December 1968, Bayswater, West London.

Sixteen miles north of Leatherhead Golf Course.

Three years before the unidentified victim shallow greys were unearthed,

and just one month before her grisly demise,

a five foot four inch woman of medium built,

with neck length dark hair, which was greying at the roots

entered 72 Queensborough Terrace where she was known and felt safe.

In her hand she clutched a small suitcase containing some clothes.

Lad for your house was a slightly shabby but affordable little hostile, which is a place of refuge

for London's Latvian refugees to find shelter during the dark times, provided a bed for a few shillings with a locked door.

Turning the key and sliding the bolt to shield her from the struggles of her chaotic life.

The woman exhaled deeply as she lay on the soft soothing warmth of her bed in the familiar

sanctuary of room 16.

Fingering her two silver rings to remind her of a marriage which she once thought was good.

Before being beaten blue and which she once thought was good.

Before being beaten blue and bleeding red,

she fled to London.

And although now alone, she nestled into the reassuring pillow, wearing a navy blue slip,

a pink woolen house coat and blue carpet slippers. And although she would often vanish without a trace, no one reported her missing, not

her friends, not her lover, and especially not her lover and especially not her ex-husband. Tuesday the 7th of September 1971, two years and nine months later. Three shallow graves at Ashton Woods told the detectives

almost nothing about the sadistic killer who D.C.S. Sheming had described as a monster.

As with nature having eviscerated, every finger and footprint,

...