by Ted Tayler
DI Dominic Culverhouse was convinced. He argued the case for Wiltshire Police to take this case forward. He thought the circumstantial evidence compelling enough to present to a jury.
“How did they swing that one, guv?” asked Alex Hardy. “Surely, the other county forces were keen to pursue the attacks that Lewington had committed on their patch?”
“In cross-border cases, an offence must have a substantial connection to have jurisdiction,” Gus replied. “Best practice is for prosecutors and investigators of the relevant jurisdictions to meet face to face to consider how to proceed. They need to balance the different factors when reaching a decision where to prosecute.”
“I presume the same thing happens if crimes occur in different countries?” asked Lydia.
“It’s essentially the same process, but there could be other factors in play. Prosecutors need to consider whether they can divide a prosecution into separate cases in two or more jurisdictions. They consider the location and interests of victims. Where the witnesses are based and how easy it is for them to travel. Believe it or not, they must take the accused into account too. Where is it more appropriate to hear the case?”
“So, in the end, they passed the ball to Wiltshire and prayed they didn’t drop it?” said Alex.
“A guilty verdict carried a life sentence,” said Gus. “Rape is customarily punished by a maximum of fifteen years of criminal imprisonment. That can rise to twenty years if the victim is under fifteen. What Wiltshire hoped for was something in line with the outcome of the Huntley trial only months after the Trudi Villiers murder. He received a life sentence with the judge’s recommendation that he served a minimum of forty years. A verdict that saw Lewington locked up for thirty years would have been acceptable to the other forces.”
“Why was there so little DNA recovered at the scenes, guv?” asked Neil.
“This wasn’t like CSI on television where samples reach the lab and instantly analysed. They conjure up a picture of the suspect in minutes on a TV show. We’ve moved on since 2003, but we’re still not able to work miracles. In reality, we can’t always collect perfect samples from a crime scene. Victims are often left exposed to the elements before someone finds their bodies. It rained on the night that Trudi died. In several of the other related cases, the victims didn’t report the attack at once. Evidence could have been washed away through bathing. The fact they didn’t find semen on any of the other victims isn’t unique. Lewington could have used a condom on every other occasion. If he did lose his temper with Trudi Villiers as DS Davis suggested, then it was feasible he carried out the brutal rape without protection. The police had no weapon in the Villiers case. If they recovered a possible weapon, half a dozen people might have handled it. There are a hundred reasons why DNA wouldn’t have been the magic bullet.”
“The file mentions degraded DNA samples too, guv,” said Lydia, “if they collected those and they’re still around, could we get more from them with our advanced techniques?”
“Degradation of DNA at crime scenes can occur for many reasons. Environmental exposure is the most common. Water and enzymes can degrade biological samples. In the old days, it was almost impossible to analyse degraded samples. We know that the Hub has specially developed software to compare the forensic profile to profiles taken from the main database. The Hub can generate a list of those offenders already in the database and produce someone who is a very close relative of the individual whose DNA is in the forensic profile. Lewington was an only child. His parents were squeaky clean. It’s not always possible to have a start point for a search. We often have to use other leads, such as witness statements to identify a suspect. There were precious few in this case. Once they identified the suspect, they sought to take a legal DNA sample. If your luck’s in you can then compare it to samples found at the crime scene. None of the other forces could do that until the suspect was apprehended. Once Wiltshire assumed overall responsibility, there was no hurry for the other forces to hunt for a match, even if they had samples in their possession.”
“The case took a long time to get to court, didn’t it, guv?” asked Alex.
“The defendant underwent a psychiatric evaluation to determine whether he was fit to stand trial. The defence applied for a change of venue, arguing it would be impossible for their client to get a fair trial in the jurisdiction where the crime occurred. A judge denied this request. He stated that the defendant had had adequate time to prepare and was playing for time.”
The trial took place at Swindon Crown Court on the thirteenth of January 2005 before Mr Justice Henderson.
Dennis Lewington maintained his innocence throughout the trial.
As the case relied only on circumstantial evidence, he and his legal team doubted it would result in a conviction. The prosecution couldn’t produce compelling forensic evidence against Lewington.
In their wisdom, the jury believed the prosecution’s version of events and found him guilty of the rape and murder of Trudi Villiers.
The judge sentenced Dennis Lewington to life imprisonment.
An application for leave to appeal against the conviction was rejected in June 2005.
The judge who heard the appeal said he found no reason to think Lewington was anything other than guilty.
“In normal circumstances, that should have been that,” said Gus.
“I never questioned why my Dad retired and emigrated when he did,” said Neil, “he was in his early fifties at the time of the trial. Dad celebrated his sixtieth birthday in Marbella and has never returned here.”
Gus could tell from his slumped shoulders that Neil struggled with the knowledge his father fitted-up a suspect. Terry Davis had earned a reputation as a ‘plodder’ who would never rise above Detective Sergeant. His superiors always described him as ‘consistent’. He was consistently late and consistently lazy. If a short-cut existed to complete a task, Terry Davis found it.
“Neil must have skipped ahead a few pages, guv,” said Lydia, “and I’m not sure why he’s got a problem with this. Lewington was guilty of loads of crimes, wasn’t he?”
“He never admitted his guilt,” said Alex.
“If he didn’t kill Trudi Villiers, then why should he?”
“The innocent prisoner’s dilemma is a downside of our legal system, Lydia,” said Gus. “Admission of guilt can get you a reduced sentence or early parole. If you are convicted of a crime wrongly, the system can punish the innocent person for his integrity and reward the person lacking in integrity.”
“That means an individual could die in prison rather than admit to a crime they didn’t commit.”
“That has happened,” said Gus. “But you must balance that against research suggesting prisoners who freely admit their guilt are more likely to re-offend than those who maintain their innocence.”
“How did Lewington get to be pardoned then, guv?” asked Neil
“Oh, now I understand why we’ve got this case file,” said Lydia. “I thought we were going to use modern techniques to prove Lewington guilty. I hoped it was so that Neil’s Dad didn’t get in trouble.”
“Thanks, Lydia,” said Neil, “but all the rumours couldn’t be false. A reckoning has been a long time coming.”
“Modern techniques were to the fore,” said Gus, “plus the fact that Lewington pleaded guilty to around sixty separate assaults going back to 1997. He insisted that he never killed anyone. So, they re-examined the evidence. A long-distance lorry driver who spent the past eight years on the continent driving for a German car firm came forward. He said Dennis Lewington parked next to his truck and trailer in the Asda car park at Cribbs Causeway.”
“How could he be sure it was Lewington?” asked Alex.
“One night, eight years ago? It must have been memorable,” said Lydia.
“You don’t have to be sceptical to work here, but it helps,” said Gus. “Driving vans and lorries isn’t everyone’s ideal career. But those that spend a lifetime doing it find a camaraderie that many other
occupations lack. Dave Broomham had seen Lewington at truck stops and roadside cafes across the south of England. On numerous occasions, they chatted over a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich.”
Gus found the relevant sheet in the file.
“Here’s part of Broomham’s statement,”
‘I didn’t particularly like the bloke. There was something off about him. When there’s only you two stood at the counter of Joe’s Café by the side of the A303, beggars can’t be choosers. What did we discuss? What do drivers always discuss? The volume of traffic, the number of potholes, and how roadworks always crop up when you’re behind the clock. The weather. Football. Women we’ve seen driving in short skirts and see-through tops that day. You wouldn’t believe what you see at traffic lights. I’ve clocked women touching themselves, giving the male driver hand relief. It’s a wonder there aren’t more accidents.’
“Gross,” said Lydia, “this Broomham bloke sounds as creepy as Lewington.”
“There’s more,” said Gus, “when questioned about the night of the murder, Broomham said this,”
‘I’d been up to Worcester in the morning and made two drops in Gloucester Quays in the early afternoon. Rules on breaks and that mean you must take a break of at least forty-five minutes after no more than four and a half hours driving. I had a big breakfast in Worcester before heading to Gloucester. I made half a dozen drop-offs in the Bristol area that took me up to five-thirty. Because I lived in Chiswick then, my hours had rocketed. The main EU rules on driving hours meant that you must not drive over nine hours in a day. No more than fifty-six hours a week. I didn’t have enough hours left either way to get home on Saturday night. So, I stopped in the Asda car park. It cost nothing at the time, very handy for several of us delivery drivers. It never got overused back then either. We never caused trouble, so the supermarket didn’t give us any grief. I rang the wife; told her I’d be home in the morning and took a taxi to the city centre. I went for an Indian meal, drank two pints in a pub next to the Hippodrome and returned to Cribbs. It was just after nine o’clock when the taxi dropped me off by my rig. Dennis pulled in next to me forty-five minutes later. I stood by my cab, having a fag. He was full of it, as usual. Dennis was one of those blokes who spent so long chatting to women at every drop on his run; he had to rush to get through his schedule. How he never got a ticket or wrapped his van around a tree, I’ll never know. His tachos must have been a nightmare for his firm to unscramble. Anyway, the first thing he told me about was a coloured bird in Westbury with legs up to her backside. Then a middle-aged woman in Bradford-on-Avon who was gagging for it. He went through every detail of what they looked like, what they wore, how he’d imagined everything he’d do to them while he stood there chatting. He thought of driving back to Bradford in the morning before he drove home to Portsmouth. I reminded him it was Sunday and the offices closed. It didn’t seem to phase him. He convinced himself she fancied him. After an hour of this idle chit-chat, I was ready to turn in, but Dennis was still hyper. I let him ramble on and smoked a cigarette, then I got in the back of my cab and didn’t see him again until seven in the morning.’
“When asked what time he got into his cab,” Gus added, “he said it was a quarter past eleven.”
“Lewington could have left at midnight and still been at the murder scene,” said Neil, “maybe my Dad didn’t have it so wrong.”
“Dave Broomham said he didn’t ‘see’ him until the morning,” Gus emphasised. “However, while Broomham tried in vain to get to sleep, Dennis Lewington watched videos until at least two o’clock. The volume was loud enough to annoy Broomham, but not so loud he could hear what they said.”
“So, Lewington’s van never moved before two,” said Neil.
“Afraid not, Neil,” said Gus.
“What were these tacos Broomham mentioned, guv?” asked Lydia.
“Not tortilla wraps, that’s for sure,” said Neil, “tachos, short for tachographs.”
“This led to the most damning piece of evidence to prove Lewington had been fitted-up,” said Gus. “All drivers like Broomham and Lewington must record their journeys on a tachograph under EU rules. Most tachographs produced before May 2006 were analogue. Lines traced on a wax-coated paper disc that rotated through a twenty-four-hour period. These tachometers have gone digital now. They have to retain discs for twelve months. It’s a little more complicated than taking a glance, but seasoned transport managers can interpret the data and tell whether a driver has broken any of the rules.
“Why didn’t they grab these tachograph discs from Lewington’s van?” asked Alex.
“They did,” Gus replied, “and those records got logged in evidence at Portishead when the initial joint investigation began. The records formed an integral part of the case compiled by the Dorset and the Avon & Somerset teams. If you remember, Lewington’s company schedules confirmed him in the right places to commit the assaults in the weeks preceding his arrest in Minehead.”
“So, he drove to the towns, and the clients received their goods. They signed for them, confirming the times,” said Alex. “His breaks would be logged too, wouldn’t they?”
“That’s right; activity showed as either drive, other work, availability or rest. In those days GPS wasn’t commonly fitted to cars or vans. Lewington was devious, and he knew that the ‘V’ trace needed to match the mileage figure, but it wouldn’t record precisely where he drove. As long as he made the deliveries, he was okay.”
“He parked in free spaces such as the Asda car park to avoid incurring a record,” said Neil. “He chatted with fellow drivers who wanted a way to save a few quid on parking costs. For Lewington, it was more than that. He never wanted to register at an official truck stop or pay for a ticket; anything that placed him in a particular spot, particularly one that piqued the curiosity of his transport manager. The tachograph showed his vehicle not moving for hours. We know what he was up to with hindsight. He parked up for the night, taking the tools of his trade and hunted his prey on foot.”
“When Terry Davis analysed the evidence they gathered, he cherry-picked the items that suited his rationale,” Gus continued. “Somehow, after the case passed to Wiltshire Police, certain items got misplaced.”
“Please tell me he didn’t destroy evidence, guv,” pleaded Neil.
“I said misplaced, Neil. It became separated from the main body of evidence, along with other pieces that didn’t fit the narrative and got filed somewhere safe. In the course of the re-investigation in 2013, those discs surfaced. An expert witness demonstrated in court that Lewington could not have been in Wiltshire that night even if Dave Broomham had made a mistake. He calculated the distance travelled, showed the start and end mileage for the day and the number of hours the vehicle was at rest. When the expert compared this data with his string of deliveries, the only reasonable conclusion was that he visited the five Wiltshire towns as stated on his schedule. He then drove through Bath for two more deliveries and travelled along the M4 to reach Cribbs Causeway from Junction 32. The tachograph record for Saturday, the fourth of October 2003 showed his vehicle stationary from around nine o’clock until seven o’clock on Sunday, the fifth.”
“That was that then, Dennis Lewington was not guilty of Trudi Villiers’s murder,” said Alex, “it says here he got released in 2013. If he pleaded guilty to sixty sex offences, why didn’t they keep him in prison?”
“They arrested Lewington during October 2003,” said Gus, “held on remand until January 2005 and then in prison for a further eight years. The judge decided the sex offences fell into a sentencing band with a range of nine to thirteen years. If the murder charge had never been on the table, Lewington would have served half that sentence in prison and the remainder on licence. His name will appear on the sex offenders register for an indefinite term, but with his murder conviction quashed, he was set free.”
“Wow,” said Lydia, “what a story. How can we even start to work out who did it after this long?”
�
��Sorry, Neil, but we can’t trust any of the information in that file,” said Alex, “times altered, material evidence left out altogether; we’ll have to start from scratch.”
“I’ll have to stand down from this case, guv,” said Neil.
“You stay, Neil until the ACC or Geoff Mercer says otherwise. We’re a team. Alex and Lydia will play the public roles on this one. You will stay in the office and do everything above and beyond to retain my trust. One slip and you’re out. I think I can rely on you to do what’s right. Remember this; your Dad left these shores the year before the shit hit the fan. In 2018, he’s still a free man. Why do you think that is? There have been a lot of changes in the way the police operate in this country over the last five years. One thing that we’ve always been good at is sweeping mistakes under the carpet. That hasn’t changed. There was a furore over the county force’s handling of the case in the media. But it soon got overshadowed by the murder of Lee Rigby. Then the Edward Snowden affair hit the headlines the following month. Lewington became a ten-minute wonder. Nobody’s asking where is he now? If you care, he’s unemployed, living in a caravan deep in the countryside of North Wales. He’s as keen for it to resurface as you are. Terry Davis wasn’t the only one guilty. Dominic Culverhouse sanctioned Terry’s handling of the case. He argued that Wiltshire should pursue the murder charge above the other offences on the table. Where is Culverhouse now? He’s one of the ACC’s at Avon & Somerset. I think they will let sleeping dogs lie, Neil. Do me a favour, though.”
“Whatever you say, guv,” said Neil, “I want us to solve this one properly.”
“We’ll try, Neil. Just don’t mention what you’re working on to your Dad.”
“Scout’s honour, guv,”
“It’s been a long day,” sighed Gus. “Let’s get off home. We’ll start unpicking this lot in the morning.”
CHAPTER 4
Gus had a lot on his mind when he drove back through Devizes to Urchfont. He pulled into the allotments and parked the Ford Focus. It was time to pause for thought—no better place than outside his shed on a warm summer evening.