The first step was to break the news to Alison that Dhalla was free once more, robbing her of the sense of security she had enjoyed for just one day. Strict measures were put in place to protect her but no-one knew where Dhalla was or what his next move would be.
Alison had mentally mapped out her flat, estimating where her best chances of survival or escape lay. It was not easy. He had lived there. He knew every nook and cranny. Any hiding place would be futile to a hunter as determined as he. She was terrified. She wondered when and how he would get her.
She opted to spend what would be a sleepless night under the kitchen table. Nerves wrecked and weeping uncontrollably, she found her heart was racing. How was she going to get through this? She had a life to lead, patients to care for. When would this terror end? At least her parents had decided to get away from it all to the safety of their long-planned holiday on Lundy Island in the middle of the Bristol Channel.
She felt exhausted; she could not continue like this. At times she wished he would find her and something, anything, would happen that would end the nightmare one way or another. She knew her kitchen table shelter would offer little protection or refuge but it might, just might, buy her time.
In the small hours she was awoken from a shallow doze. ‘Open up, police, open up!’ came an insistent shout, as the flat was lit up by a sweep of blinding torchlight through the thin curtains.
Terrified and struggling to place the voice, she edged towards the door, her fingers about to punch out 999 on the phone that never left her side.
‘Alison Hewitt?’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, having now placed the voice as that of Rick, her blond six-foot saviour from before.
Relieved, she let them in. She sensed that something had happened that might draw all this to a close.
‘Someone’s set fire to your mum’s house,’ came the bombshell.
‘What?’ was all she could manage in reply, a thousand scenarios going through her exhausted mind.
‘You need to come with us. Back to the police station. You’ll be safe there.’
As she grabbed what she could in the short time the insistent officers allowed, they explained that it was almost certainly arson. The whole perimeter of the house was a ring of fire with the front and back doors ablaze.
Alison slouched, shell-shocked, in the back of the police car during the short drive to Brighton Police Station. She knew that she was as safe as she could ever be right now, but still her instinctive fear that Al would pounce from nowhere was never far from the surface.
Once inside the fortress police station, she spent the next hours learning about events as they arose, and revealing, under the gentle skill of Emily Hoare’s questioning, the fine details of her life with Al.
The whole family was at risk, but Paul’s nomadic lifestyle and the difficulty even Alison had in contacting him, reassured the police that he was probably safe from Dhalla. Pam and David, on the other hand, were clearly in his sights.
Strict procedures kicked in to ensure the likely targets were protected as far as possible. Potential victims are sometimes served with notices called Osman warnings. These set out the risks, what the victim can do and how they should co-operate with the police to protect themselves. Carly Chase’s version is set out in Dead Man’s Grip and demonstrates the impact such a notice must have. Some accept them. Others, like Red, are more reluctant to change their habits in the interests of survival.
Long-term measures take some time to put in place. Therefore, the default in an emergency such as this is for those at risk to be whisked away to police stations. Hence, Alison being safely ensconced in the largest one in Sussex. The race now was to get Pam and David somewhere safe; even their choice of isolated holiday island seemed to be known to Dhalla. Efforts to contact them on their mobile phones to warn them of the threat came to nothing. Fears were growing that he had already struck.
The stark reality was, though, that up until now, Al could only have been arrested for the minor offence of breaching his bail. The fire changed all that. It was now a case of finding him before someone was killed.
He was so resourceful that he could easily strike again and that could be whenever, wherever and at whomever he chose. He was calling the shots. This was as intense as Grace’s hunt for Dr Crisp in You Are Dead.
Thames Valley Police had discovered, to their horror, that a neighbourhood police office near Aston Abbotts had been set alight around the same time as Alison’s mother’s house. Luckily again, it was empty but given that fires rarely happen in that area, the two blazes within hours of each other just had to be linked. Dhalla was running amok since his release from custody in Wiltshire.
A bleary-eyed DCI Nev Kemp was called in and started coordinating the race to catch this madman. The crosshairs of Al’s hate were shifting between Alison and her parents. Nev knew they all needed protection and needed it now. Eventually he was told that an officer had finally managed to speak to a hotel receptionist on the Island and Pam and David were safe, for now.
Nev picked up the phone.
Devon and Cornwall Police leapt into action the second Nev finished the call. In scenes more akin to a James Bond movie than Middle England tranquillity, a team of heavily armed officers dressed head to toe in black combat gear were air-dropped through the early morning mist onto Lundy. They sprinted to a waiting David and Pam who, having been alerted earlier, were cowering behind their door. Briefed by a gruff officer they grasped the danger they were in.
Minutes later they were being rushed across the dew-soaked lawn towards the waiting helicopter. Some of the crack police team leapt into the chopper seconds before take off. Others had already secreted themselves around the mainland ferry station as Nev could not be sure Dhalla wouldn’t be there waiting for Pam and David.
While this military-style operation was unfolding in the Bristol Channel, Alison was still outlining her life history to Emily and her gentle-giant sergeant, Colin Jaques. They were establishing that Dhalla had free and ready access to all Alison’s emails and texts – how else would he have known when and where she would be?
The decision was taken that she and her family would be hidden away in a quaint little hotel along the coast in sleepy Eastbourne. They would check in under false names and no phones or credit cards would be allowed. Their survival depended on no-one knowing who or where they were.
Back at Brighton Police Station, another threat hit Nev like a bolt from the blue. He shared his concern with his second in command, DI Jon Wallace.
‘Christ, Jon, you know we’ve turned the tables on ourselves.’
‘Sorry, Nev, not with you,’ admitted Jon.
‘We’ve gone from hunters to hunted.’
‘How so?’
‘I have identified a hire car he is using and it was in Brighton just hours after the fires. He must have seen the police cars we have stationed outside Alison’s flat to protect the neighbours. Dhalla has shown that nothing is going to get in his way. He knows we are going to nick him if we see him. He’s already torched one police office. If he knows we have got the family with us he is going to be furious. There is every chance he’s going to try to get us too.’
In assessing Dhalla, Nev mirrored Grace’s reflections of Bryce: He has to win, there’s no other possible option for him. He would kill her and then himself, and see that as a grand act of defiance. This was what we were up against.
‘Shit, you’re right. We need to put some protection around the police station and the safe hotel. He’s clearly capable of doing us some serious damage too,’ deduced Jon.
Nev brought me up to speed on his latest hypothesis. We agreed that the security at the hotel would be his to manage but that I would get someone else to devise a plan for the police station. He had enough on his plate.
By now Pam and David were back in Sussex and the whole family were safely together, protected and miles from Brighton. All terrified, all hopelessly disorientated, all slowly realizing that life wou
ld never be the same again, they were effectively imprisoned for their own survival.
Nev had already dispatched a team of detectives armed with photos of Dhalla to the Royal Sussex County Hospital and its sister building, the Princess Royal at nearby Haywards Heath, where Alison was due to start her work placement on the obstetric and gynaecology ward.
Following dozens of the usual blank looks cops are used to receiving when showing a suspect’s photos, a sharp-eyed nurse at the Princess Royal did a double take.
‘I know that man,’ she declared.
‘What?’ said the startled officer.
‘He was here on the ward an hour ago. He said he was a new doctor. He was asking about rotas. He didn’t stay long but I thought it was odd. He wouldn’t make eye contact when we spoke to him and most doctors these days don’t wear white coats.’
This was the breakthrough Nev needed. Finally a sighting, a clue – nowhere near conclusive but a snippet to latch on to.
Immediately the order went out to search the hospital and the grounds and to scour the CCTV. Bryce used CCTV to his advantage by trying to feign a trip to the continent. For Dhalla it would be his undoing. There on screen walking through the hospital car parks, just before dawn, about three hours after the fire in Aston Abbotts, was the menacing stalker. He had drawn suspicion at the time and there was clear footage of security guards challenging him. Not knowing his past, his intentions or that he was now wanted by police, they accepted his story of being unable to sleep and sent him on his way.
Dhalla clearly had a plan and, thinking he had struck a blow at Pam and David, he had made straight for Alison.
‘Graham, we think he is hacking into her emails,’ Nev declared.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, there is no other way he would know so much about her movements.’
Playing the part of his coach, I asked, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘He thinks he is so smart so I’m going to set him a trap.’ He took me through his cunning plan.
It was simple yet brilliant. He phoned it through to Emily. She sat down with Alison and carefully briefed her. It would work only if it came from her, in her words. He would smell a rat otherwise. So she typed an email:
Hi Mum,
I hope you are well. I’ve finished with the police now. I’m back on duty at the Princess Royal tomorrow at 8 a.m.
Speak on your return.
Love Alison
The bait was set, all Nev could do was wait. Sensing that Dhalla would remain holed up nearby, Nev instructed that every hotel and guest house in the towns and villages close to the hospital be visited to try to smoke him out. This drew a blank; we would later discover he had driven to London as soon as the hospital security officers had confronted him.
Just as the other forces had decided before, we realized catching Dhalla was a job for the firearms boys. Steve Whitton and Jim Bartlett devised a plan of their own. Guns and hospitals are not a good mix, as we’ve seen, but these guys were the best in their field. If they couldn’t plan a safe but sure operation to nail him, no-one could.
The following morning, the briefing of the elite Tactical Firearms Unit had only just started when the call came through to Jim.
‘Boss, we’ve had the hospital security on the phone. Your man is on the plot already. Just turned up in a white coat, wearing a stethoscope and carrying a clipboard.’
‘Christ,’ Jim shouted to the assembled throng, ‘get up there now, he can’t get onto a ward.’
The fleet of plain and marked BMWs hurtled towards the hospital, lights and sirens blaring. As if on cue, all the tell-tale sights and sounds of their approach were snuffed out on the outskirts of Haywards Heath in case they spooked the prey. As they glided up to the hospital entrance a pacing security guard met them.
‘He’s in the toilets just through here,’ he whispered, awestruck that he had a bit part in this unfolding thriller.
Three plain-clothes cops leapt from a grey BMW and followed the guard through. As he indicated where to go, they donned their fluorescent chequered ‘Police’ baseball caps and burst through the door. It did not take long to confirm they had their man.
‘Armed police! Put your hands on your head,’ snapped the team leader as all three drew their handguns, pointing them straight at Dhalla’s midriff. Amazingly, even in the face of such firepower, he did not take the hint. Rather than a peaceful surrender he launched himself at the officers.
Confronted with an obviously unarmed man, they quickly holstered their weapons and resorted to hand-to-hand combat. After several minutes of ferocious fighting in the confined space, Dhalla was eventually overpowered and his hands and legs swiftly bound. A search revealed he was carrying razor blades in his pockets; he would not say why. Finally they had him. Finally Alison, David and Pam could breathe easy – for now.
Nev knew Dhalla would have a car nearby. Where was it? What would it reveal? Soon they found the vehicle Nev had previously identified parked not far from the hospital. This was Dhalla’s operations centre. The search revealed a loaded crossbow, a large knife, fuel cans, more razor blades and a fuel-soaked envelope addressed to Pam. The satnav had saved on it the addresses of Pam and David’s house, Alison’s flat, the hotel on Lundy Island, both hospitals and a remote nearby wood.
Dhalla’s silence in interview was anticipated. He was arrogance personified. Then again, how exactly do you explain such a wicked and relentless targeting of those you purport to love? No doubt he knew he was going to be caught for what he had done but who could guess what more he was intending to do with the armoury in the van? He was charged and remanded to Lewes Prison to await his trial.
This would span a month and further extended the ordeal for Alison. Having to relive all of her terrors brought everything back. Alison and Pam had the comfort of being screened from Dhalla while they gave their evidence but that could not protect them from days of having every truth doubted, every horrific act minimized and their integrity questioned at every turn. The defence, at one stage, made the mistake of questioning Pam’s qualifications to label Dhalla a ‘narcissistic psychopath’. She was able to gently remind the court she was a trained social worker and probation officer and had worked in both prisons and psychiatric hospitals.
Dhalla spent five days in the witness box being grilled by Richard Barton, an excellent prosecution barrister, with whom I had worked many years earlier on a murder trial. Despite being on the ropes, Dhalla couldn’t resist repeating his farcical accusations of Alison, her family and their friends being guilty of murder and drug dealing. He thought he was so clever with an answer for everything. Barton’s skill, however, in presenting to the jury the catalogue of terror he had inflicted left them in no doubt of what they thought of Dhalla. Seven guilty verdicts, including for arson and harassment, brought huge relief to everyone except the man in the dock.
His pleas of remorse staged for the jury were hollow. His sentencing, however, was delayed while police investigated an allegation that he and other inmates had conspired to pay for a hit man. He was never charged with that so the hearing resumed.
Sentencing him to an indeterminate prison sentence Judge Charles Kemp (no relation to Nev) explained that he might never be released, certainly not until he was deemed to no longer present a threat. Even then he would face deportation back to Canada.
Alison now works to raise the awareness of stalking so that others don’t have to suffer the ordeals she did. Her book Stalked, published by Pan Macmillan, gives an extraordinary insight into how the terror of stalking can silently creep up on even the most astute and intelligent people until it explodes with such force as to rip apart their every sense of wellbeing. Her support and blessing for the inclusion of this story shows her resolve to highlight the evil some can inflict on others in the name of love.
Somehow, knowing what they know, living what they lived with, Alison and her family suspect that rather than this closing the book on their evil
stalker, his imprisonment is merely the end of a chapter. As Grace explained regarding Bryce Laurent, ‘he might not be in jail forever. He still might get out one day, and Red knows that.’ So too does Alison.
All she can do is rebuild her life, learn to trust again and hope.
17: THE BEAUTIFUL GAME
Brighton and Hove Albion Football Club has attracted thousands of long-suffering, die-hard nomadic fans for over a century.
Since 1997, it has had no fewer than four homes. Until that year the club had occupied the Victorian-built Goldstone Ground where 36,000 fans would cram onto its windswept terraces. When that was sold they had to lodge with Gillingham FC 70 miles away in Kent. Two years later they returned to the city to occupy a hurriedly converted athletics stadium in Withdean. It was not until 2011 that they finally settled in the long-awaited American Express Community Stadium built, amid much controversy, at Falmer next to Brighton and Sussex Universities. The Albion’s loyal supporters have followed them to each and celebrated and agonized over their highs and lows, including almost winning the coveted FA Cup in 1983 and narrowly avoiding the oblivion of demotion from the Football League in both 1997 and 1998.
Wherever the Albion – nicknamed the Seagulls – called home, Sussex Police were central to the safety of fans and the prevention of hooliganism. Or crushing it should it occur.
Football supporters are tribal by nature. Some express that through sheer naked but peaceful passion, others through violence. The trick is differentiating between the two and stopping the latter ruining the game for the former. Some clubs attract a troublesome reputation, sometimes deserved, but occasionally poor policing can turn noisy fervent fans into a rampaging mob.
When the Albion moved to the Amex Stadium, Sussex Police agreed with the club that we would surprise the fans by jointly adopting an amicable customer service model on match days. Our philosophy was that if we treated people like human beings, chances are they would behave as such.
Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton Page 26