Author Topic: Tales from the Derpside: The Murder House.  (Read 344 times)

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The Murder House.

I'd left home at 17 and moved to London at 18. I ended up renting a room in my friends boyfriends flat. It wasn't ideal though, he was abusive, controlling and altogether unpleasant. I tried to convince my friend to move out with me and get a place together but she refused so I looked on my own.

Everywhere was expensive. I mean really, REALLY expensive. Some places were just rooms, tiny rooms with tiny child sized beds wedged inside them and landlords were wanting £50 or £60 per week just to sleep there overnight and not being allowed in the room during the day.

Then my friend from work, Bill told me he'd just bought a house (with another friend who happened to be a builder) and he was renting it out. It was a big house in West Finchley. For those that don't know, that was a very posh part of London. He was renting the 3 bedrooms out, £60 for the Master bedroom, £50 for the bedroom at the back (it had a single bed but was actually bigger than the master and had a massive walk in closet, something that English houses don't usually have) and £40 for the tiny box room. I bagged the £50 room and Dennis, another guy I worked with who was a good friend got the Master. We went to see the house and it was stunning. It was fixed up like a showhouse. The house was fully furnished and everything was perfect.

"What's the catch?" I'd asked somewhat suspicious. "No catch," he'd told me. "I just want to rent the house out quickly without paying an agency" He went on to say that he'd rather get less rent and rent the house to trustworthy people that he knew instead of renting it out to strangers.

It seemed everyone was happy. I moved in with Dennis, and a nurse called Maria (who we didn't know) rented the tiny room. She seemed a little crazy if I'm honest, but not in a dangerous way and as she worked long hours we didn't see her much anyway.

After about a month of living there I was randomly talking to other people from work and telling them about my great big house in West Finchley. One of the women joked and said West Finchley was lovely as long as you didn't go anywhere near Howcroft Crescent.

"Well my house is on Howcroft Crescent and it's a nice street, nice neighbours, quiet, nice houses..."

"There was a horrible murder there about 6 months ago" she'd replied.

And of course the murder had happened in the house I was renting. That's why it was cheap for my friend to buy, and that's why he rented it out privately, the agency apparently wouldn't touch it.

The guy that used to live there had killed his wife. He was a taxi driver and had randomly come home and fought with his wife (I didn't know any more details about the fight) and he'd strangled her. Then he'd apparently suddenly realised what he'd done, so to hide his crime he'd carried her upstairs, stripped her naked and bludgeoned her body (actually bashed her head in with a mallet), and left her on the bed. Then he'd quickly left the house, got in his taxi and worked the rest of the day. He came home several hours later and "discovered" his dead wife on the bed and called the police telling them he'd been at work all day, and just got home to find his wife murdered. His alibi was that he'd been taking fares all day.

Of course it didn't take the police long to pick the holes in his story and he was found guilty and went to prison for a long time.

My friend had bought the house with his builder friend and they'd rented it out to me, Dennis and Maria, the nurse.

I spoke to Bill and asked him why he hadn't told me. I said while it was tragic that someone had died, I would still have rented the house because I was desperate and me renting the house wouldn't change what had happened..

Then he replied..., and I shit you not, this is true.

"Well I thought you might feel funny about sleeping on the same bed where he'd put the body"