By the time Divisional Detective Inspector Bert arrived at 66 Old Compton Street.

Constables were holding back a gaggle of eager gorpers. As reporters feverishly

quoted any pleb who said they had seen or heard something sinister, as some reporters even

snuck into the Swiss hotel opposite to try and spy the corpse through the second floor window.

Six months earlier, a dead Soho prostitute barely filled a few lines.

But now the murders were front-page news.

In many local, national, and by the next next day even international papers, as once again

Soho became infamous as a den of sex, drugs and death. The crime scene was eerily reminiscent, but as with the others, it was assessed methodically.

Again, there were no signs of a prior break-in. As both sash windows were shut, the neighbouring flats were inaccessible, with the only tenants

being two floors below who had slept soundly until the arrival of the police, and the doors to the flat and the street

had been locked by whoever had taken her key.

Inside, the room was dimly lit,

as the sunlight pierced the partially open curtains.

But again, with the gas light set on and the shilling expired, only in death was the room

plunged into near darkness. This bed-sitting room was small, comprising of a wardrobe and a dresser which hadn't

been ransacked, a city on which the victim's coat still lay.

Under the bed sat three half full, untouched suitcases, as the tenants had only just moved in.

And on the mantelpiece, an open handbag gave the illusion of a robbery.

Leah's body lay diagonally across the bed, having prepared herself for sex with a punter.

She was wearing shoes, with her stockings neatly rolled down to the ankles,

and her blue spotted dress rocked up to her waist, as she lay with her legs widely spread.

Under the wardrobe, a pair of ladies' knickers were found. They were wet and dirty.

...