In the shadow of Bristol’s iconic Clifton Suspension Bridge, where the Avon Gorge plunges 75 meters into the abyss, a nightmare unfolded on a balmy summer night that would horrify the nation. It was just before midnight on July 10, 2024, when two abandoned suitcases—bulky, black, and ominously heavy—sat forlornly on the pedestrian walkway, their zippers straining under invisible weight. One leaked a dark, viscous fluid onto the stone, pooling like spilled ink under the bridge’s wrought-iron arches. A passer-by, mistaking the drip for motor oil, wrinkled his nose and hurried on. But when bridge staff approached the solitary figure struggling with the luggage, he bolted—leaving behind a trail of blood that would lead detectives to one of Britain’s most barbaric double murders.

The man? Yostin Andres Mosquera, a 35-year-old Colombian porn star known in underground circles as “The Black Master.” The suitcases? Tombs for the dismembered remains of Albert Alfonso, 62, and his civil partner Paul Longworth, 71—two devoted, hardworking Londoners slaughtered in their Shepherd’s Bush flat two days earlier. What followed was a macabre odyssey of savagery: throats slit during filmed sex sessions, skulls shattered with hammers, bodies hacked apart with power saws, heads frozen like grotesque trophies. And in the blood-soaked aftermath? Mosquera, naked and euphoric, danced and sang over his dying victim, a chilling spectacle captured on camera that would scar jurors for life.

Fast-forward to October 24, 2025, and Mosquera—once a webcam sensation peddling extreme BDSM fantasies—stands condemned at Woolwich Crown Court. Handed a life sentence with a 42-year minimum, the judge branded his acts “premeditated and thoroughly wicked,” a phrase that now echoes through the annals of UK crime. But as the gavel fell, new witness testimonies emerged, peeling back the veil on this grisly saga. From the “bleeding” suitcases that nearly plunged into the gorge to the frenzied flat where death danced, these accounts paint a portrait of depravity that blurs the line between fantasy and fatal frenzy. This is the inside story—the one that will haunt you long after the lights go out.

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: Police at the scene on Clifton Suspension Bridge, where two suitcases containing human remains were discovered leaking blood on July 10, 2024.

A Love Story Cut Short: The Victims Who Had Everything to Live For

Albert Alfonso and Paul Longworth weren’t the type to court headlines. Albert, a French-born ex-hotel manager who claimed British citizenship in the 1990s, was the epitome of quiet diligence. At 62, he worked as a concierge and general manager at a swanky Kensington residential block, rising at dawn to polish brass fittings and charm residents with his impeccable manners. “He was the guy who’d fix your leaky tap at midnight or recommend the perfect Bordeaux,” recalls a former colleague, who spoke on condition of anonymity. “Always smiling, always kind—devoted to Paul.”

Paul, 71, was the handyman at the same building, a retired jack-of-all-trades whose calloused hands spoke of a life spent mending more than just pipes. Dyslexic and unpretentious, he leaned on Albert for paperwork, but his spirit was unbreakable. The couple, who entered a civil partnership in February 2023 after decades together, shared a cozy flat at 82 Scotts Road, Shepherd’s Bush—a modest two-bedroom haven filled with souvenirs from Irish family trips and framed photos of speedboat jaunts. Both had been fostered as children, forging a bond forged in resilience. “They were settled, affectionate—two halves of a whole,” Mr Justice Joel Bennathan noted in his sentencing remarks. Paul dreamed of post-retirement holidays; Albert, ever the planner, had just booked a Mediterranean cruise.

Their world was private, loving—and, for Albert, laced with a secret thrill. Since 2012, he’d dipped into the shadowy realm of extreme sex, paying performers for BDSM sessions filmed for niche porn sites. It was consensual, compartmentalized—a release from his buttoned-up days. Paul knew and accepted it, their trust unshakeable. “Paul was the anchor,” says a mutual friend. “He’d joke, ‘As long as you’re home for dinner, love.’” Little did they know, one of those sessions would summon a monster who craved not just dominance, but destruction.

The Predator in Plain Sight: Yostin Mosquera’s Descent into Darkness

Yostin Andres Mosquera arrived in the UK like a ghost from Albert’s webcam past. Born in 1990 in Colombia’s turbulent streets, Mosquera fled a childhood scarred by violence—witnessing the machete murders of other children at ages 10 and 14, traumas that would later surface as partial mitigation in court. By his 20s, he’d pivoted from street survival to screen seduction, building a persona as “The Black Master”—a towering, tattooed dom in extreme porn videos blending degradation, role-play, and raw power. Webcam chats with Albert in 2012 evolved into paid London visits by 2017, netting Mosquera over £5,800 between 2022 and 2024. Albert, in turn, earned £17,500 from the sites, a side hustle that thrilled his adventurous side.

But Mosquera wasn’t content with gigs. In June 2024, he jetted into Heathrow on a visitor visa, ostensibly for “English lessons” bankrolled by Albert. Posing as a tourist, he snapped selfies at the London Eye, but his real agenda festered. Court heard he copied Albert’s bank details during sessions, siphoning funds and plotting a heist on their £800,000 flat. Searches on his phone betrayed his intent: “Where on the head is a knock fatal?” “Hammer killer.” “Deep freezer for sale.” In Spanish, via Google Translate: queries for power saws and body disposal. “He was casing the joint,” prosecutor Deanna Heer KC thundered at trial. “This wasn’t impulse—it was a blueprint for butchery.”

Mosquera’s charm masked a void: charming yet callous, self-centered with zero empathy, as psychologists testified. No prior convictions in Colombia or the UK, but his devices brimmed with 1,500 Category A child abuse images—a concurrent 16-month sentence tacked on like a footnote to horror. “He saw violence as currency,” one investigator confided. “From child soldier witness to porn predator—killing was just the next script.”

Blood on the Lens: The Murders That Shattered a Sanctuary

July 8, 2024, dawned ordinarily in Shepherd’s Bush. Paul pottered in the kitchen; Albert hit the gym. Around midday, with Albert out, Mosquera struck. Paul, unsuspecting, was ambushed— a plastic bag yanked over his head, then savage hammer blows to the skull. The 71-year-old’s cranium shattered like porcelain; 14 fractures, brain pulped. “Multiple, frenzied strikes,” the pathologist reported, “delivered with intent to kill.” Mosquera stuffed the corpse under the bed, a crimson shroud in their marital sanctuary.

Albert returned at 10 p.m., eager for their scheduled “session.” Cameras rolled—standard for their porn output—as Mosquera, naked and oiled, took control. But this night, the knife was real. As Albert knelt in submission, Mosquera slit his throat ear-to-ear, the blade sawing through cartilage. Gurgling, Albert fought back—clawing, pleading—but Mosquera stabbed relentlessly: 20 wounds to torso, face, neck. “Do you like it?” he taunted, per the footage. Blood fountained; Albert’s gasps filled the frame.

Then, the danse macabre. As Alfonso bled out, twitching in agony, Mosquera broke into song—twerking, gyrating, a naked jig of jubilation smeared in gore. “He danced like it was a victory lap,” Heer told jurors, screening the 10-minute clip that left one sobbing in the box. “Joyful, euphoric—over a dying man.” Mosquera later claimed panic, alleging Albert killed Paul and “raped” him daily. CCTV debunked it: Albert was gym-bound during Paul’s murder. “Lies,” the judge ruled. “Calculated cruelty.”

Over the next 48 hours, Mosquera played house. He ordered a chest freezer—delivered July 9—decapitated both men with a power saw, hacksawed legs and Paul’s hands (to thwart fingerprints). Heads to the icebox; torsos, limbs to suitcases. He raided accounts for £4,000, even pausing to watch Netflix. Neighbors glimpsed him: shifty, pacing at 4 a.m., coat pulled low. “He looked unpredictable, like a druggie on edge,” recalls Katherine, a mother returning from holiday. “Pulled his hood up when we drove by—kept glancing back.”

By July 10, the stench seeped. Mosquera hailed a cab to Bristol—200 miles west—suitcases thumping in the boot. The driver, later quizzed, noted the weight: “Like hauling cadavers.” At Clifton, under moonlight, Mosquera hauled them to the edge. Too heavy to lob over the fence; blood oozed, staining pavement. “What’s leaking?” a passer-by asked. “Motor oil,” Mosquera lied, sweat beading.

The Bridge of Blood: Witnesses to a Horror Unfolding

Clifton Suspension Bridge, Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s 1864 marvel, has claimed 500 suicides— but never a disposal dump. That changed at 11:45 p.m. Giles Malone, 92, and his wife waited for an Uber post-football match. “Two blokes lugging massive cases across the road,” Giles told LBC. “One was flustered, sweating buckets. My wife joked, ‘What’ve you got in there—a body?’ They laughed it off, but the weight… unnatural.” The other helper, an unnamed woman, echoed: “I grabbed one end—felt wrong, squishy almost. Joked about dead bodies to break the ice. He looked terrified, muttered ‘sorry’ and bolted.”

Enter the cyclist—a local hero pseudonymed “James” in reports. Spotting the scene, he challenged Mosquera: “Oi, what’s in the bags?” Mosquera fled down Burwalls Road; James pursued on pedals, yelling for guards. “He was sprinting like hell, cases abandoned,” James recounted to BristolLive. “Blood trail glistening under streetlights—one bag split open on the Leigh Woods side, gore everywhere.” His dashcam clinched it: Mosquera’s face, frozen in flight.

Bridge ranger Andrea Malizia, roused by shouts, radioed security. “Helicopter circled like a vulture,” she told The Guardian. “Unusual for here—suicides, yes, but this? Felt demonic.” Police dogs sniffed the leak: human blood, type O-positive—Alfonso’s. The suitcases unzipped to apocalypse: torsos swaddled in sheets, limbs tangled like discarded props. “Most gruesome find in decades,” Acting Commander Vicks Hayward-Melen said. One held Alfonso’s upper body; the other, Longworth’s, hands severed at wrists.

Mosquera, ditching the cab, legged it to Temple Meads station. Bloodstained shirt gave him away—arrested July 12, phone pinging his trail. “Shocked silence,” an officer recalls. “Then the freezer horror back in London.”

Manhunt and Mayhem: The Probe That Unearthed Hell

Avon and Somerset Police sealed the bridge; Met’s Specialist Crime Command raided Scotts Road. “Harrowing doesn’t cover it,” DCI Ollie Stride told reporters. “Hundreds of hours sifting graphic footage—bodies sawn mid-joint, freezer humming with heads.” Neighbors buzzed: a private ambulance (Mosquera’s ruse for “medical waste”) raised brows. “Thought burglary,” one said. “Then coppers swarming—’Just ensuring safety,’ they said. Nightmares followed.”

Digital breadcrumbs damned him: porn uploads paused mid-murder, bank hacks traced to Colombia transfers. “He googled ‘perfect murder’ disposal,” Heer revealed. Child porn cache sealed his infamy. Mosquera’s defense? “Fear—Albert was the monster.” Jury rejected it in four hours, July 21, 2025.

theguardian.com

Yostin Andres Mosquera (left) with victims Albert Alfonso (center) and Paul Longworth (right) on a happier outing, a stark contrast to the horrors he inflicted.

Courtroom Carnage: A Jury’s Descent into Darkness

Woolwich Crown Court, October 2025: Mosquera, shackled and sullen, faced 12 strangers. The murder video—10 minutes of throat-slashing ecstasy—drew gasps. “One juror vomited; another wept,” a clerk whispers. Heer’s closing: “Dancing in death’s disco—premeditated perversion.” Defense: childhood scars, “loss of control.”

Bennathan’s verdict: life, 42 years minimum. “Two harmless men, bludgeoned and butchered for gain,” he intoned. “Your dance? Diabolical delight. Deportation awaits—if ever free.” Mosquera, unrepentant, smirked—earning boos.

Echoes of Evil: A Community Scarred, A Nation Shaken

Shepherd’s Bush mourns quietly. Vigils at Scotts Road; rainbow flags half-mast for the couple’s love. “They were us—ordinary, loving,” Paul’s niece says. “He stole their dignity twice: in life, then in pieces.” Clifton locals eye the bridge warily: “Ghost suits now,” jokes Giles Malone darkly.

The case spotlights porn’s perils—consent’s razor edge. “Extreme fantasies fueled fatal entitlement,” warns cyber-psychologist Dr. Lena Vasquez. Mosquera rots in Belmarsh, appeals slim. But the blood trail lingers: a reminder that behind every click, darkness dances.

As Bennathan warned: “You may never be safe to set free.” In Britain’s bloodiest tale, some monsters never stop performing.