Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing in Redcliffe Square in Putney, S.W. 10.

Two stops north of Fergie's crazed dresser.

Three stops north-east of the last attack by the sadistic little drummer boy.

One street east of the pub of choice for several of Britain's most infamous serial killers.

And one street north of the callous

killer who discreetly hid his victim's body by dumping it on his own doorstep, coming soon

to murder mile. Designed to confuse any visitors, almost every street in this part of West Brompton is filled with long lines of identical white five-story Victorian terraces, with stepped entrances encircled by Doric columns. Being so ominously vague and silent,

it's as if this street is trying to hide all of its secrets.

Only being the kind of pretentious Tospot Haven,

where Fenella and Hugo asked his spermante

raise their ruddy-faced bully magnets,

each named after a philosopher, a composer, a chemical element, a place in Italy, a type of parmesan, a lost sexual disease,

and an obscure quote to prove that they can read.

The deepest secrets any of these residents are likely to hide

would be when they last brought a loaf of white sliced bread

or having spoken to a real-life northerner

without getting a tetanus shot.

On the right-hand side of the ground floor of 60 Redcliffe Square stands flat D, a one-roomed

lodging which was once the home and workplace of Lynn Bain and Jan Blake, two ladies

with too many secrets.

Given the era, they disguised their illegal lesbian relationship as merely a tempestuous friendship,

...