Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today I'm standing on Glasshouse Street, W1, two streets west of the censer stabbing of the unfortunate Mr. Johnson,

300 feet northwest of the tube stop where the cowardly killer of Camille Gordon fled,

one street east of where the blackout ripper picked up several sex workers,

and one road south of the possible suicide by the

sportsman's mistress, coming soon to murder mile.

Just off Piccadilly Circus at 32 Glasshouse Street, one stood the Regent Palace Hotel,

opened in 1915 and ran by Jay Lyons and co, owners of the Corner House tea rooms,

being nine stories high, across half a square block and with over a thousand bedrooms.

The Regent Palace was the largest hotel in Europe.

Since its post-war decline, it became little more than a brothel, so bawdy that Canadian servicemen

referred to it as the riding school, a youth hostel for overseas students slash shoplifters.

And now its grand entrance is a showroom for Ugg.

Those hideous fleece-lined boots, which supposedly make the wearer look as devastating

as cavewoman Raquel Welsh in the film One Million Years BC,

but actually make them look like they've mistimed a kick-up of a sheep's jacksy.

And being so toasty warm, they make the way of as Tutsis stink like a Neanderthal's butt crack.

On Saturday the 29th of October 1932, at a little after 9.30pm,

Mr. and Mrs. Turner of Bradford booked into room 201 on the second floor of the Regions Palace Hotel.

Not being locals, they looked as if they were here to see the vibrant sights of the big city.

Kissing and holding hands, it was clear that this young couple were very much in love.

And although their small suitcase reiterated to the receptionist that they would be staying

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