick and Veronica), he sent them both cheques to cover their expenses for attending the wedding, to the value of £5000 each. Eliza was so blinded by love, that she fell under his spell… …but she wasn’t so dense that she didn’t see the warning signs. Not once in the three months they were together did Arthur’s military pension ever seem to pay-out. By the end of their week’s extravagant spending spree, being unable to track down Arthur, every store they had visited called Eliza to complain as each cheque had bounced, even those to her own family. And having name-dropped King George II of Greece and had a wealth of lavish goods hand-delivered to 45 Chester Square (including several tailored suits, smart shoes and gold watches for himself), the King’s Private Secretary - Sophocles Papanicolaou – was now being chased for payment. Eliza wasn’t a great housekeeper and now – being suspected of being a thief - her job was on the line. Very quickly their love had grown stale; every kiss was followed by an apology, every love letter was proceeded by a fight and - with Arthur proving to be far-from-perfect - all of his promises were broken, all of his facts became lies, his compassionate nature was replaced by a violent temper, and even though he had claimed to be a bachelor, Eliza was already suspicious that this was not the truth On 29th May 1946, Eliza sent a letter to Kathleen Whittle of Bournemouth, asking if she had broken off her engagement to Arthur. On Friday 7th June, Kathleen replied and Eliza’s dream shattered. Not only did Arthur marry Kathleen, and he was still married to Kathleen, but she uncovered his long criminal history of theft, fraud, abandonment and bigamy, as he was still married to his first wife, Emily. Eliza confronted Arthur over this, he denied any wrongdoing, but for Eliza the romance was over. At 5pm, as a nervous wreck who hadn’t slept in a week, Eliza went to a local chemist called Jagg & Co, and having told the pharmacist of her woes, her stresses and how she had planned to break-off the engagement to her bigamous fiancé that weekend, to settle her nerves, he prescribed a mild sedative. That night, Eliza slept well, but that sleep would be her last. Saturday 8th June 1946 was Eliza’s last day alive, but for London it was a moment of great joy, as to commemorate the end of the Second World War, the city would host the Victory Celebrations; a series of military processions by many Allied forces across Regent’s Park, The Mall and Hyde Park, featuring five hundred tanks and transports, one hundred thousand troops, a fly-by of three hundred aircraft, a flotilla of ships sailing down the Thames and the night culminating in the city’s skyline illuminated for the first time in seven years and a colossal fireworks display. It would be a party like no-other, and with the King’s decorators and Eliza taking the day off, 45 Chester Square would be empty. At 11:30am, Eliza was witnessed at the Lyon’s Corner House Tearoom in Piccadilly, as she watched the parade march by. Ten minutes later, she was accompanied by Arthur, but their mood seemed strained. At 1pm, the housekeeper at 46 Chester Square saw Eliza dash out, slam the front door hard and run into Elizabeth Street. Moments later, hearing a second slam, Arthur chased after her in a furious rage. And that was the last ever sighting of Elizabeth McLindon. Amongst the cacophony of a city in celebration, with street-parties roaring, excitable crowds cheering, planes flying in formation and the ceaseless bangs of fireworks, nobody heard that single gun-shot, and with the back room in the King’s house locked, Eliza’s body wouldn’t be found for days. (silence) The very next day, on Sunday 9th June at 3pm, as thousands of slightly sore citizens stumbled home and grumbled about the huge hangovers they’d inherited from the previous night’s festivities – with no fanfare - King George II and Princess Christine of Greece arrived unannounced at 45 Chester Square, accompanied by their Private Secretary, Sophocles. Rightly, the King was displeased; the milk was still on the doorstep, his house was untidy, the housekeeper was absent and - even though her belongings were still in her bedroom – the backroom on the ground floor was locked and the key was missing. Dissatisfied with her work, Sophocles had planned to sack Eliza anyway, and having quickly secured a replacement housekeeper who was actually good, he wasn’t concerned, he was just unimpressed. But on Friday 14th June 1946 at 3:45pm, with Eliza having been missing for six days, the door still locked and the royal residents perturbed by an ominous smell and the festering buzz of flies, with the King’s permission, Detective Inspectors Ball and Hearne broke down the door, and found Eliza. The backroom was small and dark; it had a door, a desk, a chair, a phone and nothing more. Seen from behind, Eliza looked alive. Or being sat upright, with her head to one side, her arms on the desk and her legs splayed below, perhaps she was asleep? Dressed in a blue skirt, jumper and the fur-lined coat she had worn to the parade, it looked like she had just come in to make a call, with her right hand near the phone and her left on an open directory, her finger poised at a list of local police stations. As the Police approached, she was still and silent, but there was no denying that Eliza was dead. At the nap of her neck, almost obscured by her shoulder-length brown hair was a small hole, easy to confuse with a birth mark or mole had the flies not been feeding on the dried blood, but as the officers came around to the corpse’s front, her cause of death was obvious. There were no defensive wounds and no signs of struggle or assault, but owing to her state of decomposition, she had died six day prior. That night, as she sat to make a call, from the open door a few feet behind her, Eliza was shot once by .32 calibre Browning pistol; its nickel casing found on the floor, the crumpled bits of bullet embedded in the far wall and the wooden desk before her was spattered and soaked in her sticky dark blood. The shot by her angry assailant was clumsy and rushed, as entering her neck and not her head, an inch off and she may have survived, but with her head angled forward as she read the phone directory, the bullet shattered her spinal column, smashed her upper jaw, and as the hard bone splintered the bullet into pieces which ripped through her soft palette, the lethal lead projectiles tore through the right of her nostrils, as slumping to her left, she freely-bled from her nose, mouth and face. Missing her brain, her death was not instantaneous, but (being paralysed) she sat alone and watched her life drain away. Elizabeth McLindon was a giddy lady who dreamed of a marriage to a good man. She thought she had found ‘Mr Right’, but her body would be discovered, just two days before her wedding. (End) The investigation was simple. In the three months they were together, Eliza had introduced her fiancé to many people. In her bedroom, he had left his ID card, ration book and clothes, as well as love-letters he had written whose scruffy handwriting and bad spelling matched the bounced cheques. At 11pm, that evening, 41-year-old Arthur Robert Boyce was held at Brighton Police Station, and although he had fabricated a series of letters to her friends, family and Eliza herself expressing his concern for her safety, even without a witness or a motive, Police had enough evidence to charge him with murder. The three-day trial was held at the Old Bailey on 16th September 1946, and after seventy minutes of deliberation, the jury found him guilty. Asked if he wished to comment before his death sentence was passed, he said "I should like to thank his lordship. I think I have had a fair trial”, and as he gazed about the packed courtroom to soak-up his moment of celebrity, he said “although I am entirely innocent of this crime. Thank you". On 1st November, Arthur Robert Boyce was hanged at Pentonville Prison. Being arrogant to the last and seeing it all as his for the taking, he showed no remorse for Elizabeth McLindon – a giddy lady from a poor family who dreamed of a better life by marrying ‘Mr Right’. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Up next is waffle time where nothing much really happens, except tea being drank, cake being eaten, and words being expelled from a mouth. So if you’re a fan of cakey drinky gobble-de-gook, stay tuned. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Jenae Moxie Cruz, Anthea Richardson, Hanne Sofie Haagensen and Melissa Burnette, I thank you, with a special thank you to Kjartan Guðmundsson, Claire Wilmin and Selina Dean for the kind donations. I thank you all. And all the lovely reviews which people have left, I do read them all and it’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
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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