10 Rillington Place Notting Hill London

So, picture this: it’s a grey Tuesday afternoon, and I’m standing outside a nondescript terraced house in Notting Hill. Not the fancy, pastel-coloured Notting Hill from the movie, but the real one—a bit tired, a bit worn. A guy walking his dog stops, sees me staring at the number ten, and says, “You here for that house, mate? Bit morbid, innit?” I just nodded. Because, honestly? It is. And that’s exactly why we need to talk about it.

This isn’t a love story about Hugh Grant running after Julia Roberts. This is about 10 Rillington Place, the most infamous address in London—a place that became a byword for sheer, stomach-churning evil. You’ve probably heard the name, but trust me, the reality is even darker than the urban legends. Let’s walk through the door, shall we?

The Man Who Lived There

His name was John Christie. Sounds like a friendly bloke from the corner shop, right? Nope. He was a necrophiliac serial killer who, between 1943 and 1953, murdered at least eight women in that tiny flat. He buried them under the floorboards, in the garden, and even in a kitchen alcove. In the kitchen. Think about that next time you’re cooking dinner.

Here’s the kicker: Christie didn’t just kill people. He had a side hustle. He’d pose as a backstreet abortionist—illegal at the time—so he could lure desperate women into his home. He’d promise to “fix things,” then gas them with carbon monoxide. Charming, right? And his wife, Ethel? She either knew nothing or chose to know nothing. We’ll never be sure.

The Real Horror: Tim Evans

But the story gets twisted. In 1949, a young, illiterate van driver named Timothy Evans moved in upstairs. He was a bit slow, a bit gullible. When his baby daughter died, and then his wife Beryl turned up dead, Christie helpfully “discovered” the bodies. Then he convinced Tim to confess—promising to get him off the hook. Tim took the fall. He was hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.

Only later, when Christie himself was caught, did the truth come out: Christie killed them. By then, Tim was already six feet under. The police botched the investigation royally—they ignored a hidden crawlspace full of bodies. Classic British incompetence meets tragic injustice.

The House Itself: A Ghost in the Streets

Fast forward to today. The address? It no longer exists. The street was renamed, the house number removed, and the whole area redeveloped. You can walk down Bartle Road (that’s the new name) and you’ll find a bland, modern block of flats where number ten used to be. It’s like London tried to erase its own dark little secret.

And you know what? It almost worked. Tourists flock to the Portobello Road market for vintage clothes and antiques, oblivious that a few streets away, a man tucked human skulls under the floorboards. There’s no blue plaque. No “Christie slept here” sign. Just a weird, heavy silence.

Why Should You Care?

Look, I’m not asking you to become a true-crime obsessive (though, let’s be honest, we all are a bit now). But 10 Rillington Place teaches us something uncomfortable: ordinary places can hide extraordinary evil. That pretty, quiet street you walk down? It might have a basement full of secrets. And the most dangerous man isn’t the one in the dark alley—it’s the one who brings you tea and offers to help.

There’s also the question of moral failure. Neighbors heard screams, but nobody called the police. The law hanged an innocent man. Everyone wanted to look away. That’s the real ghost of Rillington Place—not Christie’s spirit, but the habit of collective silence.

A Small, Ironic Footnote

Here’s the bit that always gets me. In 1971, the house was sold at auction. The new owners? They had no idea. They moved in, painted the walls, and lived there for years until someone casually mentioned, “Oh, by the way, the kitchen you’re standing in was used as a tomb.” They moved out pretty fast. Can you blame them? I’d have packed my bags mid-biscuit.

So next time you’re in Notting Hill, sipping an overpriced latte and browsing vintage dresses, take a detour. Walk to the corner of Bartle Road and St. Mark’s Road. Stand there for a moment. Feel the odd, cold drop in temperature—or maybe that’s just your imagination. But it’s not. It’s the weight of a story London tried to bury, but the truth always finds a crack in the floorboards.

Just don’t offer to help anyone move a rug. You never know what’s under it.