Blood in the Canal: The Scissor Sisters' Gruesome Crime Shocks Dublin"

The Scissor Sisters: An Irish Nightmare

There are crimes that stick in the mind like a shard of glass embedded deep, refusing to be dislodged. Crimes that crawl into the dark recesses of our imaginations and squat there, feeding on our fears, waiting to be remembered in the dark.

The story of the Scissor Sisters—Linda and Charlotte Mulhall, the sisters who dismembered a man with the cold indifference of butchers at a slab— is one such tale.

A story soaked in blood, set in the narrow, crumbling flats of Dublin, where secrets fester behind thin walls and the shadows have shadows of their own.

A Night of Madness

It all began, as these things often do, with a drink. Or several. It was March 20, 2005, a Sunday, and the Mulhall family—two daughters and their mother, Kathleen, an aging, washed-out woman who'd long ago let life slip from her grip—sat together in their flat in Ballybough, Dublin.

They were joined by a guest, Farah Swaleh Noor, a Kenyan immigrant, a man with his own skeletons rattling around in his closet.

He had a past—a rap sheet longer than an Irish winter, crimes that spanned continents. But that day, he was just a man sharing a drink. Maybe he felt safe in that shabby little room, hemmed in by the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

Maybe he even let himself relax, not knowing he was about to step over the edge into a hellish landscape.

It was Linda, the older sister, who first lost her temper. Noor was leaning too close, his breath hot and rotten with alcohol.

He muttered something—a joke, a suggestion, something that pushed Linda past the breaking point. Her hand found the claw hammer on the kitchen counter, and it flew across the room like a comet.

The sound of the blow—a dull thud, a crack—split the air. Noor staggered, his head split open, blood pooling at his feet.

But that wasn't the end; it was just the beginning. Charlotte, her sister, a wild glint in her eye, grabbed a kitchen knife.

The blade flashed in the dim light, slicing through the thick, cold air, sinking into flesh again and again. The sisters were in a frenzy, a red mist descending.

There was a madness there, in that tiny flat—a madness that smelled of blood and fear and stale beer.

When Noor finally lay still, his body crumpled on the floor, they didn't pause. No, they knew what they had to do.

There was no question, no hesitation—only the raw, animal instinct to survive. They dragged him to the bathroom, leaving a slick trail of red across the linoleum floor. They shut the door.

And in that cramped space, they set to work.

A Grisly Task

They were not surgeons, these two—no, they were more like wolves with knives. There were no precise cuts, no careful dissections.

Just hacks, and slashes, and the wet sound of metal against bone. The head came off first, rolling away like a grotesque doll's head.

Then the arms, severed at the shoulder. They worked feverishly, their hands slick with blood, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The bathroom tiles, once a dingy white, were painted in crimson.

They stuffed the pieces—his legs, his arms, his torso—into black plastic bags.

Linda’s hands were trembling, her eyes wide, but Charlotte had that wild grin, the look of someone who’d crossed over into some dark territory and found herself at home.

They dumped the bags in the Royal Canal, the water swallowing them up like some ancient beast, leaving only ripples behind.

But the head—that was a problem. It wouldn't sink, bobbing like a macabre apple.

So they weighted it down with rocks, tied tight in another plastic bag, and hurled it into the black water.

Then they went home, cleaned up the gore with bleach and towels, and left the flat smelling like a swimming pool.

The Water Gives Up Its Dead

The canal, dark and quiet, held its secrets for a while. But rivers and canals, they have a way of giving up their dead.

Ten days later, on March 30th, a jogger noticed something strange in the water—something that didn't belong. He peered closer, his breath catching in his throat.It was a leg. Human. The Gardaí were called, and the investigation began.

One by one, the body parts surfaced, as if the canal itself had grown tired of holding onto the evidence of such a monstrous act.

DNA testing soon identified the victim: Farah Swaleh Noor. A man who’d come to Ireland seeking a new life and had found only a brutal, unmarked grave instead.

The Gardaí began piecing together the puzzle, sifting through the debris of human lives, asking questions no one wanted to answer.

They followed the trail to the Mulhall family, who, when questioned, offered nothing but a thin veneer of lies.

But the Gardaí dug deeper, sniffing out the secrets hidden in the shadows of Ballybough. They examined phone records, scoured surveillance footage, and spoke to anyone who might have seen or heard something that terrible night.

Then Linda cracked. Maybe it was the weight of it all—the blood, the secrets, the sleepless nights, the endless questions.

Maybe she saw her sister Charlotte, with her wild eyes and her caged animal grin, and felt something shift deep inside her. Whatever it was, she confessed.

She told them everything. The hammer, the knife, the blood, the water, the dark thing that had overtaken them both.

Charlotte tried to deny it at first, but the story was out there now, clinging to her like a second skin. She was arrested, charged, and marched into the courthouse, her face pale, her eyes dark and haunted.

Judgment Day

The trial was a circus. The newspapers gobbled it up, splashing the sisters' faces across their front pages, calling them the "Scissor Sisters" like it was some kind of sick joke.

In the courtroom, the truth spilled out in lurid detail: the drugs, the drinking, the hammer and the knife, the dismemberment, the cold, filthy water of the canal.

Linda Mulhall, the older sister, the one who swung the hammer first, pled guilty to manslaughter.

She was sentenced to fifteen years. Charlotte, the one who had wielded the knife with a fury that seemed to know no bounds, was found guilty of murder and sentenced to life.

And their mother, Kathleen, who had cleaned up the blood and scrubbed the floors and washed the stink of death from her hands?

She got five years for helping her daughters cover up their crime, though she served only three.

The Haunting Aftermath

The city of Dublin shuddered at the horror of it. People whispered their names in the pubs, in the shops, on the buses.

Mothers watched their daughters with a new kind of caution, wondering just what dark thoughts might be swirling beneath the surface.

And the canal, that dark, oily water that had held the secrets so briefly, flowed on.It had witnessed the worst, the madness, the frenzy, the blood. But water forgets.It moves on. It leaves behind only the faintest traces, ripples fading into the night.

Linda was released in 2018, her sentence reduced for good behavior.

She emerged into a world that had moved on, but a world that still remembered.

Charlotte remains behind bars, a life sentence stretching before her like a long, dark road.

And as for the head—Farah Swaleh Noor’s severed head, that piece of evidence that could never be found?

It’s still out there somewhere, deep in the muck, a secret waiting for someone, someday, to stumble upon it in the murky depths of the Royal Canal.

Maybe the water will give it up. Or maybe it will keep it, one last secret clutched tight in the cold, dark heart of Dublin.

Whispers in the Dark: Uncovering the Grisly Secrets of the Isle of Man Serial Killer

The Cul-de-Sac Killer

The Isle of Man, 1988. Dark clouds rolled across the sky like a premonition, casting shadows over the quaint, narrow streets of Ballasalla. Stephen Oladimeji K. Akinmurele, a ten-year-old boy with deep, soulful eyes, had just arrived with his mother, a white British woman whose face bore the lines of hardship. Stephen, born to a Nigerian father, had been uprooted from Lagos and transplanted into this foreign soil. The Isle of Man, with its eerie quietness and ancient stone houses, was nothing like the vibrant chaos of his birthplace. It was here that the whispers began.

By the age of eleven, Stephen was already showing signs of a troubled mind. His fascination with the elderly wasn't the gentle curiosity of youth; it was something darker, more insidious. The police would later assert he got a "kick" out of it, but in truth, the shadows had taken root in his heart, whispering malevolent secrets to him.

Fast forward to October 30, 1998, in Blackpool, England. The coastal town, known for its bright lights and seaside attractions, was about to witness a night of unspeakable horror. Eric Boardman, seventy-seven, and his wife Joan, seventy-four, lived in a modest home on a quiet cul-de-sac. They were the picture of serene old age, their life a series of gentle routines. But that night, as the wind howled outside, Stephen's dark impulses took over.

He broke into their home, moving with the silence of a shadow. Eric was beaten to death, his body contorted grotesquely beneath a wardrobe in the hallway. Joan was found in the living room, strangled, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. A makeshift cosh made of bound batteries lay beneath Eric's body, a grim testament to the brutality of the attack. It was their daughter who found them, the sight of her parents' twisted bodies forever seared into her memory.

Stephen was arrested on November 1, 1998. His facade of the mild-mannered barman shattered, revealing the monster beneath. But even as the police closed in, the whispers continued. They urged him to confess, to boast of his other kills, each more gruesome than the last.

Jemmimah Cargill, seventy-five, had been his landlady. She died in a flat fire in October 1998, mere days before the Boardmans were murdered. Dorothy Harris, sixty-eight, partially blind and deaf, perished in a house fire in Ballasalla in February 1996. And then there was Marjorie Ashton, seventy-two, strangled in her home in May 1995. Each death had been a quiet suburban tragedy, slipping under the radar until now.

The detectives in Lancashire and the Isle of Man began to re-examine old cases, house fires, and sudden deaths. Stephen, now dubbed the "cul-de-sac killer," was charged with five murders. But even in custody, he continued to play his twisted game. He confessed to three more murders, including that of a rambler on the Isle of Man, claiming he had buried the body on a cliff overlooking the sea. The police found a gun with his fingerprint, but no body despite extensive excavation. They believed these false confessions were a smokescreen, masking his true motive: a pathological hatred of the elderly.

August 28, 1999. Manchester Prison. Stephen Akinmurele, awaiting trial, ended his life. He hanged himself with a ligature, his body swaying gently in the stale prison air. It was his third suicide attempt; his girlfriend had warned the authorities, but the whispers had finally won. In his pocket, they found a suicide note, a chilling glimpse into his tormented mind.

"I know it's not right always thinking like this but it's always on my mind. I can't help the way I feel, what I did was wrong - I know that and I feel for them - but it doesn't mean I won't do it again. I'll keep on having this feeling I'm going mad because I can't take any more of this and that's why I'm saying goodbye."

He had also written to his mother, "I couldn’t take any more [sic] of the feeling like how I do now, always wanting to kill."

The Isle of Man and Blackpool, places of peace and quietude, were left scarred by his legacy. The elderly residents, once symbols of wisdom and tranquility, became reminders of vulnerability and fear. The shadows that whispered to Stephen had dispersed, but their echoes lingered in the minds of those who remembered the cul-de-sac killer. On stormy nights, when the wind howled through the streets, the whispers returned, a chilling reminder that the darkness within can never be fully extinguished.

The Devil’s Cleaver: A Butcher’s Dark Secret”

In the swinging sixties, London was a city ablaze with change, its streets humming with the vibrant energy of revolution and rebellion. Amidst the cultural whirlwind of miniskirts, The Beatles, and psychedelic colours, there stood a small, unassuming butcher’s shop tucked away in the East End, where the faded signs of old-world charm clashed with the garish posters of the new age.

This shop, once celebrated for its fine cuts and honest dealings, had long since lost its lustre, much like its beleaguered owner, Harry Mane.

Harry Mane wasn’t just any butcher; he was a man who had briefly tasted the dizzying heights of fame. In the early days of the decade, Harry had become a minor celebrity of sorts, known throughout the East End for his impeccably crafted sausages and pies.

He’d even appeared on a couple of local TV spots, his name whispered among the elite as the butcher who could turn humble cuts into gourmet delights. But fame is a fickle mistress, and Harry’s star quickly waned. The sixties were a time of excess and innovation, and soon enough, the glittering lights of Soho had drawn his once-loyal clientele away, leaving his shop to slowly decay in the shadow of the city’s newfound glamour.

By 1966, Harry was a man in despair. The swinging city that had once been his playground had grown cold and indifferent. His shop, once a bustling hub of activity, now echoed with the emptiness of neglect. The few customers that remained were ghosts of the past, their visits a painful reminder of what he had lost. Debts piled up like autumn leaves, and Harry found himself in the clutches of the Stove brothers, notorious moneylenders with a reputation as black as the soot that coated the city’s chimneys.

The Stove brothers were no ordinary debt collectors. They were kingpins of the East End’s underworld, known for their brutal tactics and the trail of destruction they left in their wake. They thrived on the desperation of men like Harry, offering deals that seemed like lifelines but were, in truth, shackles of iron. As Harry’s debts spiralled out of control, the Stove brothers came to collect—bringing with them an offer so twisted that it seemed born from the darkest corners of a horror film.

One fog-drenched night, they appeared in his shop, flanked by shadows that seemed to dance and flicker in the dim light. They brought him two burlap-wrapped bundles—a woman in her prime and a boy no older than six. Their lifeless bodies, pale and cold, filled Harry with a dread so deep it seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins.

“Get rid of these, and you shall be free from what you owe us,” the Stove brothers hissed, their voices like the cold scrape of metal against bone. They left him with the corpses and a chilling ultimatum.

Harry was a butcher by trade, a man who had sliced through countless carcasses with the precision of a craftsman, but the task before him now was something else entirely. As he stared at the bodies, a grim determination took hold of him.

Desperation, once a whisper in the back of his mind, had grown into a roar. With a trembling resolve, he picked up his cleaver and set to work, turning the once-human flesh into the meats that had once made him famous. The bodies, now indistinguishable from the pork and mutton that had filled his display cases, became the foundation of a new and macabre business venture.

But Harry didn’t stop there. The Stove brothers had driven him to this madness—shouldn’t they suffer the consequences? In a twisted act of defiance, Harry crafted the flesh into his finest creations yet. Sausages, pies, delicacies that he delivered to his tormentors with a smile as hollow as the meat itself. The Stove brothers, unaware of the nightmare they were consuming, accepted the offerings with their greedy hands.

Word spread quickly. The butcher’s shop, once on the brink of closure, was suddenly the talk of the town. People from all walks of life, from swinging socialites to hardened East End locals, queued outside his door, desperate for a taste of his renowned wares.

The fame that had once eluded Harry now came rushing back with a vengeance, and his shop became a hotspot for the city’s elite. Even as his popularity soared, a gnawing fear took root in Harry’s heart. The meat—the precious meat—was running out.

With the bodies of the woman and child long since consumed, Harry faced a terrifying dilemma.

The demand for his goods grew daily, and the city, it seemed, had developed a taste for something more sinister…human flesh. Harry, once a humble butcher, now became a hunter.

He prowled the streets of London by night, seeking out those who wouldn’t be missed—the forgotten souls who lived on the edges of society, lost in the chaos of the swinging sixties. With each kill, Harry’s fame grew, but so did his madness.

The city’s insatiable appetite fuelled Harry’s descent into darkness. The very essence of London seemed to pulse with the grotesque secret that had taken root in the heart of the East End.

Even the constables who patrolled the streets outside Harry’s shop became unwitting consumers of Harry’s abominations. But with each passing day, the weight of his sins pressed heavier on his soul.

The Enigmatic Young Woman

As Harry Mane's dark fame spread throughout London, the shadow of his butcher shop seemed to touch every corner of the East End. Yet amid this darkness, a flicker of light entered Harry's life—an unexpected warmth that threatened to thaw the icy resolve that had driven him to commit such heinous acts.

Her name was Eliza Hartwell, a young woman who had recently moved to London from the countryside, drawn by the city's allure and the promise of a new life. Eliza was unlike anyone Harry had ever encountered.

She was vibrant, full of life, and possessed a kindness that seemed almost out of place in the harsh world of the East End. She had begun frequenting Harry's shop, not just for his famed sausages and pies, but because she was drawn to the quiet man behind the counter.

Harry, hardened by years of struggle and despair, found himself inexplicably drawn to Eliza. She was the embodiment of everything he had lost—innocence, hope, and a future untarnished by the horrors he had wrought.

For the first time in years, Harry felt a stirring of something akin to happiness, a feeling that both terrified and thrilled him. He began to look forward to her visits, their brief conversations a welcome reprieve from the grim reality of his life.

Eliza, too, felt a connection with Harry, sensing the sadness behind his gruff exterior. She saw in him a man who had been broken by life, yet who still harbored a flicker of decency.

As the weeks went by, their conversations grew longer, more personal. Harry found himself opening up to her in ways he hadn't with anyone else, sharing stories of his youth, his dreams, and the butcher shop that had once been his pride and joy.

But as their bond deepened, so too did the danger that loomed over them. Harry knew that his secret—the grotesque truth behind his newfound success—was a ticking time bomb.

He tried to distance himself from Eliza, fearful that she might discover the monstrous acts he had committed. But the more he tried to push her away, the more she was drawn to him, sensing that there was something Harry was hiding, something that caused the shadows in his eyes to deepen with each passing day.

The Discovery

Eliza's curiosity soon turned to concern. She had noticed Harry's growing anxiety, the way he seemed constantly on edge, as if waiting for something terrible to happen. One evening, after closing her small flat for the night, she decided to visit the butcher shop, hoping to speak to Harry and offer whatever comfort she could.

As she approached the shop, she saw that the front was dark, the windows shuttered. But a faint light glowed from the alley behind the building. Driven by a mix of worry and curiosity, Eliza made her way to the back of the shop, careful to stay hidden in the shadows.

Harry, sensing movement in the shadows, turned swiftly, his heart pounding. His eyes locked onto Eliza, her face illuminated by the dim light. In that moment, a cold realization washed over him—she knew. She had seen too much. Without hesitation, driven by a primal instinct to protect his secret at all costs, Harry lunged at her, his cleaver glinting in the pale light.

Eliza barely had time to react. Her eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as the blade found its mark. She crumpled to the ground, her vibrant life extinguished in an instant. Harry stood over her, his breath ragged, his mind a maelstrom of horror and regret. The one person who had shown him kindness, who had given him a glimpse of a life he thought long lost, now lay dead at his feet.

The Weight of His Sins

The butcher's shop, once a place of fleeting joy for Harry, now became a tomb of his own making. The lifeless body of Eliza Hartwell was a stark reminder of the depths to which he had sunk.

His mind, already teetering on the edge, now plunged into the abyss. He no longer saw the faces of his victims in his dreams; he saw Eliza, her kind eyes filled with betrayal and sadness.

The demand for his macabre delicacies continued to grow, but the satisfaction Harry once derived from his twisted craft had turned to ash in his mouth. The fame that had once been his salvation now felt like a noose tightening around his neck.

Chapter 2: The Trail Grows Warm

Detective Inspector Arthur Taylor’s instincts rarely failed him, and the name Harry Mane had become a splinter

in his mind, one he couldn’t ignore. He began visiting the butcher’s shop, blending into the queue of eager customers who were drawn to Mane’s famed sausages and pies.

Posing as just another patron, Taylor observed the man behind the counter. Harry’s hands moved with the practiced ease of a craftsman, but there was something in his eyes—an unease that Taylor couldn’t quite place.

Taylor knew that to unravel the mystery of the disappearances, he needed to dig deeper into Harry Mane’s life. He started by scrutinizing the butcher’s financial records. With a warrant in hand, he paid a visit to Mane’s bank, where he discovered a peculiar pattern.

Mane’s account, which had been dangerously overdrawn only months before, now brimmed with deposits that couldn’t be explained by a simple uptick in business. It was as though the butcher had struck gold overnight.

Intrigued, Taylor expanded his investigation. He visited the local abattoirs where Mane sourced his meat and found that his orders had remained relatively modest, despite the booming business.

If Mane wasn’t buying more meat, how was he keeping up with the increasing demand? The question gnawed at Taylor, and he began to suspect that the answer was darker than he had initially thought.

The inspector’s next move was to track down those who had last seen the missing individuals. One name stood out: Agnes “Aggie” Turner, a prostitute who worked just down the street from Mane’s shop.

Aggie was well-known in the neighbourhood, always at her normal spot on the street, except for the day after one of the missing people was last seen. When Taylor finally found her, she was reluctant to speak, her hands shaking as she arranged flowers that no longer seemed bright to her.

After some coaxing, Aggie confessed that she had seen something odd on the night one of the victims, a young man named Johnny Ward, had disappeared.

She had noticed Harry Mane, usually a man of routine, hurrying through the fog-laden streets after dark, his butcher’s apron stained and his expression tense. The memory of it had unnerved her so much that she’d taken the next day off, too afraid to return to her regular spot on the street.

Aggie’s testimony was the first tangible thread tying Harry Mane to the disappearances. But Taylor knew he needed more than a witness’s account to bring Mane to justice. He needed proof—something irrefutable.

Taylor’s opportunity came unexpectedly. One evening, as he was staking out the butcher’s shop from a distance, he saw Harry closing up unusually early. Curious, Taylor followed him through the winding streets of the East End, keeping a safe distance.

He watched as Harry slipped into the dark alley behind his shop, only to emerge with a large, wrapped parcel. The way Mane handled the parcel—carefully, yet with a sense of urgency—sent a chill down Taylor’s spine. He had seen enough to know that the parcel contained something more than just discarded scraps.

The next day, Taylor called for a team to discreetly search the area behind Mane’s shop. They found what he had suspected: blood-stained rags and bone fragments that didn’t belong to any known animal. The discovery was enough to secure a search warrant for Mane’s premises.

Chapter 3: The Horror Unveiled

The raid on Harry Mane’s butcher shop was swift and silent, carried out under the cover of early morning. Taylor led the operation, flanked by officers who had no idea of the horror they were about to uncover. As they burst through the door, Harry looked up from his counter, his face a mask of calm that quickly shattered into panic as he realized what was happening.

The search was thorough, and it wasn’t long before they found the evidence that would seal Harry’s fate. In the cold storage room, hidden behind stacks of innocuous pork and lamb, they found a grisly collection—limbs, torsos, and heads, all in various stages of butchery.

The bodies had been expertly dismembered, stripped of any identifying features, but Taylor knew immediately that they were human. The smell, a sickly sweet rot masked by the sharp tang of preserved meat, confirmed it.

Harry Mane was arrested on the spot, his protests drowned out by the revulsion of the officers. As they led him away in handcuffs, Taylor couldn’t help but feel a grim satisfaction. The man who had terrorized the East End with his monstrous deeds would finally face justice.

Chapter 4: The Trial of Harry Mane

The trial of Harry Mane was one of the most sensational events in London’s legal history. The newspapers dubbed him "The Butcher of the East End," and the city was gripped by the macabre details that emerged. The courtroom was packed with spectators, the air thick with anticipation and horror.

The prosecution, led by the formidable barrister Sir Malcolm Greene, presented a case so damning that even

the most seasoned reporters found it hard to listen.

The evidence was overwhelming: human remains had been found in Mane’s shop, and the missing persons had all been last seen in the vicinity of his establishment. Testimonies from Aggie Turner and others placed Harry at the scene of multiple disappearances, and the financial records painted a clear picture of a man driven by desperation.

The defence, on the other hand, was in shambles. Harry’s lawyer, a young and inexperienced solicitor, tried to argue that his client was being framed, but the evidence was simply too strong.

Harry himself seemed a broken man, his earlier bravado replaced by a hollow resignation. He rarely spoke during the trial, his eyes downcast as the jury was shown photographs of the grisly discoveries from his shop.

One of the most damning pieces of evidence was the forensic report, which confirmed that the flesh found in Harry’s shop was indeed human.

The prosecution argued that Harry had not only killed his victims but had processed their remains into the very sausages and pies that had brought him renewed fame. This revelation sent shockwaves through the courtroom, and gasps of horror echoed from the gallery.

Inspector Taylor was called to the stand, where he recounted his investigation in meticulous detail. He described the nights spent following Harry, the chilling discovery of the human remains, and the eerie quiet of the butcher’s shop as the police carried out their raid.

His testimony was delivered with the calm authority of a man who had seen the darkest parts of human nature and had emerged victorious.

The trial lasted three weeks, but it took the jury only a few hours to reach a verdict. When the foreman stood and declared Harry Mane guilty on all counts, there was a collective intake of breath from the audience. The judge, a stern man known for his no-nonsense approach to justice, delivered the sentence: life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

As Harry was led away, there was no applause, no cheers—only a heavy silence, the kind that lingers after the end of a nightmare. The Butcher of the East End had been brought to justice, but the city could not so easily forget the horrors he had wrought.

Harry’s shop was shuttered, its windows boarded up, a grim reminder of the darkness that had once lurked within. The East End, though forever changed, slowly began to heal, its residents finding solace in the knowledge that the man who had haunted their nights would never again walk its streets.

Epilogue: The Shadows of the Past

Harry Mane spent the rest of his days in the cold, unforgiving confines of Pentonville Prison. His fame quickly faded, replaced by infamy as he became a cautionary tale—a bogeyman invoked to frighten children and remind adults of the darkness that can reside in the most ordinary of men.

Inspector Arthur Taylor, lauded for his work in bringing Harry to justice, continued his career at Scotland Yard, though he was never quite able to shake the memory of the butcher’s shop. The case had left its mark on him, a reminder that beneath the surface of even the most vibrant city, shadows always lurk.

And so, the story of Harry Mane, the butcher who had risen to fame on the back of unspeakable horrors, became a dark chapter in the annals of London’s history. The East End moved on, but the memory of the man who had turned his craft into a nightmare lingered like the fog that still, on certain nights, clung to the cobblestones of the city’s ancient streets