Serial killers and murderers often display cunning and meticulous planning to evade capture, making them some of the most elusive criminals. However, history is replete with instances where these ruthless criminals made grievous mistakes, leading to their eventual capture. This blog explores some of the most astonishing cases of murderers who got caught due to bizarre blunders, reminding us that even the most cunning criminals can falter. The BTK Killer's Careless Taunting. Dennis Rader, known as the BTK Killer (Bind, Torture, Kill), terrorized Kansas from the 1970s to the 1990s. Despite his apparent intelligence, he made the crucial mistake of sending letters to local newspapers and the police, taunting them about his crimes. In one letter, he included a floppy disk containing metadata that could be traced back to a computer at his church. This slip-up led to his capture in 2005, ending his reign of terror. Ted Bundy's Reckless Traffic Stop. One of the most infamous serial killers, Ted Bundy, had a knack for escaping custody multiple times. However, his eventual capture was a result of a routine traffic stop in Utah. Bundy's Volkswagen Beetle was pulled over by the police, and upon searching his car, they found burglary tools and suspicious items. This arrest ultimately led to the discovery of his horrific crimes. 3. Richard Ramirez's Fingerprint Blunder The Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez, terrorized Southern California in the mid-1980s. He committed a series of gruesome murders and assaults. Ramirez's capture came about when he carelessly left behind a fingerprint on a mesh screen during one of his break-ins. When this print was matched to him, it led to his arrest, trial, and eventual conviction. 4. Gary Ridgway's DNA Oversight Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, targeted vulnerable women in the Pacific Northwest during the 1980s and 1990s. He managed to evade capture for many years, but his undoing came when DNA evidence was used to link him to the crime scenes. Years later, he was arrested and eventually confessed to murdering 71 women. 5. The Pizza Delivery That Unraveled Mark Goudeau Mark Goudeau, a serial rapist and murderer known as the "Baseline Killer" in Arizona, was captured in 2006 when he made the mistake of ordering a pizza for delivery from a crime scene. When the delivery driver arrived, they noticed the suspicious circumstances and called the police, leading to Goudeau's arrest. 6. The Facebook Post That Snared Antwone Fisher In a bizarre and almost unbelievable twist, Antwone Fisher, a convicted murderer, was captured in 2011 due to a Facebook post. Fisher had been on the run for several years when he posted a status update on his Facebook page, revealing his location. An astute tipster saw the post, contacted the authorities, and Fisher was apprehended. 7. A Zodiac Cipher Unraveled The Zodiac Killer is one of the most enigmatic and mysterious criminals in history. Despite taunting police and the media with cryptic ciphers in the late 1960s, he was never identified or caught at the time. However, in 2020, a team of amateur codebreakers finally cracked one of the Zodiac's unsolved ciphers. The deciphered message revealed the name of a deceased acquaintance of the killer, leading to speculation about his identity. While the Zodiac Killer remains unidentified officially, this codebreaking breakthrough brought the case back into the public eye. 8. Joseph DeAngelo's DNA Slip-Up Joseph DeAngelo, also known as the Golden State Killer, terrorized California in the 1970s and 1980s. He committed a string of burglaries, sexual assaults, and murders without being caught. But his downfall came in 2018, thanks to a combination of advancements in DNA technology and his own carelessness. Investigators used genealogical databases to trace his DNA back to distant relatives, eventually leading them to DeAngelo. They then collected his discarded DNA from a public place, confirming the match and ultimately arresting him. His decades-long reign of terror ended due to advances in forensic science and a misjudgment of his own genetic trail. 9. The Craigslist Killer's Digital Footprint Philip Markoff, dubbed the Craigslist Killer, lured victims through online classified ads and subsequently killed them in a series of brutal attacks. However, his foolish mistake was leaving a digital trail. He used his personal email and phone number when communicating with his victims, allowing investigators to trace him back to his online activities. The electronic evidence became a crucial factor in his arrest and conviction. 10. The Green River Killer's Intentional Oversight Gary Ridgway, known as the Green River Killer, committed a staggering number of murders, possibly exceeding 70 victims. His cunning tactic was to dump his victims' bodies in remote areas, making it difficult for law enforcement to connect the crimes. However, his audacious error was a result of the meticulous record-keeping he maintained regarding his murders. He maintained a list of victims and their locations, which eventually fell into the hands of investigators, leading to his arrest and life imprisonment. 11. Richard Ramirez's Failed Carjacking Richard Ramirez, the infamous "Night Stalker," terrorized Los Angeles in the 1980s. His reign of terror came to an end when he attempted to carjack a woman in 1985. The intended victim fought back, and Ramirez fled the scene on foot. The woman noted his description and his abandoned car, which contained critical evidence. This mistake, combined with the subsequent identification, led to his arrest and eventual conviction. 12. The Slip-Up in Ted Bundy's Beetle Ted Bundy, one of the most notorious serial killers in American history, had an intelligent and charming façade that allowed him to evade capture for years. However, in 1975, he was pulled over by police in Utah for a suspicious vehicle. Inside his Volkswagen Beetle, officers found burglary tools and ski masks. Bundy was arrested and later connected to a string of murders and abductions, ultimately leading to his execution. 13. Pedro Lopez - The Monster of the Andes Pedro Lopez, known as "The Monster of the Andes," was responsible for the murders of hundreds of young girls in South America. His reign of terror ended when he attempted to abduct a young girl in Ecuador, but her cries for help drew the attention of local villagers who captured and beat him. The police later took custody of Lopez, leading to his capture and eventual conviction. 14. The Shoe Fetish of Jerry Brudos Jerry Brudos, also known as the "Lust Killer" and the "Shoe Fetish Slayer," was a serial murderer who preyed on young women in Oregon in the late 1960s. Brudos had a bizarre fetish for women's shoes and was known to keep souvenirs from his victims. This obsession ultimately became his undoing when he was apprehended trying to steal shoes from a department store. Suspicious employees called the police, who discovered evidence linking him to the murders, leading to his arrest. 15. The Facebook Posts of Christopher Cullen In 2009, Christopher Cullen, a nurse at a New Jersey hospital, was convicted of killing 22 patients by injecting them with lethal doses of medications. He might have continued his murderous spree if it weren't for his own Facebook posts. Cullen had made numerous alarming and incriminating statements online, which led to an investigation into his activities. These posts provided crucial evidence linking him to the murders and ultimately led to his conviction. 16. Aileen Wuornos - The Prints on the Stolen Car Aileen Wuornos was one of America's most infamous female serial killers. Her killing spree came to an end when she was arrested in 1991 for an outstanding warrant, stemming from a routine check on a stolen car that she was driving. Subsequent investigations connected her to a string of murders, resulting in her conviction and execution. Of course, the United Kingdom has had its fair share of notorious serial killers and murderers who have struck terror into the hearts of the public. While many of these criminals eluded capture for extended periods, some were eventually brought to justice due to the most unexpected and seemingly trivial mistakes. In this blog, we'll explore the dark and chilling stories of British serial killers whose reigns of terror came to an end because of their own foolish errors. 17. Dennis Nilsen - The Strangely-Spacious Flat Dennis Nilsen, one of Britain's most infamous serial killers, was responsible for the murders of at least 12 young men in London during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Nilsen's spree of heinous crimes came to an end when a plumbing mishap in his apartment building led to the discovery of human remains clogging the drains. This blunder led to Nilsen's arrest, as it was determined that he had been dismembering his victims and flushing their remains down the toilet. 18. Harold Shipman - A Baffling Signature Harold Shipman, a trusted family doctor, carried out a horrific killing spree that spanned over two decades. He is believed to have murdered around 250 of his patients, administering lethal doses of prescription medication. It was not until a fellow doctor noticed an unusual pattern in the number of deaths under Shipman's care that suspicion was raised. His mistake? Shipman had forged the will of one of his victims, leaving her entire estate to himself. This blatant act of greed ultimately exposed his sinister deeds, leading to his arrest in 1998. 19. Peter Sutcliffe - A False Number Plate Peter Sutcliffe, infamously known as the "Yorkshire Ripper," terrorized the north of England in the late 1970s. He was responsible for the brutal murders of 13 women and the assault of several others. Sutcliffe's reign of terror was brought to an end in January 1981 when he was caught with false number plates on his car. Suspicion was raised, and a subsequent search of his vehicle revealed a hammer and knife, which linked him to the murders. This seemingly insignificant traffic offense led to his arrest, and he was subsequently convicted of multiple murders. 20. Levi Bellfield - A Simple Parking Ticket Levi Bellfield, a serial killer and rapist, operated in London during the early 2000s. His crimes involved the murder of several young women and girls. Bellfield's eventual downfall can be traced back to a relatively minor parking ticket. In 2004, he received a parking ticket near the scene of one of his crimes. This seemingly inconsequential detail later contributed to his arrest when detectives connected him to the location and his victims' disappearances. 21. Colin Ireland - The Bragging Letter Colin Ireland, also known as the "Gay Slayer," targeted gay men in London during the mid-1990s, committing a series of gruesome murders. In an astonishing act of arrogance, Ireland sent a handwritten letter to a local newspaper in which he claimed responsibility for the murders, signing it with his real name. Detectives quickly traced the letter back to him, leading to his capture and subsequent confession. 22. John Christie – The Rillington Place Strangler John Christie was a British serial killer responsible for the murders of at least eight people, including his wife, Ethel, and several women he lured to his residence at 10 Rillington Place, London. Christie's critical mistake came to light when the new tenant at Rillington Place discovered the concealed bodies of his victims in the garden and under the floorboards. Christie's heinous crimes were exposed, leading to his arrest and execution. 23. The Suffolk Strangler – Steve Wright Steve Wright, also known as the Suffolk Strangler, committed a series of murders in Ipswich, Suffolk, in 2006. The critical error that led to his capture was captured by surveillance cameras. Wright was recorded picking up his victims in his car, which later linked him to the crimes. His arrest and subsequent confession put an end to his killing spree. 24. Stephen Griffiths, the Crossbow Cannibal Stephen Griffiths, dubbed the "Crossbow Cannibal," was responsible for a series of gruesome murders in Bradford, England. He believed he could outsmart the police, but his desire for notoriety led to his downfall. Griffiths approached a police officer while wearing a bowler hat and told them, "I'm the Crossbow Cannibal." His bragging ultimately led to his arrest in 2010, and he was convicted of the murders. 25. Colin Pitchfork Colin Pitchfork is known as the first person in the world to be caught using DNA evidence. His murder of two teenage girls in the 1980s rocked the UK. However, it was not his careful planning that led to his arrest, but rather his arrogance. Pitchfork convinced a friend to take a DNA test in his place, but the friend's suspicious behavior raised alarms. When police investigated further, they found inconsistencies in Pitchfork's story, leading to his arrest. 26. The Moors Murderers - Ian Brady and Myra Hindley While Ian Brady and Myra Hindley were not caught due to a single mistake, their ultimate capture can be attributed to their ill-conceived recording of the abduction and murder of 10-year-old Lesley Ann Downey. The tape contained incriminating evidence, and the police, upon discovering it, were able to link the couple to the heinous crimes they had committed on Saddleworth Moor. 27. Ian Huntley - The Soham Murders One of the most shocking cases in recent British history was the murder of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman in Soham, Cambridgeshire, in 2002. Ian Huntley, the school caretaker and perpetrator of the crime, made a series of errors that led to his capture. Notably, he lied about his involvement, and his account of events was inconsistent with the evidence. This inconsistency, along with other suspicious behaviors, eventually led to his arrest and conviction. 28. John Straffen John Straffen was a notorious British child killer who committed several murders in the 1950s. He was initially apprehended, but during his time at a psychiatric hospital, he managed to escape in 1952. However, his escape was short-lived as he made the mistake of asking a police officer for directions, not realizing that he was conversing with the very people he was trying to avoid. This error led to his recapture, and he remained in custody until his death. 29. Peter Manuel Peter Manuel was a Scottish serial killer who murdered multiple people during the 1950s. His capture was largely due to his arrogance and lack of caution. He sent taunting letters to the police, signed his real name, and even included a confession to one of the murders. This gave the police the break they needed to apprehend him, and he was later executed for his crimes. 30. John George Haigh John George Haigh, the notorious "Acid Bath Murderer," killed at least six people during the 1940s. His unique method of disposing of the bodies by dissolving them in sulfuric acid initially allowed him to escape detection. However, his ultimate mistake was attempting to cash in on his victims' assets. After forging their signatures and selling their belongings, he attracted the attention of authorities and was arrested. Haigh's confessions to the murders during his trial sealed his fate. While many serial killers and murderers seem to possess an uncanny ability to evade the law, their reigns of terror often come to an end due to unforeseen, sometimes trivial mistakes. The cases mentioned here are a stark reminder that even the most calculated criminals can falter, and justice can prevail. These blunders demonstrate the crucial role that diligence, technology, and the watchful eyes of the public play in bringing perpetrators to justice, ultimately making the world a safer place.
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True crime has been a source of fascination for many people for decades. Whether it's through books, documentaries, podcasts, or TV shows, we are drawn to the mysteries and intrigue surrounding real-life criminal cases. However, there's a growing concern that our society's infatuation with true crime might be more harmful than we realize. In this blog, we'll explore why we shouldn't glamorize true crime and the potential consequences of doing so.
1. Human Tragedy and Sensationalism One of the most significant reasons to reconsider our fascination with true crime is the inherent exploitation of human tragedy. These stories often involve heinous crimes, violent acts, and profound suffering. By glorifying or sensationalizing these events, we risk disrespecting the victims and their families, who have already endured immense pain and loss. 2. Desensitization to Violence Exposure to graphic and disturbing content through true crime media can lead to desensitization to violence. When we consume such content regularly, it can become challenging to empathize with the real-life pain and suffering of those affected by crime. This desensitization may contribute to a broader societal issue of diminishing empathy and compassion. 3. Perpetuating Stereotypes True crime narratives often rely on stereotypes to tell their stories. This can perpetuate harmful biases and preconceived notions about certain groups of people. It's essential to recognize that the criminal justice system can be flawed, and by consuming true crime content without critical thinking, we may inadvertently support these harmful stereotypes. 4. Distraction from Important Issues Our fascination with true crime can sometimes serve as a distraction from more pressing social issues. Instead of focusing on systemic problems like poverty, inequality, or healthcare, we find ourselves engrossed in the minutiae of individual criminal cases. While true crime is undeniably interesting, we must strike a balance between consuming this content and addressing larger societal challenges. 5. Ethical Dilemmas in Entertainment The true crime genre often presents ethical dilemmas within the realm of entertainment. Exploiting real-life tragedy for the sake of entertainment raises questions about the boundaries of our moral responsibility as consumers of media. Where should we draw the line between entertainment and respect for the people involved in these stories? 6. Disturbing the Grieving Process For families and individuals affected by the crimes featured in true crime stories, the constant reminder of their trauma can be distressing. The rehashing of their experiences in the media can inhibit the healing process, as well as make it difficult for them to move forward and find closure. While it's natural to be curious about the mysteries and dark sides of human nature, we should be mindful of the potential consequences of glamorizing true crime. It's essential to engage with this content responsibly and critically, taking into account the real-life pain and suffering involved. Rather than glorifying these stories, we should strive to support and advocate for a more empathetic and compassionate society. By doing so, we can strike a balance between our natural fascination with crime and a more responsible, ethical approach to consuming true crime media. True crime has become a global cultural phenomenon. It dominates our television screens, bookshelves, and podcasts, and countless online communities revolve around the discussion of real-life criminal cases. But what is it about tales of murder, mystery, and malevolence that keeps us so captivated? In this blog, we'll delve into the psychology and societal factors behind our obsession with true crime.
1. Human Nature and Curiosity. At its core, our fascination with true crime may be an extension of our innate curiosity. Humans are naturally drawn to puzzles and mysteries. We have an insatiable desire to understand the world around us, and true crime presents an opportunity to satisfy this curiosity. We want to know the "why" and "how" behind the crimes, and we're often left intrigued by the complexity of human behavior. 2. Voyeuristic Thrills True crime offers us a voyeuristic thrill—a chance to peer into the darkest corners of the human psyche. This experience can be both chilling and cathartic. It allows us to confront our fears from the safety of our own living rooms, experiencing the horrors without actually being in danger. 3. Empathy and Relatability Many people find themselves empathizing with the victims and their families in true crime stories. The shared experience of fear, grief, and trauma can make these stories feel relatable. This emotional connection helps us explore our own fears and vulnerabilities, making us feel more human in the process. 4. Morbid Fascination There's no denying that we're drawn to the macabre and the mysterious. The shock value of true crime stories can be both titillating and disturbing. Morbid curiosity, as some psychologists call it, leads us to explore the darker aspects of human existence, even if it's unsettling. 5. The Puzzle of Justice In many true crime stories, there is a pursuit of justice. We become armchair detectives, trying to solve the case alongside law enforcement. The search for the truth and the quest for justice can be deeply satisfying, reinforcing our belief in the triumph of good over evil. 6. Fear and Self-Preservation True crime can also serve as a form of self-preservation. By learning about real-life crimes, we become more aware of potential dangers and how to protect ourselves and our loved ones. Knowledge about past crimes can help us make safer choices in our own lives. 7. Social Connection The popularity of true crime has led to the formation of vast online communities, book clubs, and discussion groups. Engaging in these communities allows people to connect with others who share their interests, creating a sense of belonging and camaraderie. 8. Psychological Thrills The psychology behind criminal behavior is a fascinating field of study. True crime offers a unique window into the minds of criminals and the intricate motivations behind their actions. This intellectual aspect can be highly engaging for those who seek to understand the intricacies of human behavior. Our obsession with true crime is a complex interplay of human psychology, curiosity, and societal factors. While it might seem morbid to some, there's much more to it than a mere fascination with violence and mayhem. True crime stories provide us with an opportunity to explore the depths of the human psyche, to grapple with our own vulnerabilities, and to find solace in the pursuit of justice. Ultimately, the popularity of true crime is a testament to our enduring need to understand and connect with the darker aspects of the human experience. The world of serial killers and murderers has long captivated the public's imagination. The depraved acts of individuals who commit such heinous crimes are often incomprehensible to most of us. Yet, one aspect of their lives that has received relatively less attention is their early years, specifically the nicknames they earned during childhood and how those nicknames may have played a role in shaping their twisted paths. In this blog, we will delve into the disturbing connections between cruel childhood nicknames and the psyches of some infamous serial killers. Childhood is a time of innocence, curiosity, and vulnerability. The nicknames children earn during these formative years can significantly affect their self-esteem, emotional development, and, in some cases, their future behavior. When cruel or derogatory nicknames are inflicted upon a child, the consequences can be deeply damaging. Serial killers and murderers are no exception to this pattern. Children often resort to name-calling and teasing as part of the socialization process. These behaviors may be seen as harmless in most cases, but they can take a dark turn in certain circumstances. Some kids, for various reasons, become the targets of relentless taunting, leading to the development of particularly cruel nicknames.
The cruel nicknames assigned to these individuals during their formative years may have contributed to their descent into psychopathy. The emotional scars inflicted by these labels can manifest in various ways, such as feelings of inadequacy, isolation, and the need to prove themselves. Some killers may have sought infamy and recognition as a way to compensate for their perceived deficiencies, while others may have developed warped views of normalcy. Furthermore, these childhood nicknames may have played a role in eroding the killers' empathy and conscience, making it easier for them to commit acts of extreme violence and cruelty. While it is essential to understand that not every child who endures a cruel nickname during their formative years becomes a serial killer, there is a connection between early emotional trauma and the development of psychopathic traits in some individuals. The stories of serial killers like Ed Gein, Richard Ramirez, and Jeffrey Dahmer serve as chilling reminders of how factors such as cruel nicknames can contribute to the creation of monsters.
The complex interplay of genetics, upbringing, and personal experiences shapes the minds of these individuals. Examining the role of childhood nicknames is just one piece of the puzzle. Ultimately, addressing the issue of childhood trauma and providing support and therapy for those who have experienced it is crucial in preventing the emergence of future serial killers and murderers. Serial killers and murderers often captivate the public's morbid fascination. These individuals commit heinous acts, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. While there is no one-size-fits-all explanation for their actions, a significant number of them share a common thread - traumatic childhood experiences, particularly injuries or accidents that left a lasting mark on their mental and physical well-being. In this blog, we will delve into the unsettling stories of British serial killers and murderers who suffered significant childhood injuries, and explore how these events may have played a role in shaping their monstrous paths. Fred West, infamous for his part in the Gloucester House of Horrors case, experienced a traumatic accident at the age of 17 when he fell from a tree and suffered a head injury. This incident left him with severe mood swings and behavioral changes. Experts have speculated that this injury may have exacerbated his already troubled upbringing and contributed to his sadistic tendencies. West's violent acts, including the murders of multiple women, showcased a deep-rooted depravity that manifested after his childhood injury. While not all those who suffer head injuries turn to violence, it is evident that in West's case, this event had a profound impact on his mental state. Dennis Nilsen, another notorious British serial killer, suffered from a head injury as a child when he was struck by a car. Although not immediately life-threatening, this event, combined with his family's isolation and abuse, likely contributed to his later crimes. Nilsen's childhood accident, alongside a challenging upbringing, resulted in feelings of isolation and detachment. These emotions later found an outlet in the horrific murders of at least 12 young men. While not all who suffer from childhood injuries resort to violence, in Nilsen's case, the psychological impact of his accident seems undeniable. Mary Bell, one of Britain's youngest serial killers, had a traumatic childhood marked by abuse and neglect. She suffered an accident at the age of 2, falling from a window, which left her with a severe head injury. This accident could have contributed to her erratic behavior and later, her participation in the murders of two young boys. Mary Bell's case highlights the devastating consequences of childhood injuries and the potential long-term psychological impact they can have, especially when coupled with other traumatic experiences. Ian Brady, one of the infamous Moors Murderers, was struck in the head with a shovel during a childhood altercation. This head injury, combined with a troubled family life, likely played a role in his descent into sadistic violence. Brady and his accomplice, Myra Hindley, tortured and killed several children in the 1960s. The head injury suffered by Ian Brady could have contributed to his already disturbed mindset, eventually leading him down a path of unimaginable brutality. Robert Black, a Scottish serial killer and pedophile, had a traumatic childhood marked by frequent head injuries due to accidents and a tumultuous upbringing in foster care. These early traumatic experiences may have contributed to his psychopathic tendencies, as he later kidnapped and murdered multiple young girls. Peter Sutcliffe, famously known as the Yorkshire Ripper, sustained a serious head injury in a motorcycle accident during his adolescence. This injury coincided with a troubled upbringing, which experts suggest might have played a role in his descent into brutal serial murders, targeting women in the late 1970s. Colin Ireland's childhood was marred by an accident at age seven, which resulted in a severe head injury. His adult life took a dark turn as he transformed into a serial killer, targeting gay men and brutally murdering five individuals. Experts believe that his traumatic childhood experiences may have contributed to his violent tendencies. Levi Bellfield, the man responsible for a series of high-profile murders in the UK, had a traumatic childhood filled with head injuries due to accidents. This, combined with a dysfunctional family, may have contributed to his violent tendencies and later crimes against women. Rosemary West is infamous for her involvement in the murders of at least 10 young women, including her own daughter, Heather. Rosemary endured a difficult childhood marred by sexual abuse at the hands of her father and suffered a head injury in a motorcycle accident at the age of 16. This injury, combined with her early exposure to sexual violence, likely contributed to her later sadistic tendencies and her willingness to participate in her husband Fred West's gruesome crimes. Robert Maudsley, incorrectly dubbed "Hannibal the Cannibal" courtesy of talentless tabloid hacks, experienced a traumatic childhood marked by neglect and abuse. His upbringing was filled with violence and instability, which ultimately led him to become one of Britain's most notorious serial killers. As a teenager, he suffered a head injury in a fall, which some experts believe may have exacerbated his violent tendencies. Kenneth Erskine, also known as the "Stockwell Strangler," committed a series of brutal murders in South London. He had a history of developmental issues and was described as being "different" from a very young age. A head injury sustained in a car accident during his teenage years was thought to have further contributed to his mental instability. Peter Bryan earned notoriety for his gruesome acts of cannibalism. A head injury he sustained during his teenage years in a car accident was later cited as a contributing factor in his violent tendencies. The accident had caused significant damage to his frontal lobe, a region responsible for impulse control and decision-making, which could have influenced his horrific actions. Richard Dadd - While not a traditional serial killer, Richard Dadd's story is a chilling one. As a talented artist in the 19th century, Dadd suffered a head injury during a trip to Egypt. After the accident, he underwent a dramatic transformation, developing paranoid delusions and ultimately committing murder. His traumatic brain injury had a profound impact on his mental state and led to his descent into madness. Michael Ryan - The Hungerford Massacre: The Hungerford Massacre in 1987 sent shockwaves through the UK. Michael Ryan, the perpetrator, had a troubled childhood marked by head injuries and trauma. His father's suicide and a series of accidents left him deeply scarred and potentially contributed to his violent outburst, where he killed 16 people and injured many more before turning the gun on himself. Graham Young, known as the "Teacup Poisoner," was responsible for a series of poisonings in the 1960s. As a child, Young suffered from a mysterious illness, which required numerous hospitalizations. These frequent encounters with death and illness ignited his fascination with toxic substances, setting him on a path towards serial murder. Young's childhood trauma left him mentally scarred and deeply disturbed, ultimately leading to a string of poisonings. John George Haigh, the "Acid Bath Murderer," had a difficult childhood, witnessing his father's affairs and experiencing social isolation due to his stammer. His troubled youth culminated in a near-fatal fall at age 21, which led to head injuries. These events might have propelled him toward a life of crime, resulting in the murders of at least six people, with their bodies dissolved in sulfuric acid. Joanna Dennehy is one of the few female serial killers in Britain. She embarked on a killing spree, targeting men, and later claimed that a traumatic car accident in her youth had altered her personality, making her more prone to violence. This accident potentially played a role in shaping her murderous tendencies. Thomas Hamilton was responsible for the Dunblane school massacre in 1996, where he killed 16 children and their teacher before turning the gun on himself. Hamilton, who struggled with social isolation, survived a serious head injury as a teenager. This incident could have contributed to his mental instability and eventually, his heinous act. Myra Hindley, infamous for her role alongside Ian Brady in the Moors Murders, witnessed her parents' tumultuous divorce. Later, she suffered a severe head injury after a motorcycle accident in her late teens. This event is believed to have triggered her descent into darkness, as she became a willing participant in the sadistic murders of five children. The trauma and brain injury seemed to have heightened her capacity for cruelty. Robert Napper's childhood was marred by an accident that left him with a brain injury. The injury was thought to have triggered his paranoid schizophrenia, which eventually led to a horrifying crime. Napper brutally killed Samantha Bisset and her four-year-old daughter Jazmine in 2005, illustrating the devastating consequences of early trauma. John Duffy's troubled youth was characterized by a serious head injury he sustained during a fall at a construction site. This injury had lasting effects on his mental well-being. He later became a serial rapist and murderer in the 1980s, earning him the nickname "The Railway Rapist." His childhood injury and resulting psychological trauma undoubtedly contributed to his violent actions. John Reginald Christie's childhood was a tumultuous one, marked by a severe fall from a tree, leading to a head injury. This injury, along with his troubled family life, played a pivotal role in his later criminal activities. Christie would go on to commit a series of gruesome murders, including the infamous Rillington Place murders in the 1940s and 1950s. Neville Heath's childhood was marked by tragedy and loss. He lost his mother at an early age and endured a traumatic head injury when he was involved in a car accident. This accident left him with severe headaches and mood swings, which would later contribute to his violent tendencies. Heath was responsible for a string of murders and sexual assaults in the 1940s, earning him the moniker "The Lady Killer." John Straffen's story is a chilling example of how early trauma can set a person on a dangerous path. As a child, he was involved in a serious accident, sustaining a head injury that led to epileptic seizures. These seizures not only affected his mental health but also hindered his ability to control his impulses. Straffen would later become one of Britain's most notorious child murderers, taking the lives of several young girls in the 1950s. Mary Pearcey, a Victorian-era murderer, had a tragic early life. She lost her parents at a young age and suffered a traumatic head injury in a riding accident. Some have speculated that her head injury may have contributed to her descent into madness, culminating in a double murder in 1890 that shocked London. John Childs, the "Essex Boy Killer," had a troubled childhood. He was severely bullied and had an accident that left him with a fractured skull. This traumatic experience caused personality changes and a deep-seated need for revenge, ultimately leading to a life of crime. Childs later murdered three of his tormentors, highlighting the profound impact of childhood trauma on his psyche. Peter Manuel, a notorious Scottish serial killer, had a traumatic childhood. He suffered a severe head injury in a playground accident, which some suggest may have played a role in his later sadistic and violent behavior. Manuel went on to commit a series of heinous murders in the 1950s, leaving a legacy of terror in his wake. Peter Tobin, infamous for his brutal killings, also suffered a traumatic head injury as a child. His early accident, along with a difficult upbringing, played a part in his descent into a life of crime. Tobin's history of violence against women is a stark example of the devastating effects of childhood trauma. George Joseph Smith, known as "Brides in the Bath" murderer, experienced a traumatic childhood accident when he was hit by a tram, which left him with a severe head injury. His crimes were marked by a pattern of marrying and subsequently drowning his wives. The lasting effects of his accident have been theorized to have played a role in his sociopathic behavior. Anthony Arkwright - "The Suffolk Strangler". Anthony Arkwright's teenage years were marked by a traumatic car accident that left him with a severe head injury. He later became "The Suffolk Strangler" and murdered multiple sex workers, possibly influenced by his past trauma. (not to be confused with Steven Wright) Mary Wilson, dubbed "The Merry Widow of Windy Nook," suffered from encephalitis as a child, resulting in severe neurological issues. Her mental health struggles likely contributed to her criminal activities, which included the murder of her husband. Robert George Clements - "The Camberwell Poisoner". Robert Clements' childhood took a tragic turn when he suffered a head injury during a fall at age 10. This accident altered his behavior, and he later became the infamous "Camberwell Poisoner," convicted of poisoning several family members. Stephen Griffiths was a disturbed individual who suffered head injuries during a car crash in his teenage years. These injuries, combined with his troubled upbringing, may have played a part in his later murders and dismemberments in Bradford. Note: in court he wished to be - incorrectly - known as "the crossbow cannibal" as he whoreishly courted fame from the press. Peter Moore, known as the "Man in Black," had a tragic childhood marked by severe head injuries from multiple accidents. Moore's traumatic experiences and head injuries may have contributed to his sadistic murders of men in North Wales. His crimes were especially gruesome, involving torture and dismemberment. John Justin Miller, dubbed the "Essex Monster," had a traumatic childhood marked by a significant head injury in a car accident. This accident may have played a role in his later criminal activities, which included rape and murder. Miller's life is a stark example of how early trauma can lead to a life of violence. Beverly Allitt, also known as the "Angel of Death," suffered from a severe head injury in her early life. This, coupled with her Munchausen syndrome by proxy, contributed to her poisoning and murder of several children in a UK hospital. Robert Mone and Thomas Walker, who were responsible for the "House of Blood" murders in Glasgow, both had traumatic childhoods marked by severe injuries. Their upbringing, coupled with their shared mental instability, led to their violent crimes. David McGreavy, also known as the "Monster of Worcester," had a history of head injuries from childhood accidents. These injuries, combined with a tumultuous upbringing, contributed to his horrific murders of three young children in 1973. Amelia Dyer, one of Britain's most notorious baby farmers, had a troubled childhood marked by an accident. As a child, she suffered a head injury from a fall, which is often cited as a contributing factor to her later crimes. Dyer would go on to murder infants left in her care, a crime rooted in her past trauma and mental instability. Michael Lupo, known as the "Hampstead Heath Vampire" and "the wolfman" experienced a traumatic head injury as a teenager. The injury reportedly changed his personality and may have contributed to his gruesome murders in the 1980s. Patrick Mackay experienced a troubled childhood, including an incident where he was hit by a car. This early trauma was followed by a life marked by mental instability. Mackay went on to become one of the most notorious British serial killers in the 1970s. John Childs - "The Granny Killer", who terrorized the elderly population in the 1970s, experienced childhood head injuries. His violent tendencies may have been exacerbated by these early traumas, which eventually led to a series of brutal murders. Steve Wright - "Suffolk Strangler". Steve Wright's troubled upbringing included a head injury from a motorcycle accident in his teenage years. The trauma may have contributed to his later sexual crimes, as he went on to murder five women in Ipswich. Donald Neilson, infamously known as the "Black Panther," committed a series of violent crimes, including the murder of heiress Lesley Whittle. In his youth, Neilson sustained a head injury during a fall, which some speculate could have had a lasting impact on his cognitive and emotional development. Colin Stagg was falsely accused of being the "Rachel Nickell killer" in a highly publicized case. Stagg had a difficult childhood and was the victim of a severe dog attack in his youth. Although he is not a serial killer, the media scrutiny and false accusations he endured had a significant impact on his mental well-being. The lives of British serial killers and murderers are often shrouded in darkness, but it is important to examine the role that childhood injuries and traumatic events play in their descent into violence. While it is essential to remember that not everyone who sustains a childhood injury becomes a criminal, these cases illustrate that early trauma can, in some instances, intersect with preexisting emotional and psychological vulnerabilities, pushing individuals toward horrific acts. Understanding the complex interplay between childhood trauma, mental health, and criminal behavior is a crucial step in preventing and addressing such atrocities. It also underscores the importance of providing support and intervention for those who have experienced traumatic events during their formative years, as this may help prevent a future marred by violence and suffering.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, Graham Osborn man was found slumped against the railings at 117 Piccadilly. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew why he was there, few knew that had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to more questions than it answered.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'The Green Park'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the corner of Down Street in Piccadilly, SW1; two streets east of the stabbing by the Angel Delight killer, one street north of the pink-suited bully, one street south of the last drink for Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson, and a short walk from the burned mute - coming soon to Murder Mile. A few yards from this corner stands The Athenaeum, a four-star Mayfair hotel, where every guest is greeted by a dapperly dressed doorman; whether they’re a tourist exhausted having been fleeced to within an inch of their wallet by the most expensive city in Europe, or a hideously ugly businessmen who has chaperoned an inexplicably attractive girl (possibly his granddaughter) whose name he can’t recall, to test the springs on his bed for a period of approximately 58 minutes, but not a second more. Coincidentally, the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly is a place where prostitutes often frequent. On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, an unidentified man was found slumped against the railings a few doors down. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew his name, no-one knew why he was there, few knew what had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to unanswered questions. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 229: Dumped. When people talk about the good old days, they claim, “we all knew each other”, “there was no crime”, “you could leave your door open” and “we looked out for one another” - which we all know is utter crap. Almost every murder we’ve covered disproves this theory, and this case is no different, as with no-one coming to the victim’s aid, ‘not wanting to get involved’ is a skill we’ve mastered for centuries. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start of a bank holiday weekend, therefore (as is typical in Britain, even on a God-fuelled day like Good Friday) there had been much merriment and quaffing of booze in the city, as the people got a lot more pissed than usual, especially as for many it was their payday. Being halfway between Piccadilly Circus and Hyde Park, although dark, being dotted with a dull yellow haze of streetlights and the murmur from a smattering of inebriates staggering home from pubs or clubs, the southerly corner of Down Street in Mayfair was as quiet and silent as Green Park opposite. At roughly 2:50am, Ralph Platt, a taxi-driver was circling the West End looking for fares. Passing Down Street, slumped against the cast-iron railings of T Browne at 117 Piccadilly, just shy of the Athenaeum, he saw the all-too-familiar sight of – what looked like – a drunk; his head flopped to one side, his suit all dishevelled, a dark stain down his once white shirt and his legs having buckled underneath him. Like an unwanted ragdoll cast outside for the binmen to collect, several people hadn’t thought to stop or were willing to wake him, so they walked on by – with one said to be “within touching distance”. Only Ralph was concerned, as something didn’t look right. “Mate, are you okay?” With the man’s face as pale as marble and his eyes as sunken as caves, as he slurred his words, Ralph saw that the stain on his chest wasn’t vomit, just as the liquid which seeped down his trouser legs wasn’t urine, but blood, as from a deep steaming wound to his stomach, his intestines poked through. At 2:54am, Ralph got on his radio and called his control room: “Zebra 42 to Dispatch”, “Dispatch here”, “Zebra 42 emergency, injured man at the junction of Down Street and Piccadilly, ambulance required, erm, yeah, better make it quick, he’s been stabbed and he’s losing a lot of blood”. “Roger Zebra 42”. Receiving the call on his radio at 2:55am, PC Coster of West End Central police station arrived at the scene within minutes, quickly followed by an ambulance who – identifying his urgent need for blood - sped this barely conscious man to St George’s Hospital on Hyde Park Corner, just three streets away. Taken to casualty, Dr Millar would state “he was severely shocked and incapable of answering any questions… his abdominal wound was obscured by six feet of small intestine and bowel protruding… and stabbed with a knife to a depth of four inches deep, the blade had penetrated the spine”. Being operated upon and given several blood transfusions, the man was taken to recovery, “but with the knife’s blade having pierced the left lobe of the liver”, at 1:52pm that day, he died of his injuries. With his cause of death being ‘blood loss’, had anyone who had seen him attacked or even those who had walked by as he lay bleeding stopped to see if he was okay, it was likely he may have lived… …but they hadn’t. With his autopsy held at Westminster Public Mortuary, Professor Keith Simpson identified that the blade had “almost completely severed one of the main arteries arising from the aorta at the back of the abdomen”, and although the man was described as “tall and powerfully built”, there were no signs that he had fought back. And with two splits to his eyebrow, a break to his nose and two cuts to his upper lip, it was possible he was punched (not with a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. Alcohol was detected on his breath, but with a blood test unable to confirm how much he had drunk, it didn’t answer why a man with “a superior physique” hadn’t been able to defend against an attack? His murder made no sense at all. With his wallet, his keys and his watch in his pocket, he hadn’t been robbed. With no-one reporting an assault, his attack was quick, probably random and possibly unseen. And with no-one able to confirm where he had been, why he was there, who had attacked him or why, all they knew about this ordinary man - who was possibly drunk and maybe mistaken by a nasty gang of thugs who had pounced on him when he was at his most vulnerable - was a few innocent details: The dead man was Graham John Osborn, a 26-year-old former Guardsman, who being dressed in his traditional bearskin and red tunic had once stood guard outside of Buckingham and St James’ Palaces. But invalided out of the service, until the day he died, he earned an honest wage as a stockman, he was unmarried, he had no children, no criminal record, and he lived with his mother Gladys in Southall. His death made no sense. It seemed accidental and unprovoked… …and yet a code of silence was protecting his killers. The next day, The Daily Telegraph’s headline was ‘Stabbed Man Lay Dying in Piccadilly’ and underneath in bold capital letters the words MURDER HUNT. With the most serious crime having been committed, those who were protecting Graham’s cowardly killers weren’t talking, so the police were appealing to the innocent few who thought they had simply seen a drunk man slumped on the pavement. It read: “for thirty minutes yesterday morning, Graham John Osborn, 26, lay bleeding to death on the pavement in Piccadilly, with people passing by him before police and an ambulance were called. Last night, Police inquiries became a murder hunt”, meaning this was no longer an assault, this was serious. Having ignited a pang of guilt, it continued “Detective Superintendent Manning took charge and today detectives were visiting shelters and coffee stalls used by taxi-drivers to attempt to trace witnesses”. And it worked, as having ignited a sympathy for the dead man and assuring any possible witnesses that there was something they could do, a flood of taxi-drivers came forward, as well as passersby. The article continued: “Scotland Yard appeal for any person who was in the vicinity of Down Street and Piccadilly between 2:20am and 3am yesterday to tell the police immediately… especially those who gathered around Osborn, who was bleeding heavily from a deep stab wound to the stomach”. Having read that and felt ashamed, who wouldn’t call? And so, as those who weren’t held by the code of silence spoke, the mystery over who had murdered Graham Osborn slowly began to unravel. Martin McEvoy, a man of no job nor fixed abode who was walking towards Hyde Park Corner from Green Park Station would state “I saw a young redhaired girl and that man arguing with each other”. The man he positively identified as Graham Osborn, and given the detailed description of the girl he had given and the fact that the corner of Down Street - just to the side of the Athenaeum Hotel - was a popular hangout for prostitutes, officers at West End Central police station had one woman in mind. With a second witness, Andrew Fairlie, the night porter at the Athenaeum corroborating that sighting and with several sex-workers confirming her whereabouts that night, Police questioned 24-year-old Daphne Gillian Cantley, a flamed haired prostitute from Earls Court who was known locally as ‘Bobby’. Clearly terrified, at first, she denied it was her, or that she was even there. But with the Police agreeing to keep her details out of the papers for fear of reprisals, and her guarded at an undisclosed address by a flank of officers, Bobby gave a statement. And although her recall of her encounter with Graham was incredibly detailed, unsurprisingly, her memory of his attackers was patchy and hazy, at best… …but she did give a name. “I only knew one of the men”, she said, describing him as “25 to 30, medium height, stockily built”, but unable to recognise the other: “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to him because I had been crying and was shaking a great deal, but as far as I know, the guardsman and Chick were strangers”. All they had was a vague description and a nickname – Chick. But who was Chick? By the next day, as the name ‘Chick’ echoed across the newspapers as well as every television set, the city buzzed as people started asking ‘who’s Chick’ and ‘where is he hiding’? So worried were local hoodlums of being wrongly accused of murder, that many handed themselves in with satisfactory alibis, and with the description specific enough, even the killers were looking over their shoulders. At an insalubrious hangout called the Cockney Café at Back Church Lane in Stepney, seeing the name ‘Chick’ plastered over the TV news, a labourer called Terry Kenny turned to his pal, a 27-year-old street trader called ‘Chick’ who confided “I’m in bit of bother cos of that bloke in the ‘dilly who got stabbed”. Chick was a wanted man… …and having confessed, “oh Terry, I swear on my baby’s life, it wasn’t me’, although an accomplice, it wasn’t Chick who had murdered Graham Osborn, but a friend who he had unwisely chosen to protect. Born in Poplar, East London on 1st of March 1932, nicknamed ‘Chick’, his real name was William James Joyce. Named after the Irish author, as a young criminal for whom the borstal system had taught him nothing but theft, Chick wouldn’t gain any notoriety as his criminal acts were petty and pointless. In 1950, aged 18, he was fined 40 shillings for dodging the tax on imported cigarettes. In 1952, he was charged with GBH, car theft, housebreaking and larceny, as well as illicit gambling in 1956 and 1957. Of the eight years since he had turned 18, as he had spent four months in prison and four years bound over or on a conditional discharge, many might say, he was a Jack of all trades and a master of none. He was a minor criminal with a violent streak, but he hadn’t committed a murder. The guilty party was his friend, 26-year-old William Henry Heathcote, known as ‘Billy’. Described as cocky and arrogant, like Chick, in the eight years since he had turned 18, Billy had spent three years in borstal and just over three years in prison, for a baffling array of thefts which suggested if it wasn’t nailed down he would nab it, including; groceries, two shoes, a pair of gloves, four shirts, a camera, typewriter, a ophthalmoscope and a pair of bathing trunks, as well as being in possession of cannabis and living off the earnings of prostitution, with the next crime added to his rap-sheet being murder. A fruitless shield of criminal fear hadn’t help to protect them both from a murder investigation. And even though it was only one of them who had plunged the knife into Graham Osborn’s guts… …together, their cockiness would convict both. In the minutes after the murder, although a code of silence would protect them, they weren’t exactly silent about their crime. In a busy billiard hall on Great Windmill Street, Bobby the flame-haired sex-worker was heard to utter “thanks Chick, I won’t forget that” to the two out-of-breath men. She later told Margaret Welstead, another prostitute and her husband John what had happened, and seeing three Police cars speed towards the crime-scene, Chick stated “I’ve been in a little bit of trouble”. While still wearing his bloodstained clothes, Billy admitted to the server at the Bruno Café in Stepney, “the Police are looking for us, there’s been a right old rumpus”, as about him lay the latest news article about the murder, and then they both admitted to their girlfriends “I didn’t do it, it was Chick/Billy”. It wasn’t hard to track them down. Searching both flats, Police found the clothes they wore that night, including Billy’s jacket and shirt which had spots of Group A blood on the left sleeve, and several spots on the inside of Chick’s jacket, all an identical blood group to Graham, but not to Chick or Billy. Yanked out of bed, when the detective identified himself, Chick grinned “the papers say you’re looking for me” and as Billy was led away, he bragged “it’s nothing, I’ll be home tonight”. But with no knife found, what the Police needed was a witness and a confession, which was easier said than done. On Sunday 30th of March, both men were questioned. Cocky to the last, Billy laughed as the detective’s questions, and when asked “where were you at half past two on Good Friday?”, whilst lying down, he spat “fuck off cop, you’re wasting your time. I’m as safe as the fucking bank”, as all innocent men say. Having identified Chick as one of the men, to prove Billy’s guilt, they put him in an ID parade at West Central police station. As Martin McEvoy was yet to come forward, the first witness was Andrew Fairlie the night porter at the Atheneum Hotel, who (in fairness) hadn’t seen much so he didn’t pick him out. The second was Bobby, the redheaded prostitute. Released under guard from a police safe house, as she stood in the station’s courtyard before a line of eight men of similar appearance, she visibly shook. Hesitantly walking up the line from left to right, with Billy being the last man, as she crept nearer, with her voice trembling “no, that’s not him” to each man before her, seeing the scowl on his face, before she could speak, “she staggered back and collapsed into the arms of the inspector, who carried out”. In the line-up, no-one identified Billy. On Tuesday 1st April, although a lack of conclusive evidence meant a conviction was on shaky ground, unable to prove who had stabbed Graham Osborn, both Billy and Chick were charged with the murder. Terrified that he was about to lose his life for a crime he hadn’t commit, with a new witness giving a statement, when Billy was questioned again, he spat “I see, so Chick has opened his mouth. I’m not afraid of him. He’s well known as a grass. If he puts it on me, I shall put it on him”. And with that, both men blamed the other, the code of silence fell, and they told the Police a story that no-one expected. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start the Bank Holiday. Being British, a smattering headed to church and prayed, most overate and watched the box, while the rest of the country got royally smashed. For Bobby, it was business as usual, as she hung about on the corner of Down Street, hoping to pick-up a punter after the post-pub surge of horny gits had all headed home to their unwitting wives. She’d state “I arrived down there to start business… I noticed this man to the right of me near the bus stop. I didn’t take much notice of him. He hailed a taxi which stopped right by me on the zebra crossing”. The man was Graham Osborn, he was a stranger to her, but then most of her customers were. “I don’t know whether he was worse for drink”, Bobby said, “or he was going to do something wrong. He was behaving very strangely. His eyes were glazed and a staring look in his eyes caused me to be very frightened. When I declined to go with him, he got aggressive. I was frightened for my life…”. By then, Martin McEvoy the passerby who had admitted he was “within touching distance”, saw Bobby & Graham arguing, and yet – like too many people who didn’t want to get involved – he did nothing. Bobby was terrified as Graham attacked her: “he pushed me into the back seat of the taxi. I tried to get out and he threw me back in”, her mind racing with fear she was about to be raped. And although, the cab driver sat barely inches away, “I screamed… but he didn’t even attempt to help”. Having got out, although she was crying desperately, “the taxi just drove away”. That driver was never identified. And yet, Bobby’s terror was far from over. With the taxi gone, she was alone on an almost empty street with a well-built former-Guardsman who wanted to do her harm, “he had me against the railings”. And although, just yards away, Andrew Fairlie the porter at the Atheneum had come out at the sound of the commotion, he also did nothing. What was on Graham’s mind will never be known, but based on his actions, he was desperate to do unspeakable things to Bobby, a lone woman who three men had ignored as she screamed in terror. It was then, as she initially stated that “two boys” came to her aid. Understandably fearful, she claimed she only knew one of them by nickname - “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to Chick” - and the other she had collapsed before she could identify him to the Police. But later, she would admit the truth. “I bumped into Chick and Billy. I said ‘Chick, I’ve been attacked in a taxi, please help me. I think he’s coming for me again”, as Graham stalked toward her. “Chick said ‘you’ll be alright now’”. And as the two men confronted her cowardly assailant; words were said, voices were raised and chests shoved, as Chick shouted, “what’s your game, mate?’, and Graham arrogantly spat “what’s the fucks it to you?” Bobby’s recollection of the fight was fuzzy and muddled, stating “Chick grabbed the man by the lapels and nutted him a couple of times with his head”, breaking his nose and cracking the bridge of his eyes, which the pathologist had said was caused (not by a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. And although, Bobby would state “Billy hit the man in the stomach with his hand and then ran. I never saw a knife”, with Martin admitting “I saw a knife and it going into his stomach. It just went in and out fast through the man’s shirt. I was just walking by at the time. I was within touching distance”. Having confirmed that he knew Chick, he’d state “he was one of the two men. I couldn’t identify the other”. And there lied the problem, as for a short while, a code of silence had protected the killers of Graham Osborn. But as the men who had defended Bobby from her possible rapist, that same code of silence and ‘fear of getting involved’ would risk two men being convicted of murder; one who was guilty… … and the other, who was not. (Out) Having been committed for trial at Bow Street Magistrates Court on the 4th April, barely a week later, as Chick was led away in a police car, although Detective Manning suggested to Chick “keep your head down son, there’s photographers outside”, he bragged “I couldn’t care fucking less. My solicitor knows all about it. I admit to nutting the guy and I’ll do 18 months for GBH. But it was Billy who knifed him”. But with both men blaming each other in court, neither of the witnesses able to confirm who held the knife, and the knife itself having never been found, although there was irrefutable evidence (such as the blood on their clothes and several key witnesses) that a fight had occurred between Chick, Billy and Graham that night on that corner of Piccadilly, the jury had no option but to find them both guilty. With the trial held at The Old Bailey on the 26th of May 1959, on the 20th of June, both William Henry Heathcote known as ‘Billy’ and William James Joyce nicknamed ‘Chick’ were given life sentences for Graham Osborn’s murder… with no charges of assault posthumously brought against the dead man. Their convictions brought about a resolution to the case and having served their time, they were later released. But the evidence left more questions than answers; one being ‘why were the witnesses so fearful of Chick and Billy’, the other being ‘why did Graham attack Bobby’, and last ‘why did they kill Graham, were they merely rescuing a woman, or - if her pimps - were they protecting their product?’ It’s a question which will never be answered, as with no-one coming to either victim’s aid, nor ‘wanting to get involved’ (a skill we’ve mastered for centuries), the only two who know the truth are Chick & Billy. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT:
In the early hours of Sunday 3rd of February 1856, William Bousfield, a part-time tobacconist and wannabe actor mercilessly murdered his wife and three children as they slept. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his family?
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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 is marked with a horrible bird poo coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Oxford Street'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on D’Arblay Street in Soho, W1; one road north of the second killing by the Blackout Ripper, one street west of the porn robbery by the randy Canadian sailor, a few doors from the racist attack on Brian Robinson, and the same street as the gentle garroter - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 4 D’Arblay Street on the ground-floor of a four-storey Georgian terrace currently stands Crème, a cookie shop. Only these are not those nasty British biscuits-like splats which are as flat as roadkill, as hard as tarmac and blessed with one flavour – sickly sweet. These are big fat gooey cookies, thick like muffins and soft like pillows, which melt-in-the-mouth and make you wish that diets didn’t exist. Yum. Being popular, you’ll often see long lines of eager-eyes keen to peep into through this curved window to drool over the gorgeous treats created within. And yet, it’s hard to stomach the fact that such an abhorrent brutal crime could have been committed where such sumptuous cookies are lovingly baked. Back in 1856, this was a prosperous tobacconist shop ran by mother-of-three, Sarah Bousfield. She worked long hours to support her three children, and many said, also her husband William, a pointless little man who dreamed of fame rather than fulfilling his responsibility as a father and as a husband. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his entire family? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 228: William Bousfield and the Price of Fame. Everyone has a plan of what they wish their life to be, some achieve it, others don’t; some seek fame and fortune, others want routine and stability; and whereas some will fight to the death to ensure the safety of their loved ones, others will do the unthinkable when their dream drifts out of reach. Sarah was born in Westminster in 1827, the only child of John & Ann Jones. From her father, being a carpenter from South Wales who ran a successful joinery and purchased several properties earning an income as the landlord, he instilled in her a solid work ethic. From her mother, a native of Chelsea, she inherited a sense of love and – described as pleasant, friendly and affectionate, as well as an industrious girl – she had a devotion to her family which would never be split apart, except by tragedy. Sarah had brains and business-sense in an era when a woman’s place was solely as a mother, a wife, or (if she was a widow or a spinster) to earn a meagre pittance doing menial work. But as the perfect harmony of both parents, alone she could have done well. But with a big part of her life’s dream to marry and have children, that part of her dream required a man, whose name was William Bousfield. How and where they met is unknown. But having impressed both Sarah and her parents, he must have played the part of a loyal lover and a future breadwinner well, as they all liked him and loved him. Whether it was all an act or a role he was willing to play for a time, again is unknown. But for the first few years of their marriage, William would perform the part of a husband and father as best he could. As a native of Marylebone, William’s upbringing is mostly unrecorded as although raised with two sisters, he didn’t seem to be the epitome of loyal loving son, but a boy who exasperated his parents. Described as “being of a repulsive aspect”, he seemed taller than his 5-foot 8-inch frame suggested as his body was as thin as a witch’s broom and his pale face had the hollowed-out features of a ghost. And as a quiet and sullen man who was often lost in his thoughts, his conversations were punctuated by a blowing wind or the puff of his pipe, rather than words which unravelled the workings of his mind. Since his school years, his baffled parents had attempted to get this idle boy into a profession, first as an errand boy for a tradesman called Mortimer on The Strand (although he liked to lie that he was in fact a carpenter, when he wasn’t), and later as an office boy at a solicitor’s rising to the role of a clerk. But raised in the shadow of the blossoming West End theatres, as William yawned over spreadsheets, it wasn’t a desk-job he yearned for, but to tread the boards. As far back as he could recall, William had wanted to be an actor, to take his curtain call and to savour the sound as an adoring crowd applauds. Only his dream was not to be. Dubbed by his furious father as a “silly little hobby”, acting was not seen an honest career for a decent man by civilised society, but on the same level as whoring oneself on the street for a few coins. So, with William’s hopes of being a stage prancer or (God forbid) a singer at his parent’s discretion, fearing that their neighbours would ask ‘what’s wrong with the boy’, his dreams were royally stamped out. William’s life would be thus; to be born, to marry, to have children, and to die… …but with that little seed of a dream still alive, big problems had begun. In the winter of 1849, William Bousfield married Sarah Jones, becoming Mr & Mrs Bousfield. With one of Sarah’s dreams fulfilled and their first child conceived on their wedding night, this was the wake-up call which should have jolted William from his daze and made him the man his family would deserve. But having married without his father’s permission, with his parents disowned as an argument ensued, there was no-one left to force him to endure a dull job and to hold back his dreams… or so he thought. On the 16th of December 1849, Anne Eleanor Bousfield was born; as a healthy girl, unlike many others she was raised in a loving family home by a doting mother and adored by her grandparents John & Anne. But from her own father William? Sometimes he held and fed her, but little more than that. A neighbour stated: “he was fond of his children, but not excessively so”. And with the same said of his love of his wife, in the places where William failed as a husband, Sarah’s father had to step in. Described by another neighbour as “a good man, who always showed his daughter the most marked kindness and supplied her with everything they required”, Sarah and her children would never suffer any hunger or poverty, even though John would state “William has not earned a day’s wage in years”. William’s work ethic was non-existent, as although he had briefly trained as a French polisher, like many of life’s dreamers, he had his business-cards made up, but had no intention of doing the job. Unable to pay the rent or even a few basic bills, John, Sarah’s father purchased the family a ground-floor flat at 4 D’Arblay Street in Soho, and wisely moved himself and his wife into the flat above. As a small practical lodging, it had two purposes. In the back parlour, next to a cast-iron fire for cooking and heating, and a warm horsehair bed where William, Sarah and Anne would sleep, they had a place to live, but also, out front, a thriving business. Having purchased a tobacconist which sold tobacco, pipes and papers as expected, but also the essentials like logs and kindling – with their brood soon to be followed by Eliza in January 1852, and John in July 1855 - it was hoped that given a shop of his own, William could provide his family with an income and become a good father and a loving husband. It was hoped… …but hope is a cruel word. Having neglected his business as much as his role as a breadwinner, being “a worthless idle fellow” as his own wife would call him, Sarah & William had frequent fights, and with William unable to provide much (if anything) for this family, although she was a busy mother to three children all under the age of six and with one still suckling at her breast, Sarah ran the tobacconists. From dawn till dusk, she bathed the kids, she made the meals, she sewed their clothes, and having opened the shop – often with her little one’s at her feet when her mother couldn’t babysit - she served the customers, she purchased the goods, she made the money, and she got the babies ready for bed. Her days were long and exhausting, and with their marriage decaying as William’s nights were spent in a fruitless search for the wrong kind of work, Sarah & William had begun to sleep in separate beds. In a last attempt to get William into a job, around the same time, Sarah’s father had purchased him a set of workman’s tools, including a chisel. Made of iron with a wooden handle and an unblemished cutting edge sharp enough to sever the hardest grain, it was a chisel William would only use once… …to end the life of his wife. At this point, it would be expected that William’s descent into multiple murder would be preceded by a spiral of drink, depression and rage. Only, with no history of insanity, William was not a violent drunk or a drug addict, but a sullen man who was fixated on one thing - his dream of becoming an actor. During the first part of the winter of 1855 – a winter so cold it was dubbed ‘the great frost’ - William was working on a paltry wage of five shillings-a-week at The Princesses’ Theatre at 150 Oxford Street. That year, he performed in a pantomime, only – as neither a gifted actor nor (being quite taciturn) too quiet to project his voice - his name was not on the poster. Billed as ‘a young man’, William was little more than a background artiste, whose silent performance was there to add colour to each scene. He had no lines except for what he mimed, and he had no purpose except as a dash of window dressing. By January, with the newly rebuilt Royal Opera House in Covent Garden opening, William got work as a silent set-filler for ‘Professor Anderson’ the infamous magician billed as ‘the Wizard of the North’. As a polite young man, he didn’t chat with his fellow thespians. As a boy, he didn’t fraternise with any of the dancers. And as an actor, he wasn’t the best; as with his performance described as “lacking energy”, he found it difficult to even smoke authentically on set, even though he smoked at home. With a show every evening, plus a matinee every Wednesday and Saturday, although busy but earning a pittance, the only time he saw his wife and children was in bed, or in the tobacconist’s shop, where – as a charming young woman, who was bright, chatty and knew that the best way to keep her mostly male customers coming back was to engage them in a bit of banter - he didn’t like the role she played. Taught by her father who was a shrewd businessman, Sarah knew how to be polite and professional, she knew how to be friendly without being too familiar, and she knew how to be a little flirtatious as a striking young woman, but as a loyal mother dedicated to her three children, that’s all it ever was. It was only through his simmering jealousy that William was ever seen to be working in the shop, to act as a barrier between the wife he claimed to love and the customers he had learned to loathe. And yet, his suspicion was all in his mind, as Mrs Bennett, the second-floor lodger would state “several times he told me she was too free with her customers, he did not like the young fellows coming into the shop on that count”, when in truth “it was they who would rather be served by her, than by him”. With a mix of his laziness and her (perceived) infidelity, over the last few months of their marriage, they argued a lot, but it never got physical, and being unhappy together, Mr & Mrs Bousfield went through the motions - a successful tobacconist and a failed actor living apart in the same house. And yet, just a few weeks into the show’s theatrical run… …William brought the curtain down upon all of their lives. Saturday 2nd of February 1856 was an unremarkable day, as the only bitterness in the air was the biting wind as the great frost lingered on, and with snow under foot, all manner of feet precariously walked. At breakfast, they argued as they often did, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. And being Saturday, between his matinee performance and the evening show, William made his moody presence known in the shop, as a slew of young tradesmen came in to buy tobacco and to attempt to flirt with his wife. At 7:30pm, a witness heard them quarrelling over Sarah being ‘improper’, “I had not the slightest idea it was anything more serious than usual”, he said, and having made up, they went about their jobs. If those few bickering words had been the spark which ignited his rage and left four innocents dead, then his actions that followed and his performance at the theatre would have been off, only it wasn’t. He played his role, he fetched some milk, and through the snow he walked home to 4 D’Arblay Street. At 10:30pm, John saw William in the back parlour. With Sarah having gone out to get butter, 6-year-old Anne asleep in their bed and 4-year-old Eliza snuggled-up beside her, as William bounced their restless 8-month-old son John on his knee, he was said to be “calm and cheerful”. Thirty minutes later, Sarah returned, she was laughing and chatting, and having shut up the shop, they both went to bed. That night would be the first night that they had all shared a bed together in months, and according to the other lodgers in the house, “they bickered a little, but there was nothing odd in his manner”. With not a sound heard, no-one in that house (not the lodgers nor her parents) had any idea about the horrors which had occurred, and with six hours unaccounted for, the truth may never be known. (Night sounds, church bell, wind… …then footsteps in snow). As the dawn chorus broke and the church bell struck seven, with an odd calmness, William walked the ten-minute walk from his home to Bow Street police station. Described as sober yet distressed, when PC Fudge asked why he was here, William simply said “to give myself up. I have murdered my wife”. Pleading for the PC to kill him and to ease his pain, although an inch-long wound had been slit across his neck and a second was still flowing freely from a slash to his left wrist, not all of the blood was his. Across his aghast face, down his gulping throat, over his once white shirt and with a thick red goo dried into crusts on his shivering hands, he wasn’t delusional when he gave them his address, just distraught. Accompanied by PC Fudge, as the carriage carrying Inspector Dodd drove into D’Arblay Street, he was shocked to see this road so quiet, as still silently sleeping, a crowd hadn’t been roused by the murder. With the door locked, Inspector Dodd knocked, waking what he thought was a first-floor lodger. “Who are you? What is this racket about?”, as unaware that the Welshman was the victim’s father, Inspector Dodd bluntly stated “Police! A murder had been committed in the back parlour”, startling him awake. Unbolting the parlour door, along the shop’s stone floor lay spots of dried blood as a line of handprints daubed the walls with red smears. In his agony, John called out “Sarah?! Sarah?!”, but he got no reply. With the candles dead and the shutters drawn, the room was dark. With the fire out and a howling wind, it was deathly cold. And with no life heard, in the bed lay a silent lump under a woollen sheet. Touching his daughter’s pale and bloodied face, his fingers knew that she was dead, long dead, as not a breath rose from her body nor steam from the deep long wound which had ripped open her neck. James Hadaway, a surgeon from Berwick Street examined her in situ: “it had divided the skin and all of the soft parts down to the fourth and fifth vertebrae and splitting the carotid artery”. Inflicted using a razor, this initial wound had occurred as she slept, only her other wounds were more hateful. “It appeared there had been an intention to bleed the woman to death… with three cuts to the left elbow which had bifurcated the artery and two to the right, these were made to open the veins”, but with her heart found empty of blood, instead he stabbed her in the face, as if to deface her in death. For John, aside from the tragedy of losing his child was the irony that she had been murdered with the tool he had brought William to help him find work – as on the pillow, lay the chisel, drenched in blood. With the bedsheets disheveled and her blood spattered up the walls, what concerned the Inspector was why she had no defensive wounds upon her. In the minutes she had lived, she had fought for her life; only with her nails intact, no fingers broken and no slashes to her hands, why did she not fight back? It was only when he had moved her slowly stiffening body that he realised the reason why. As a good mother, a loving woman and her children’s sole protector, as William’s razor slit a four-inch-long wound across her throat and her bloodied airways gasped and gagged for an ounce of oxygen, her only thought was to protect her babies. And although she had shielded them as-best-she-could; Anne aged six, Eliza aged four and John who was only eight months old, all had their throats slit. With their bodies removed to the St James’ workhouse, back at Bow Street, William was arrested for the murder of his entire family. Confined to the Middlesex House of Detention, he gave no reason for his crimes, instead he repeatedly struck his head against the mantlepiece and cried “kill me, kill me”. With the inquest held at St James’ workhouse, so feverish were the locals to see justice, that the board room was full, the street was crammed with crowds, and the Police had officers guarding the house. Giving evidence, John could barely speak as his tears choked his voice, and with the jury having stood in stoney silence as in the freezing morgue the four bloodied bodies were splayed out before them, after a short deliberation, they returned a verdict of murder, and William was committed for trial. Paid for by a deluge of public donations, with Poland Street impassable, a series of black horse-drawn carriages lined up at the back of the workhouse morgue on Dufour’s Place. Weeping and furious, as the crowds jostled nearer, suddenly a hushed silence descended over the people, as through the door, four coffins emerged in ever decreasing sizes – with one so small, a single pallbearer held it in his arms. Sarah, Anne, Eliza and John were all buried in a single grave in West Brompton Cemetery. His trial at the Old Bailey was a mere formality, as declared sane, his guilt was evident. And described as “a most dreadful character”, although there was an absence of motive, he was sentenced to death. Throughout he was said to be “overwhelmed with grief”. Upon hearing his sentence, it is said that he had nearly fainted and had to be removed by a jailer. From Newgate prison, he callously wrote a letter to Sarah’s grieving father blaming her murder on her alleged adultery. And with his appeal denied, on Saturday 29th of March at 4pm, just one day before his execution, he attempted to take his own life. According to the turnkey, whilst sat in his bed staring intently at the fire, “he threw himself headfirst into the grate”; as the flames scorched his hair, the hot coals seared his skin, and - as the room stunk of burning flesh - his face became a mass of bubbling wounds which popped and spat like hot fat. But having been rescued within seconds, his fate wouldn’t be decided in this room, but at the gallows. Therefore it’s odd that, for William Bousfield whose deadly dream was of being an actor… …that he would fail to realise that his greatest performance was yet to come. On Sunday 30th of March 1856 at 6am, he rose from his prison bed, had his wounds bathed, and with his last request being “a little wine at breakfast”, the Sherrif, the Reverand and the Governor came to collect him. Only William, unless he was faking, was not well, as “held to a chair by two aides with one wiping a frothy liquid from his mouth, he appeared to be in a dying state, his limbs refusing to work”. Whether this was a symptom of his burns, a cunning ploy or just cowardliness, we shall never know. But although the doctor declared “his pulse was low, but his arteries were active”, with his face still red, blistered and swollen, although described as “an appalling sight”, his execution was imminent, At 8am, having to be carried to the scaffold by four men, with two at his arms and two at his legs, with a hemp noose around his scorched neck (which still bled from his tender burns); the Reverand read from the burial service, the prison bell rang its deathly toll, and the 5000 strong crowd fell silent. Only his death wouldn’t be a quick and kindly act of compassion, as with William Calcraft famed as an executioner who - like William – was a showman, seeing these executions as a form of entertainment rather than an act of punishment, as the crowd sat supping beer, he would wow them with his cruelty. So, with his hands and legs tied, as Calcraft removed the bolt, William Bousfield dropped… …only he didn’t fall a few feet as his neck snapped, but mere inches as his throat was strangled. Seeing his body twisting and flinching in pained agony as his bodyweight pulled on his neck, the crowd roared with glee as the man dangled, this being a joyous bit of entertainment as they ate with their picnics. And although it took most men several minutes to die, the show was far from over, as having somehow swung his feet up, as William secured himself precariously on the scaffold - the crowd cheered. Seeing his act of rebellion, Calcraft kicked his legs so his strangling could continue – and so the crowd booed. And so this went on, for several minutes, William swinging his legs up, and Calcraft kicking them off. Upon his fourth attempt at saving his skin and ten full minutes into his torture, as William exhaustedly stood there wobbling upon a slim slip of wood – with the crowd growing ever restless as his protracted agony descended from a bit of harmless fun to an act of wanton cruelty – keen to end it quick and to appease the turning masses, Calcraft threw himself at William’s legs, and with his 16-stone of weight, he hung off them. As for the next few minutes, William’s body was gripped in a convulsive twitch… …until suddenly, he went very still. Buried in an unmarked grave inside Newgate Prison, the last sound he possibly heard was the applause of the crowd, which marked the curtain call of William Bousfield. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN:
This is 19-25 Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7. In the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick, by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and cash. It should have been a simple robbery for two simple boys… …but being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7; two roads north of the unsolved killing of Countess Lubienska, just a few roads west of the murder of Detective Sergeant Raymond Purdy, and a short walk north of the union rep’ who blew the whistle to early - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 19 to 25 Harrington Gardens currently stands ‘The Other House’, a six-storey mid-Victorian terrace which (like it once was) is a residents’ club, where posh patrons enjoy the privilege of living in a hotel room for the year, without being blighted by their snot-nosed brats or nightly fights with their spouse. Imagine that, the bedsheets in your second home changed daily by a maid, a boy stocks your minibar with free Toblerone’s and you can even leave your skanky pants by the door for the valet to clean. Joy. Little has changed since 1954 when this was the Aban Court Hotel, a mid-level hotel for passing trades and long-term residents which catered for 1950s tastes; serving pies and puddings for dinner in the carvery, daily newspapers delivered to your door, and you could even buy cigarettes at the reception. For many, it was a place of safety in a hectic city. But in the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick; by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and the safe containing £700 (or £24,000 today). Only being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 227: Silly Little Boys. This isn’t the story of a well-planned heist by hardened criminals hellbent on making a million, but two silly little boys from different backgrounds, who – being unable and unwilling to do even a decent day’s work for an honest wage - decided to take the easy-way-out and to steal it… no matter the risk. Kenneth Gilbert was born on 9th May 1932 in London, as the ‘illegitimate son of Hilda Gilbert’ according to the fragments which were recorded on his rather sparse birth certificate before he was abandoned. With no home, family or plan, Ted (as he liked to be called) drifted through life, unkempt and ruffled, with the few words he rarely spoke often grunted in a coarse and offhand manner. With no friends to chat to or hobbies to occupy his mind, he kept to himself and remained tight-lipped about everything. Assessed by a prison psychiatrist, Ted was described as “having a limited vocabulary and knowledge… he needs prompting in conversation… and his powers of judgement and reasoning are poor”. Raised in public institutions, aged 12, he was sent to borstal to be ’disciplined’. Imprisoned amidst grey concrete walls and thick iron bars, his education was to be barked at and beaten for disobedience (so it’s no surprise he was described as ‘a bully who resented authority’) and forced to work on a farm. As a troubled orphan who no-one wanted to deal with, he was bounced between approved schools in Rhyl, Liverpool, Nottingham, and having escaped from Salterford Senior, on 18th August of 1949, aged 17, he was committed to two more years of borstal training, where he was described as “difficult”. The system which should have been there to protect Ted had failed, and spawning an angry young man who was lost and hopeless, it was decided that what he needed was a stricter form of discipline. On 17th April 1952, released on licence from borstal (and therefore branding him a criminal), Ted was enlisted into the Royal Army Veterinary Corp at the Central Ordnance Depot at Chilwell in Nottingham, where again he was barked at by bullies, who he was forced to serve food to in the officer’s mess hall. Within three months, being described as ‘undisciplined’ and ‘mentally dull’, he was sent to the Army psychiatrist who recommended his discharge after 187 days service, unwisely stating “treatment after discharge is not necessary, but he may need assistance in settling into civilian life”… only he got none. On the 20th of October 1952, 20-year-old Ted was dumped in the bustling city of London; skilled only in farm work, he drifted between hostels and half-way-houses, he struggled to hold down menial jobs as a hotel porter, a trawlerman, a boiler stoker, and he had to see his probation officer once a week. On the 30th of April 1953, at the County of London Sessions, he was sentenced to two years’ probation for shop breaking and theft. On 13th of November 1953 in Grimsby, he was fined £3 for assault. And since he could remember, Ted had no purpose, and although silent, underneath lay a bubbling rage. Three months after his discharged, he met Ian Grant. Fifteen months later… …they were both charged with murder. As a spoilt child from a good family, Ian’s life was the mirror opposite of Ted’s, so it’s odd to see that both boys ended up in the same place; committing a petty crime for cash and taking a good man’s life. Ian Arthur Grant was born in Surrey on the 30th of December 1929, the only child of well-adjusted and middle-class parents who lived a nice life in a quaint village and gave him whatever he wanted when he wanted it. Only fine foods and limitless toys don’t always make for a good child, as being ‘spoiled rotten’, Ian was prone to temper tantrums and tears being a mummy’s boy who could do no wrong. Seen as a poor scholar, thanks to his parent’s financial security, he was sent to boarding school where - some say - a child gets the best education but denied any love it creates an intelligent but emotional husk of a human lacking in empathy, and that – being little more than a posh-boy’s borstal – it’s where many parents who can’t be bothered to raise their child, pay a series of strangers to do the dirty work. Unsurprisingly - like Ted – as he lacked any skills, order and focus, his downfall wasn’t his sullenness, far from it, as lacking the maturity to be silent for a single second, Ian was a chatterbox who would talk to anyone about anything just for the sake of filling the sound of nothing and making conversation. Leaving school, his expensive education was of little benefit, as failing to hold down a menial job as a factory machinist at the Marconi plant, this was followed by several short periods as a hotel porter. In May 1948, aged 19, with military conscription still enforced – like Ted – he was enlisted against his will into the Army, but described as “unstable”, “immature” and a “dull useless youth”, after seven months he was discharged, and he was dumped in London with no money, no skills and no purpose. What set both boys apart was that – although a product of a fractured family – as a respectable middle-class businessman, as Ian drifted between mindless jobs and filthy hostels, his father always stepped in to make his life easier and – hopefully – bring this petty selfish jabber-mouth back on the right path. When Ian struggled to cope with his mother’s death, his father sought the assistance of his probation officer. In April 1951, when Ian was arrested for car-theft, his father had the charge dropped having had Ian dealt with under the Mental Deficiency Act. Described by Dr Watterson as ‘not certifiable’ or ‘feeble minded’ but ‘dull and backward’, although they had tried to re-adjust him back into family life with his father and his stepmother, in September 1951 he left home and drifted towards Kensington. As young foolish men with no-one there to guide them, although two very different boys who were raised in very different ways, having both moved into a hostel at 90 Harwood Road in Fulham, Ian and Ted had found their kindred spirit. Later sharing a room and becoming the best of friends, they held down regular jobs as porters at the Ideal Home Exhibition, and earning an okay wage, they did well. But being restless and easily led, believing they had dreamed-up the perfect crime… …soon these best friends would be executed together. To say that the robbery was doomed to failure would have been an understatement. Ten days prior, with Ted short on cash as the exhibition was in-between events, he said to Ian “how about breaking into the Aban Court Hotel?”. As Ted had worked there as a boiler stoker for a full three months, he claimed he had seen where the head receptionist had hid 2500 cigarettes which they could easily sell, as well as the key to the safe containing £700, or £24,000 today, a year’s salary for both. Ted said “I had seen this girl put the money in a tin box and I thought she kept it in the reception’s drawer. I knew the run of the place and how to get in without breaking anything. I knew I could get over the railing and down into the basement through the stokehole without having to break any door”. Trusting Ted, Ian decided to go along with this half-witted heist for the sake of some ciggies and a paltry stash of cash, “as Ted knew how to get into the hotel without force and no-one would get hurt”. And over the following nights of what would be little more than a week, they chatted it over… a bit. Ted said, “I decided we’d do the job on Monday night, as the stock of coke would be low”, which was smart, as at night, every window and door was locked, and any smashed glass would raise the alarm. But with the basement boiler being coal-powered, having been the stoker, he knew that the coal hatch facing Harrington Gardens was always unlocked and that no-one would ever think to check it. Again, the timing was solid, as Ted said, “I decided the best time to break in was midnight to 1am, as I know that there would only be one porter on duty”, which there was. Aged 53, prone to drinking five pints of bitter before his shift and currently struggling with a chronic bout of bronchitis, George Smart was the night porter and until at least 7am the following morning, he would be by himself. Having got to know George’s timings during his night shift, Ted knew when and how to overpower him, where to tie him up, and having robbed the ciggies and cash, they’d be gone before anyone knew. “I told Ian that after we go to the dining room, we wait for the Hoover to start up”, as George always vacuum-cleaned the carpets at roughly 1am, and that this familiar sound makes for a good distraction. To lure him over, “from the back of the lift” where the switch was “we’d turn off the light, slam the door and call George over”, and with his back to the dining room door, “I’d grab him and lock him in the telephone box” near the reception. Tying his hands and feet, gagging his mouth and using a length of bandage to seal the door shut, “then we would go over the place and get what we could”. Job done. With the tools (a length of string and a crepe bandage) in their pockets, as well as the cunning disguise of a handkerchief to cover their faces and flat caps for their heads, the plan itself was not the problem. On paper, it was a simple robbery for a small reward in which no-one should get hurt… …only the problem was that these weren’t expert criminals, but silly little boys. Monday 8th March 1954 was a classic British day, with the weather a mix of chilly and drizzle. At 11pm, the boys left their hostel and strolled 30 minutes north-east, but with the street still a little busy as two policemen patrolled, “we walked around for half an hour before heading to the Aban Court hotel”. From the outside, the door was locked, the windows were shut, few lights were on, and there was no noise emanating except for the soft sounds of patron’s sleeping and the clunk of the basement boiler. Ian said, “we climbed over an iron gate at the side of the hotel in Harrington Gardens, then down some steps”, their faces covered by patterned cotton handkerchiefs like the highway bandits of yesteryear. Creaking open the wooden hatch to the stoke hole which was hidden under the footway, as predicted the coke level was low making it easy for the boys to clamber over, but owing to tonnes of black coal covered in a powdery but sometimes thick syrupy goo, they left prints across everything they touched. Creeping quietly through Boiler House #1, having snuck down the passageway, they sidled up the stairs to the ground floor and beside Room 10, they spied George the porter hoovering the dining room. Having had five pints of beer before work, he was muttering and hacking up his mucus filled cough. They were at the right side of the hotel to see the porter, but the wrong side of the ground floor to be near the phone-box. So with the hoover on, Ted sent Ian three doors south to the reception, with their plan to distract old George, tie him up, gag him, drag him to the phone-box, and make their escape. Only, this simple plan would be fatally flawed from the start. Ted would state “at the back of the lift, Ian would switch the light off, slam the door and call ‘George’”. It was that simple. Only the second he flicked the light switch he realised that the dining room hadn’t been plunged into darkness and Old George had carried on hoovering, so Ian returned to Ted, as the two whispered; “it’s not working”, “what’s not working?”, “the light”, what do you mean the light isn’t working, it’s a light, you flick the switch and it goes off”, “yeah, I know, but it didn’t”, “well did you flick the right switch?”, “what do you mean ‘did I flick the right switch?’ there was one bloody switch”. It should have been a foolproof plan, only these fools were proof that the plan was fucked. As a back-up, they could have waited, they could have left, or they could have crept about quietly with one lad as a lookout, which wouldn’t have been a terrible idea given that Old George was busy, sickly and a bit pissed. But being too keen to grab 2500 ciggies and maybe £700 quid, Ted had another plan. “Ian, go into the dining room, call out ‘George’ and get him to chase you”. That was it. Let the night porter see him, losing the element of surprise, possibly alert the sleeping staff and run like buggery. It was a bloody stupid idea, but – not being the best blessed with brains – it was the best idea they had. And what began as a silly little kid being chased around a half-empty hotel by a boiler-suited man… …although akin to the Keystone Cops, this seemingly comical caper would end with three lives ruined. Ian said, “I went in and called out ‘George, come here a minute’. He had his back to me. I don’t think he heard me, so I called out in a louder voice ‘George’. He saw me, the lights were on, and I panicked”. Repeatedly shouting ‘who are you’ at this disguised youth, as Old George struggled to keep-up as his rattling lungs wheezed after weeks battling bronchitis, Ian said “I ran down the corridor. George ran after me” and as he followed this would-be thief into the servery – a side-room where the food was prepared – Ian realised he was cornered, and as George grabbed him by the sleeves, he was trapped. Ian told the court of his fear, “he had his arm raised to strike me. It was coming down and I caught hold of it and turned his wrist. I gave him a light blow to the stomach with my hand, just to scare him”. But as he did, “Ted crept up behind him and he struck him some heavy blows to the face “, admitting “I turned him round and hit him twice on the jaw with my fist and he fell on the floor by the sink”. Dropping to the stone floor like a sack of spuds, as they tied his feet with the string, they realised they hadn’t enough to bind his wrists, so short on options, they used George’s tie. And with the scullery being nowhere near the phone-box where they would leave him, they decided to dump him there. Even at that point, they knew he wasn’t well, as one said, “he was groaning” and the other remarked “he was breathing heavy through his nose”, as the night porter lay motionless on the floor and a slowly forming pool of blood expanded around his stationary body, it bubbling as his nose breathed out. He was of no harm to anyone, but fearing for their capture and realising they hadn’t brought anything to gag him, they silenced him with several serviettes and an oven glove, held in place by a bandage. An autopsy confirmed that although George’s mucus-filled lungs had exacerbated his slow lingering death, it wasn’t the cause. Being punched, his jaw had fractured, and with it weaker than most owing to a buried tooth, with his nose and mouth covered by a gag, he had suffocated in his own blood. The autopsy also confirmed that “he was semi-conscious when the gag was applied, and he didn’t put up a struggle”, but with the porter still groaning, “Ted kicked him several times in the side of the head”. With the porter subdued (and creeping ever closer to death), being the epitome of incompetence, the two boys dashed to the reception desk to fill their pockets with the loot they felt they had earned. Unable to find the key to the reception, they had to get a chair to clamber over the six-foot partition, almost slipping and knocking over a lamp in the process. Unable to find the key to the cigarette drawer, they had to nick a screwdriver and jemmy the lock open, leaving fingerprints everywhere. And again, having seen A key, but not THE key to the hotel’s safe, having fled clutching all they could carry, Ian left behind his cap and having hailed a taxi to take them back home, Ted dropped half of their booty. Back at the hostel, on their bed, Ted & Ian laid out the riches from their robbery. Having promised a haul of 2500 cigarettes and a stash of cash worth £700 (a year’s salary for both), as these two silly little boys had tried and failed to play at being big-time gangsters, all they had got was 700 cigarettes (40 of which they had smoked), and from a petty cash tin, just £2 in assorted silver and copper coins. A fundamental question is ‘what price is a man’s life’? Of which, the answer should always be priceless. But in the case of George Smart, the night porter who was murdered for simply doing his job… …he died for as little as some ciggies and some cash, which today is worth just £320. Initially, the police were at a loss as to who had murdered George, as no-one had seen them enter or exit the hotel, and – having never robbed a hotel before – a manual search of the fingerprint database wouldn’t link to Ted and Ian. And yet, again, it was their incompetence which would collar them both. At 12pm, the next day, having gone into the work at the Ideal Home Exhibition, Ian said “Ted showed me the early edition of the Star. I saw the headlines and I realised that the night porter had died”. Panicked, desperate and knowing that neither of them had the slightest clue what to do, they lured into their confidence a colleague called Donald Chapman. With Don, they left the ticket to the stolen items they had hidden at the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo station, they told him of their plan to flee to Dublin, and with Ian being a chatterbox who - especially when he was nervous – was prone to fill in the awkward silences of a conversation with anything, Ian told Don everything about the robbery. And being a decent chap who was raised well, Don did the right thing, and notified the police. (End) Arrested the next morning, although they both denied any knowledge of the crime, being told that the other had blabbed, they both admitted to a minor part, but blamed the other for the bulk of it. During a quick investigation, the police found their gloves with coal dust on, their clothes with spots of George’s blood on, and – at their hostel – a man called Derek Quinnell, who Ted & Ian had discussed the crime with beforehand, asking him to be part of their caper, which – rather wisely – he declined. A psychiatric assessment of both boys described Ted as “of subnormal intelligence, he is immature and emotionally unstable, largely due to the circumstances of his birth and upbringing”, with Ian described as “immature, childish, selfish, spoiled and unable to control his emotions and desires”. Tried at the Old Bailey from the 10th to the 12th of May 1954, they both pleaded ‘not guilty’, with Ted stating, “we had no intention of causing injury, just to overcome him and place him in the phone box”, which he later admitted was a lie, as the bandage wasn’t long enough to secure the phone-box shut. Found guilty after just twenty minutes, although through their appeals they blamed one another, on Thursday 17th June 1954, Ted & Ian – two lost boys who had become soulmates – were executed at Pentonville Prison, and being hung side-by-side, they were the last double hanging in Britain. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal at 21 Romilly Street in Soho. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Romilly Street in Soho, W1; a few doors north of the loo irradiated for life by Russia’s most incompetent spies, two doors east of Dennis Nilsen’s favourite pub, and within sight of the restaurant where the daily special included a dose of death - coming soon to Murder Mile. Snuck between Old Compton Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, Romilly Street is a soulless void. Being nothing more than a dirty backstreet riddled with the ramshackle rear-ends of some very questionable restaurants, you won’t see a shop, but you may see a gang of rats roughing up a one-legged pigeon, two crack-addicts playing backgammon using their displaced teeth, and a stain-spackled chef keeping his filthy hands warm by ferreting about in his ‘back garden’ and then fondling his ‘trouser vegetables’. But oddly, this was (and still is) a place where people would come to find good food. At 21 Romilly Street currently stands Gauthier, a high-brow vegan restaurant ran by award-winning chef Alexis Gauthier, and back in the late 1960s, this was also an Indian restaurant called ‘Taj Mahal’. As an Indian eatery catering to bland British tastes, the staff at the Taj Mahal were well-used to a little spice in their day; whether being whinged-at by a halfwittery of has-beens who start every sentence with the words “I’m not a racist, but…”, or a spew of yobbos scoffing napalm-flavoured vindaloo to impress their pals, as on a regular basis the staff are threatened, attacked, spat at, abused and robbed. On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 226: Overkill. By the end of the day, three men would be charged with the Taj Mahal murder - Ali Mian, Ali Mokbul and Abdul Subhan. Having committed (what many regard) as one of society’s most heinous crimes, you may assume that these three were all vicious, cruel and remorseless killers… only they weren’t. As the temporary manager of Taj Mahal, Ali Ahmed Mian was born on the 6th of April 1935 in Datra, a small rural village in the Comilla district of what was then British India, now known as Pakistan. Being the fourth of five siblings to two elderly parents and with his father said to be in his 90s, he was raised to be one of the family’s breadwinners and unlike his friends, he had the blessing of a good education. As farm labourers, many of the boys in his village were barely literate, but being intelligent and bright, up until the age of 23, Ali studied Bengali, English, Civics and Economics at college, and although he was part way through his degree, he had to quit to his education so he could work on his family’s farm. This was the way his life would be, by putting his family first and himself second. By 1962, as a married man with two sons aged 6 and 7, although he was earning a decent wage as a clerk for the Water and Power Development Authority in Rangpur, both he, his wife and his children still lived – as many men did – with his elderly parents, but with his plan – one day - to move out. It was then that a golden opportunity appeared. On the 14th of June 1962, his company sent him from the newly formed country of Pakistan to the old and slightly creaky land of England, with the plan to research how the British utility companies work. Britain on the cusp of the so-called swinging sixties must have been a shock to his system; a mess of sex, drugs and sausage rolls; a population of long-haired men and short-skirted ladies neither of whom wore enough clothes to keep warm in a sun-less summer of perpetual drizzle and sometimes snow; all while eating - without doubt - the blandest beigest food ever, so bad, it has to be drenched in salt. Still pockmarked with Victorian slums, crumbling ruins and bombsites from the Blitz, 1960s London was a fiery melting pot of different faces and voices, fighting for space and the right to earn a living as underneath a tension of hostility, sirens, strikes and (what would be known as) Paki bashing simmered. The city was a place of unease and disquiet, but for a man with a dream of a better life for his family and so many mouths to feed, London was a land of potential and promise, but also of peril and pain. Having arrived, he quickly terminated his contract with the company, and went in search of work. And there lied the problem, as although well-educated, his visa restricted him to menial jobs and being described as “thin and sparsely built”, Ali wasn’t physically equipped to be a bouncer or a labourer, so in September 1966, he started work as a waiter at the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant on Romilly Street. Promoted to manager during the months when the owner returned to Pakistan, regarded as “honest” and “reliable”, he worked long hours and slept in a squalid shared room above this busy restaurant. For six years he slogged his guts out, sending - from his wage of £18 per week - the lion’s share back to his wife, his children and his parents, hoping that – one day – he could return to his loved one’s. Ali Mian was a kind man, a good father and (to many) a loyal friend… …and then, on Sunday 23rd June 1968, along with two others, he was charged with murder. So, where did it all go wrong? When did his life go rogue, his morals vanish, and fuelled by drugs, a bad crowd led him down a path of doom and despair? Well, it didn’t. Ali was just a regular man doing his job on an ordinary day when his life was changed forever… the same was said of his two friends. Born in Mandaruka village in Eastern Pakistan in 1941, Ali Mokbul was the only brother to three sisters and two half-sisters, and with his 65-year-old father paralysed down his left-hand-side, he needed to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But not being an academic, his skill was cookery. In 1963, as a married man with two children, keen to provide them with a good life, Ali Mokbul came to London and – working from the ground up – he was as a kitchen porter at ‘The Talk of the Town’, a cook at Anglo Steak House, and was later promoted to a cook at some of the West End’s most affluent restaurants, like Royal Garden Hotel, the White Hall Court and finally at the Café Royal in Piccadilly. Earning a decent wage of £20 a week, he could have partied hearty and lived the high life, but focussed on supporting his family, he worked late, rarely went out, and – rented out by the owner – he lived in small and cramped room on the third floor above the Taj Mahal restaurant with his pal, Abdul Subhan. Also born in Sylat in eastern Pakistan, as a married man with four children, Subhan had met Mokbul when they worked as lowly kitchen porters and dishwashers; and having been promoted to butcher and cook at the Royal Garden Hotel, they shared the £5 per week rent, they lived humbly, and although they had never worked at the Taj Mahal, they were good friends with its temporary manager, Ali Mian. As devout Muslims, they didn’t drink. As family men, they didn’t cause trouble. As law-abiding citizens, they had never been arrested or even questioned. And keen to continue being decent hard-working people, they didn’t break the rules, especially as Subhan was applying for his British citizenship. Their story was typical of many workers from overseas, who just wanted to do well… …but for one man, this chance at change was an opportunity he would squander. Bashir Meah was a 46-year-old unemployed wastrel and petty-thief who was described by the Police (as few people knew him as a friend) as short, stocky and unpleasant. Like Ali, Mokbul and Subhan, although he also came from eastern Pakistan, neither of them new him before the week of his murder. With his parents dead and with no known relatives still living in Pakistan, in 1947, 19-year-old Bashir fled to Britain, and according to his wife Eileen “he hasn’t worked a day in twenty years”. Living off National Assistance handouts, they drifted between council houses, and although they would have two children together – a daughter and a son – their 14-year-old boy was later placed into social care. With a lengthy criminal record and an aggressive streak, Bashir was the kind of blight on society that the Police often questioned, rounded up for line-ups and would turn a blind eye to if he got attacked. Within his first few months in the UK, he was sentenced to six months in prison for assault. In 1952, he served six months for armed robbery and ABH. In 1955, six weeks for stealing 15 cigarettes. In 1956, five years for armed robbery, but just three months after his release, he was back inside serving 21 months for robbery with violence. And so it went on, as like a foul whiff, he drifted between prisons, as being the epitome of a shitty half-witted criminal without a single brain cell, he always got caught. Again, after his release, in 1962 he served 2 years for the theft of a radio, 30 months in 1964 for stealing a briefcase, and 14 days for stealing 13 fruit dishes and 6 months for shoplifting both in 1967, which meant across his career, he spent more time inside than out, which was a blessing for his wife. By April 1968, Bashir and Eileen had moved into a dirty unfurnished council flat at 300 Lewisham Road in Deptford, where he returned to after his release from prison. On the 11th of June 1968, just eleven days before his murder, he was sentenced to three months at Woolwich magistrates court for the charge of shoplifting. But with the magistrate – for whatever reason - being lenient on this repeat offender, his sentence was suspended, and Bashir went back to being a petty thief, a notorious pest… …and a violent thug who beat his wife. Eileen stated: “we fought a lot”. Several times she had threatened to leave, and staying at a friend’s house, “I went home to collect my stuff… my husband arrived. I was frightened. I did not open the door. He picked up a brick and broke it down”, and although they argued, that night she left for good. The last time she saw him alive was on Friday 21st of June 1968 at about midnight, just 20 hours before his death. “He was in bed…”, Eileen said, “I asked him to leave, but he refused. I called the Police to eject him, but they were unable to do so”, and so having begun legal proceedings for a separation, “we were due to be heard at Greenwich Court on 22nd July”. But by then, her husband would be dead. Bashir wasn’t the big-time gangster he thought he was, as to those who had the displeasure of crossing his path, he was nothing but a petty thug and a pointless waste of space, a leech on society who would nick whatever wasn’t nailed down and extort paltry sums of money from hardworking persons. And as a notorious pest who never failed to annoy, one of the places he pestered and pilfered from…. … was the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street. Bashir seen as little more than a nuisance, as according to Isak the cook: “he came now and again for nothing, but sometimes he came to sell stolen items”, only now, he had become very desperate. On Thursday 20th June, two days prior, Ali Mokbul was lured out of his third-floor lodging over the Taj Mahal by Bashir Meah, supposedly “to get some fresh air”. Hailing a taxi, he didn’t know where they were going or why, and neither was he introduced to the stocky white males sitting either side of him. According to Mokbul, they drove for miles to somewhere unknown, until suddenly stopping the taxi “he put a big knife to my throat and said, ‘give me what you’ve got’”. They took his watch, two rings (including his wedding band) and the £5 he had placed in an envelope to send to his wife and children. Mokbul didn’t report the robbery to the Police as he didn’t want to risk losing his job and his visa… …but they all knew one thing, that (like a bad smell) Bashir would be back. Saturday 22nd of June was a day which began as ordinary as any other. Being a little after 5pm, the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street was ghostly quiet, except for Isak prepping the food in the basement kitchen, Ali in the manager’s office organising the cash float for the nights’ business, and three floors above, connected by a single stairwell, Mokbul and Subhan were in their bedroom, resting between shifts. According to their statements, the incident was as unremarkable as any Saturday night in Soho. Ali stated “I was about to open. I looked towards the counter and saw a man pick up my cash box and begin to make off with it”, the man was Bashir Meah, and the cash box held just £3 (or £50 today), but with Ali being the manager and the money belonging to the business, the responsibility was his. Like any decent person, Ali said “I ran after him and jumped on his back. I shouted for help”, screaming ‘come quick, he’s taking my money’, and hearing his cries, Mokbul and Subhan raced down to see this small-time petty thief trapped; in his left hand - the cash box, as in his right – a terrifyingly large knife which he thrust like a striking cobra in Ali’s petrified face, hissing with venom “I’m going to kill you”. Approaching stealthily from behind, Subhan said “I grabbed his right wrist, swung him round, we both fell to the ground. Mr Ahmed & Mr Mokbul assisted me to overpower him”. And with Bashir’s manner described as “aggressive” and “extremely violent”, “we keep him there until the Police came”. With the call logged at 5:38pm, PC Wright arrived at the Taj Mahal restaurant at 21 Romilly Street to the report that the manager and two others “had detained a man for the larceny of cash from a till”. And that was it. A petty-thief and a local pest had failed to steal £3 in loose change; he was cornered, restrained and receiving a few minor cuts and bruises to his face, hands and neck, with the room speckled with a few shards from a broken wine glass which broke in the struggle, the staff were questioned and with Bashir unable or unwilling to respond to questions, being semi-conscious he was taken to hospital for tests. The so-called incident was so uneventful, that with the restaurant late opening and the theatre crowd already queueing up outside, Isak the cook would claim “I went into the kitchen and lit the gas rings”, as to those who were there that night, this was nothing that they hadn’t witnessed many times before. Only this night was about to turn deadly. Taken to Charing Cross Hospital, Dr Dupere, the casualty officer stated “he was semiconscious, and he complained a pain in his leg and difficulty breathing. He was very shocked”. On initial assessment, his injuries were consistent with restraint but also a beating, “he had bruising to his back, grazes down his shins and knuckles, a black eye, a cut to his lip, and a circular wound which looked like a bite mark”. And suspecting “a fractured skull and possible broken ribs”, he was given two x-rays, but having deteriorated fast and with his heart having stopped, at 7:20pm Bashir Meah was declared dead… …and all three men (Ali, Mokbul and Subhan) were arrested and charged with his murder. Interviewed at West End Central police station by Detective Inspector George Chandler, together they had explained how they had caught and restrained him, how he had threatened them and struggled. But interviewed separately, suddenly the story fell apart and a different tale had begun to be told. Upon arrival at the Taj Mahal, PC’s Wright & Moore spotted that things were not as they seemed; “we were shown into a small poorly-lit backroom, on the floor a man lying was on his right side in a semi-prone position. His clothes were disarranged, there were bloodstains on his shirt, he had a deep cut on his upper lip from which blood was flowing, and he had bruises and reddening about the face”. Asked what had happened, the constables were told “we overpowered him and held him down until you arrived”, nothing more. But when asked by the officers “who tied his wrists and his ankles in front of him with rope?”, they all denied this, and according to PC Higgins “the Indians were all jabbering loudly…” as if – shielded by their own language - were they deciding what story they would tell. Isak confirmed that at 5:35pm, seeing all three men struggling with Bashir, “they said ‘we’ve caught a thief’ and I helped them drag him into the small room”. And although proven, none of them could answer why they had dragged him from the hallway to a small, secluded office behind the restaurant? When interviewed, their recollections of the night were vague to say the least. When asked “was Bashir tied up?”, separately they replied, “I don’t know”, “nobody tied him up”, and “I didn’t see that”. When asked “did anyone punch or kick him?”, Mokbul said “I didn’t kick him, I only tried to lift him” and stating “no-one else hit him”; Subhan admitted “I punched him once or twice” but he denied that anyone else did “I didn’t see anyone”; and although their statements varied between how many men were fighting – whether three, two, one or none – Subhan blamed Isak the cook, but he denied this. And although the full extent of the injuries which ended Bashir’s life were yet to be revealed, when asked “did you seen anyone jumping on him?”, separately they would all agree that they hadn’t… …contradicting the evidence of the autopsy. Conducted by Professor Keith Simpson at Westminster Public Mortuary at 10:30am the next morning, with the scuffs, grazes and abrasions set aside, although a fracture ran from the side of the skull into the right eye-socket, his death was not caused by a brain haemorrhage, or exacerbated any disease. It was the bruising to the chest that drew his attention “as there were no external injuries to the front”, where the victim’s wrists and ankles had been tied with rope, but only to the back. And although, all three men had all denied kicking Bashir and jumping on him, “both shoulder blades were fractured”. His back was a patchwork of black bruises and purple swollen lumps covering from his neck to his hips. X-Rays had proven that his cheekbones has shattered and that his right eye had ruptured, but also – underneath several flat wounds which bore the unmistakable outline of shoed feet – something akin to the weight of a man had repeatedly jumped and pummelled up and down, squarely upon his back. Fracturing the shoulder blades and breastbone, the force had snapped 21 of his 24 ribs like dry twigs as his whole chest cavity buckled in. With nothing to protect his internal organs, and these bones as sharp as glass shards; his diaphragm and his spleen ripped apart, both lungs were crushed, and as the life-giving air leaked his flattened chest, his body filled with blood suffocating his heart and his brain. His cause of death was certified as “haemorrhage owing to fractured ribs and crushed lungs” (End). Charged with murder at 4:35pm on Sunday 23rd of June 1968, Ali Ahmed Miah, Ali Mokbul & Adbul Subhan gave statements, and agreed to have their clothes, fingerprints and blood samples taken. Held at Brixton Prison, all three “gave a good account of the incident, knew the nature of the crime and were capable of knowing the acts were wrong”, so therefore they were declared “fit to stand trial”. Tried on the charge of murder – which would not only result in a prison sentence, but also the loss of their jobs and deportation back to Pakistan – their case was heard in a two-day trial at the Old Bailey. With the prosecution laying-out the evidence against them, uniquely for a murder trial such as this where – with no independent witnesses - it was hard to tell who had inflicted what injuries, each man had a different blood group; Bashir was O, Ali was A, Subhan was O negative and Mokbul was B. But with no blood found on either of their clothes and the accused sticking to their story that they had struggled and restrained a violent thief who was holding a knife, on the 11th of September 1968, Mr Justice Paull declared “in view of the evidence, it would be unsafe to ask any jury to convict. In those circumstances, I will take the responsibility of directing them to find the defendants not guilty”. Cleared of all charges – not GBH, ABH or even manslaughter – all three men walked from the court. But were they innocent of a crime, did they use ‘appropriate force’, was this a case of ‘overkill’ which the investigation couldn’t prove, or were the police given a tough choice – to convict three decent men who were pushed too far, or to bring justice to a petty thief who they knew no-one would miss? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
Welcome to Murder Mile. On Saturday 4th of August 1945 at 8:55am, Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux (a local cab company) pulled up outside of 16 Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus and the clatter of a milk cart. Having loaded the first of his fare’s luggage into the boot for what should have been an unremarkable day, it was then that Frederick saw Cyril. Standing outside of his wife’s lodging at 12 Greenhill Road, a short stocky man in an Army battledress slowly approached him, his face a ghastly white, his mouth agog with shock and his pale hands dripping with a deep red ooze, from his fingertips, up his sleeves and with dots spattered up his agonised face. Although slow, he didn’t stumble like a man in pain but a man in shock, as in his hand he held a curved knife, a souvenir from India, which continuously dripped with the warm fresh blood of his victim. Stopping by Frank’s car, the driver stared but didn’t feel afraid, as Cyril wasn’t seen as a threat but as someone who needed help. And as the soldier shook his bloody hands, spattering the pavement, in a quiet voice he uttered “Get the Police, I’ve done my missus”. Unable to comprehend that he had said, Frank asked him to repeat it, and (as if he couldn’t believe it himself) he did, “I’ve just done my missus”. And as Frank drove off to find a phone-box to call the Police, Cyril walked out of Greenhill Road. Only, this wasn’t his escape, as he didn’t he didn’t even attempt to flee. Keen to give himself up, amidst a gaggle of gobsmacked pedestrians, this bloodied and dazed soldier trudged half mile north to Harlesden Police Station, his sluggish demeanour like he had just emerged from a battlefield. And with Frank’s frantic call coming in, by the time Inspector Coote and Sergeant Firster had driven 100 yards, the unmistakable sight of Cyril Patmore was walking towards them. Pulling up, this killer didn’t run. Instead, he stated “I’ve done my wife in”; he gave them the address, he confessed “I did it with this” having handed them a small curved knife from his right trouser pocket, and being cautioned, Cyril’s only reply was “to think it was an Italian she’s been going with”. Having been to 12 Greenhill Road, at 10:30am, Inspector Coote told Cyril “I have seen the body of your wife Kathleen and I am making enquiries into the circumstances of her death”. Described as extremely distressed, clutching the last letters he had sent her, Cyril said “I want to tell you about my trouble”. At that, he made an accurate and lengthy statement, and throughout his main concern was for his family, stating “I live for my children and my wife. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. In a police report dated the 11th of August 1945, just days later, Inspector Coote wrote sympathetically of Cyril’s case, stating “the motive of the crime is most apparent, and it cannot be disputed that the moral character of the deceased woman (Kathleen Patmore) was of the lowest. There can be little doubt that her moral character during her husband’s absence has been utterly deplorable”. Lying slumped in a bloody heap, Kathleen was dead, and yet, he was the victim, and she was the villain. Across the investigation, it was the immorality of Mrs Patmore which was the motive for her murder. And yet, outside of Cyril and Kathleen, there was one other person who – it can be said – was to blame. The spiteful writer of a letter, send to Cyril in Burma, which told him everything… …and although anonymous, that someone was only known as ‘Joe’. It was during those dark lonely days of the war that Kathleen’s lack of morals came into question. As witnessed by landlords, lodgers, locals and even her own children, no-one was decrying her desire to be loved was lacking, as it’s a very human need. But it was the uncaring way in which she went about it, her unashamed sexual appetite that caused whispers to spread from Farmoor all the way to Burma. Described as ‘coarse and mouthy’, those who disliked Kathleen were said to be unsurprised when a welfare officer was called, when she got evicted from two farms, and her children were placed in their uncle’s care all within the space of a year. Many were shocked at how unashamedly she’d had sex in the woods and even with one-of-three (if not all three) lorry-drivers as her daughter slept beside her. But what riled them most was her fornicating with the Italian Fascists who Britain was fighting against. That level of disgust is how a gust of gossip travelled to Burma… …and set the seeds of her murder in motion. One of those who spoke-up was her sister May, who she had always had a fractious relationship with. When questioned, May selectively said to the police, “I have seen Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I have spoken to her about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And although her statements of Kathleen’s morals were cherry-picked, it was like calling a ‘pot kettle black’, as according to the same witnesses, as a married mother herself, her morals were no better. George Podbery, the landlord of Woodend Cottages stated “I began to think that immoral things were taking place in the cottage. I then did what I could to keep these men away and I told the women I would not allow the men in. They took no notice. I received abuse and insults when I spoke to them”. Possibly out of spite, May had blabbed about her sister’s ‘filthy ways’, but according to Joseph Wiley, licensee of the Seacourt Bridge Hotel in Botley, often it was three women (identified as May, Kathleen and another, said to be one of May’s daughters) whose behaviour was so bad “I asked them to stop”. And whereas Horace, the brother of both women, who – let’s not forget, was the uncle put in charge of the children, instead of it being their Auntie May – he would state “I have seen both women going out at nights to woods near the cottages with Italian prisoners of war. I have also seen them returning at 7am, and it was obvious to me that they had spent the night in the woods with the Italians”. In her statements, May acted like she was an angel, only it’s hard to call someone immoral, when by your own actions, you’re no more moral than you are immoral. She told the Police, “I don’t know the names of any of the men. She was very secretive in nature and told me little about her men friends”. Which was a blatant lie, but as Edward, a lodger in the cottage would state “May was alright until Mrs Patmore arrived, then she seemed to lose control and told me once that ‘this sister would ruin her’”. And technically, she did, as on the 18th of December 1944, both Kathleen (who was pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband), her sister May and their children were booted out of the cottages. But having moved elsewhere, the immorality continued. Between January and May 1945, at The Nunnery in Eynsham, the farm’s landlord Gordon Blake said Kathleen “was one of two women” (the other being May) “who were consorting with the prisoners”. When questioned, Antonio Frunzo and Mario Saviello of No45 Camp said that they knew both women “only to pass the time of day”; with Mario only “acquainted with ‘May’” and Antonio having “never had sexual relations with her”. Although even admitting to that during wartime was a criminal offence. But was there more to this than just sisterly spite and bitter jealousy? Maybe not. In late April, May discovered that Kathleen was pregnant. Shortly afterwards, Cyril received a letter in Burma, from an unidentified person known only as ‘Joe’, who told him everything and could provide a list of possible fathers. But not only was Joe the nickname Mario gave to May, not only did she draw up a list for the police, but the letter written by ‘Joe’ was said to be in a similar handwriting to May’s. May would state, she believed that Antonio Frunzo, the Italian prisoner of war was the child’s father. But that can’t be true, as with the child conceived between the 21st and the 28th November – easy to recall dates as Kathleen said she was celebrating their wedding anniversary and Cyril’s birthday – she didn’t move to The Nunnery until the January of 1945, two months later, when she first met Antonio. That letter led to Kathleen being investigated by a welfare officer; having her children removed from her care, to her eviction from her lodgings and a paying job, and it ended her relationship with Antonio. Whether that was May, we shall never be certain, but a second letter was also sent by ‘Joe’. Dated the 28th of May 1945, the day Kathleen left for London, it was sent to the Commandant of the No45 prisoner of war camp at North Hinksey, it read; “Dear Sir. I feel it is my duty write to you as it concerns a British soldier, a wife and their five children. One of your men, Antionio Frunzo (also a married man) is going with a Mrs Patmore, who is using the name Miss Stanton. Will you please stop this man seeing this woman as her husband is away in Burma. I am sorry to trouble you, but it is only fair to her husband and children. Perhaps the man could be sent to another camp. I wish this letter to be treated in confidence, as they may not know she is married. Yours respectfully. A British Citizen”. And although sent anonymously, Mario would confirm it was sent by ‘Joe’, as it impacted on him too. That day, Kathleen moved into 12 Greenhill Road to anxiously await Cyril’s arrival… … only May’s bitterness towards her ‘immoral’ sister was far from finished. Arriving at St Pancras on Sunday 29th of July 1945, granted 28-day leave owing to “his wife’s conduct” – news which had caused serious ramifications for his brigade, as his fellow soldiers were now worried about the faithfulness of their wives - he sorted a place to stay, and headed off to see his children. On Tuesday 31st of July, he savoured his time with his children – Reggie aged 16, Christina 12, Terry 6, Noreen 4, and Kathleen aged just 3 - at the home of their Uncle Horace at Lower End Farm in Thrupp. Whilst he was there, Cyril said “I asked Mr & Mrs Jenning and my wife’s relations”, including her sister May “what had been going on while I was away”, and they told him everything. In fact, so helpful was May to this mild-mannered man whose heart had been ripped in two, that according to Cyril “off her, I got a list of names. She said the list was of the men my wife had been going with”, and with her also adding quite maliciously “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list”. But even he would admit, “this might have been done for spite because my wife and her sister fight like hell”. During his stay, May said “he questioned me about his wife’s behaviour. I told him the whole truth about everything” – except of course about her own immorality - “and he could not eat nor sleep”. Torn by his tired head and his broken heart, with his children by his side and the list of her lovers in his hand, Cyril (who had often had concerns of his wife’s fidelity, having cheated on her husband with him) had begun to question which of the four children that he assumed to be his, were actually his. Born in the period when he was stationed overseas, Cyril looked at his youngest daughter, 3-year-old Kathleen, and when Horace had asked “do you think it’s his”, it was said that Cyril replied “they’re just like the bastard”. And having wiped his hand with his brow, he huffed and gruffly uttered ‘Jesus Christ’. Cyril had always been suspicious of who his daughter’s father was, as ever since the previous Christmas when he had read a letter written by Kathleen to Frank Tobin, their landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue, which was signed off with the words ‘love especially from YOUR little Noreen”, with ‘your’ underlined. Unable to trust his own eyes, his own wife and the words of her spiteful and bitter sister – who would state, “she always told me that she never intended living with her husband again” - as hard as it was, he knew that the only person he could trust was his own daughter, Christine who was only 12. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child, being torn between their loyalty to their parents, and in later life, possibly blaming themselves for their own mother’s murder, but he had to know the truth. Asked, Christine said “on at least six or seven occasions I’ve seen ‘Bill’ and ‘Gordon’ sleeping with my mother”. With the evidence undeniable, Maisie, May’s daughter said “Cyril was a devoted husband and father. I never heard him threaten to harm his wife”, but while he was there, “he acted like a man demented. He could neither sit nor stand” and upon leaving the house to head to London, he said one of either two things; “If anything happens, do what you can for the kids”, or a phrase impossible to verify… …“I will do her in and I shall hang for it”. On Wednesday 1st August, “I wandered about all day trying to pluck up the courage”, not to kill her, just to see her and to talk to her, as he knew that just the sight of her swollen belly would upset him. The next day, stealing his resolve with a few thick hits of rum, Cyril headed to 12 Greenhill Road. Being a little inebriated, with the list of his wife’s lovers in his hand, and May’s words still ringing in his ears - “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list” – he was in no state to be rational. At about 2pm, Ernest and ‘Marg’, two of the lodgers were told by Kathleen “It’s my husband. I’m taking him upstairs. He’s had something to drink”. They didn’t see him, but both entered her first-floor room. Being drunk and tearful, Cyril claimed “I lost my temper with the way she had let me down. We talked for a while, and I asked her whatever made her do it”, only she didn’t reply to his question. Maybe she didn’t want to, or maybe she didn’t have an answer? Thrusting the list into her hand, she would defend “I don’t know who most of these people are”. And although Cyril was not a violent man, he hit her. Later that evening, ‘Marg’ saw Kathleen in the shared kitchen, her lip cut and her mouth bruised. “She was upset, she said her husband had hit her because she had been carrying on with Yanks and Italians”. In her room, he had spat “I could have forgiven you if it had been anyone else, but not our enemy”, and as several months of pent-up anger bubbled, “how could you expect me to own a child that wasn’t mine?’ he fumed - ignoring the fact that Reggie wasn’t his and possibly their youngest too – and although she pleaded with him to stay, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t be introduced as the father of the child she was carrying, so I left. She shouted, ‘if you go now, you’ll never see me again’. But still I left”. It was not how either of them had wanted this reunion to go, but tensions were high. Kathleen was said to be frightened that Cyril would return, only he didn’t. He needed to cool off, and he knew that. So, that night, having bedded down in a Salvation Army Hostel, being drained and exhausted, he slept. Early the next morning, he hand-delivered a letter through Kathleen’s door. It read “Dear Kath. I would like to have my personal articles”, some of which she had pawned, “please be good enough to meet me a half of an hour from now outside the Odeon. Pat”. On the envelope was scrawled “I love you”. He was sober, it was a safe place, and having vented their anger, they both had a lot of talking to do. At 9:45am, they met as planned. With Cyril’s head downcast and sore, and Kathleen’s mouth swollen and bruised, Cyril said “when I saw her, I felt sorry because I knew she was in trouble. I didn’t ask her for my things. I took her out for the day. It brought back memories of when we used to go together”. They walked in the park, went to the theatre, and they ate a meal in a café where they talked. He still loved her, but along with knowing the truth, he needed to see her remorse so he could forgive her. “I asked her why she had gone as ‘single”, having used an alias of Miss Stanton rather than her married name of Mrs Patmore, but she didn’t reply. Asked what the Italian wanted to do, even though she said she hadn’t seen him in a month, “he waits for me every night… the arrangements were, I would have the child and his people would come over, take it and give me a lump sum”, as if they were buying it. “From her bag, she took out a lot of Italian money and tore it up in front of me”. Whether she was committed to their future, their marriage or their children, he wasn’t sure. Together they could make it work, he knew that, but whether she could remain faithful, that he didn’t know. After a pleasant walk in Paddington Green, Cyril walked her to the bus stop, “here, I’ll wait with you till it comes”. Thinking they had reached a resolution, she said “you’re coming home with me”, being a woman who believed she could get whatever she wanted from a man by using her body. Only, with a bump between them due within the week, being a reminder of her infidelity, he turned her down. “I said ‘no, that’s impossible. How can you expect me to come back and sleep with you, when you’ve been with another man”. Like many servicemen, the one thing which had kept him alive was to come home to be with his beloved wife, “for years I’ve waited for this moment to return, but I was robbed of everything’. And with that, saying their goodbyes, and on the bus he put his heavily pregnant wife. Their ruined relationship had a slim hope of surviving… …but it all rested on whether she loved him. On Saturday 4th August 1945 at 8:50am, having slept fitfully, Private Cyril Patmore entered Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent, as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus, the clatter of a milk cart, and Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux pulling-up to await his passenger. Dressed in his battledress as expected of a soldier on leave, in his pockets Cyril held the list, his wife’s letters and a six-inch knife purchased as a souvenir at an Indian bazaar. “I did not know what to do, but I wanted to see her. I loved her so much. I had every intention of overlooking everything again”. Inside, Kathleen heard him knock at the front door. According to ‘Marg’, “Kathleen said ‘I expect that’s my husband’, she trembled and said ‘I’m finished. I don’t know whether to open the door’”. She froze, as his unmistakable shadow loomed over the frosted door-pane just a few feet away, as she whispered “I’ll let him knock again. Perhaps he’ll put the letter through the door and go away”. Only he didn’t. Informed of her immorality by her family, her sister, herself, and even his own children, for their sake, he wanted to give their marriage a chance. What he needed was the woman he had married and the mother of his children to show him that she still loved him… but – fed-up with his questions and having rejected her - what he got was an “uncouth and mouthy” Kathleen who was unashamed of her actions. From the hallway, she led him into the empty kitchen at the rear of the ground floor, so with the lodgers in their rooms, no-one would hear the foul words she would unleash in his reddening face. To the medical officer of Brixton Prison, Cyril confessed “it was her casual and indifferent attitude… she said ‘you’ve got a bag of nerves asking questions’, I said ‘are you coming, because I’m leaving’” -thereby giving her an ultimatum that if they left together, right now, there was still a possibility of saving what little was left – but with her shouting ‘do what the hell you like’, “I know I was finished”. “I only meant to scar her, so that nobody else could have her but me”, Cyril would state, “she struggled and I stabbed her in the wrong place”. Although whether that was true, only he would know. Hearing a scream, and Kathleen shouting ‘Marg! Marg!’, the tenants raced down to see Cyril, the knife in his hand, his sleeves bloodstained as he tottered into the street, and knowing his life was over, having uttered to Frank “Get the Police, I’ve just done my missus”, moments later, Cyril was arrested. At 9:05am, Dr Crowe, the Police Divisional Surgeon entered the ground-floor kitchen, to see the walls splashed with fresh warm blood, it dripping off the surfaces where the human ooze was yet to congeal. Lying face down on the tiled floor, wearing a print frock and blue ankle socks, Kathleen was pale and lifeless, as owing to her injuries, she was unconscious within a one minute and dead within three. Bleeding profusely from a gaping wound to her throat, with no wounds to her hands nor any signs of a struggle, Cyril’s blade had severed the small muscles of the neck, slicing open her right carotid artery and the right jugular vein, penetrating the upper lobe of the right lung, and draining her heart of blood. Kathleen was dead, but as Dr Crowe rolled over her still-warm corpse - seeing she was heavily pregnant and carrying inside of her a 10lbs and 4 ounce baby, which was barely a week from its birth - through her sopping wet bloody dress, he saw its final kick, as starved of life, the baby died inside of her. (End). Tried at the Old Bailey on 26th September 1945 before Mr Justice Charles, the jury of ten men and two women were said to be in tears as the testimony unfolded. Taking pity on Cyril, owing to the immoral ways of his wife, a verdict of manslaughter was returned, and he was sentenced to five years in prison. With Mr Justice Charles incensed at the jury’s decision, he stated “it would be the law of the jungle if a man finding his wife had been unfaithful once or even twenty times, was entitled to murder her and then say ‘but look at the provocation I have received’. But if manslaughter it be, and I am bound by the jury’s verdict… your counsel has said you were a sorely tried man. If you had not been so sorely tried, I should have been bound to give you a very very heavy sentence” – that sentence being death. As a key witnesses in the trial, May – who it was never proven was the anonymous writer of the letters penned by someone known only as ‘Joe’ - spoke openly of her sister’s ‘wholesale immorality’, which not only lessened her killer’s sentence, but also her spiteful words had condemned Kathleen to death. Serving his time at Wormwood Scrubs, throughout his prison term, Cyril’s concern was “the welfare of my children”, and not trusting his wife’s family, as far as we know, they were placed into care. Upon his release, Cyril Patmore went on to live a good life, he earned a living as a plumber, he remarried, he remained close to his children, and outliving his new spouse, he died in Southwark in 1999… …never fully knowing the truth about the ‘immoral’ Mrs Patmore. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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