Frustrated by his world collapsing around him, Al was now trying the more direct approach. Not quite as direct as Want You Dead’s Bryce however. There were no incendiary bombs in supermarkets or mysterious Queen of Hearts drawn in the shower room condensation but his tactics were no less petrifying.
Just when Alison had assumed Al would be keeping his distance, one Sunday in March 2011, as she was leaving for work, he appeared bold as brass at her front door.
Ever the optimist, Alison decided to agree to his request to ‘just talk’ but on the strict condition that the conversation would last only as long as the short walk to the hospital and then that would be the end.
He managed to convince her that he had moved back to London and had pawned the rejected engagement ring. He tried to assure her that he had got the message and just wanted to know where it had all gone wrong. Alison didn’t want that conversation; she was determined for him to hear loud and clear that he was ruining her life.
Beneath that facade of acquiescence, however, the embers of Dhalla’s wrath had ignited once more. He upped his campaign against Alison and her friends with various out-of-the-blue visits. His ingenuity in finding ways to harass her knew no bounds. Discovering her work pattern to plan when to target her and inviting himself to her friend’s wedding ‘as a romantic surprise’ were just two ways by which he turned the screw.
His scariest act to date, however, was waiting at the end of Alison’s driveway for her to get home and, picking his moment, leaping in through her unlocked passenger door. Terrified, she crunched the gearshift into reverse and drove onto the main street, parking next to a coffee shop, as she was confident that he was too smart to become violent in the public gaze.
As if completely oblivious to the effects of his actions, while Alison trembled in the driver’s seat, he calmly announced he had tickets to Leeds Castle and would she like to come?
She persuaded him to get out of the car on the promise that she would see him a few days later. As he appeared to have fallen for this, she called the police. Recognizing the urgency of her plight, our response was swift. Unfortunately, despite a thorough search, Dhalla was nowhere to be found — although the officers told Alison they thought they glimpsed him getting onto a bus nearby but were unable to confirm it.
Alison’s feigned promise to see him again provided a fabulous opportunity for the diligent officers. While the search for him continued and warnings were added to her address record at the Force Control Room, a plan was hatched.
That Monday, for once, it looked like Dhalla was running late. The best-laid plans can be blown out of the water by an unreliable target, as happens occasionally. However, soon enough Al rapped on Alison’s door. He was expecting a fair-haired professional to open the door — just not that the person would also be six foot tall, wearing police uniform and going by the name of Rick.
After a pathetic protest he was handcuffed, marched away to a waiting car and driven off to the cells. As with many so-called brave inmates of the cells at Brighton Custody Suite, once safely behind the cell door he effed and blinded and, with complete futility, tried to crash his way through the four-inch metal door.
He was eventually released on bail on the condition that he did not contact Alison or enter Sussex. As Nev briefed me, I sensed that he had little optimism, that this would dissuade Dhalla from his relentless campaign of terror.
‘So you see, he is heading towards some kind of endgame scenario,’ he told me. He was certain that Dhalla was not going to stop until he died or went to prison. From the days when Nev had been my deputy, when I was head of public protection, we both knew these types. Evil personified.
‘Go with it, Nev, and don’t spare the horses. You are right, he is building up to something. Your job is to stop him. Whatever you require, you’ve got it. If you need me to open doors to get it, just shout. Keep me informed day and night.’
Not long after, Nev’s fears were confirmed. On Mother’s Day, a sharp-eyed farmer 120 miles away in Wiltshire reported a man firing weapons in his fields. Erring on the side of caution, armed police were dispatched. It takes a lot to spook firearms officers. They are tough, fit and very well trained. However, when they approached this particular shooter, something made them feel so uneasy that they discreetly lowered their hands to hover over their pistol grips.
Introducing himself as Al Amin Dhalla, his icy stare pierced straight through them. His answers were brief, his whole aura chilling. He explained he was ‘just doing some target practice’ with his crossbow. Crossbows are deadly weapons and take expert handling if you want to make a clean kill. Bryce honed his accuracy skills by shooting watermelons while preparing to assassinate Grace at his wedding just as Al had been practising with silhouette targets in this remote meadow.
The search of his van told a sinister story. He wouldn’t explain the hammer, blowtorch, goggles and high-powered air rifle they found. Nor would he account for why the van had been modified in such a way that someone inside could move from front to back, or a person could be locked there unseen from the outside. There was even a grille fitted through which a weapon could be fired. As for the addresses, including the ferry terminal to Lundy Island, saved as favourites in his satnav, he was saying nothing.
His choice of weapons had been clever. While deadly, none were illegal. Only his trespassing and out-of-date Canadian driving licence gave the officers grounds for arrest, but it did allow the van and his murderous arsenal to be seized. Despite all the background information from Brighton and the excellent case put forward by Wiltshire Police and Crown Prosecution Service, the charges were at the very lowest end of the scale and the magistrates released Dhalla on bail with the condition that he lived at a particular hotel. In many ways their hands were tied. Dhalla, on the other hand, couldn’t believe his luck.
Nev strode round to my office with an inevitable update.
‘Dhalla has left his bail address. I’m certain the target practice was so he could wreak revenge on the Hewitt and Gray families. The addresses in the satnav show he has an interest in Aston Abbotts. My single most important objective now is to protect Alison and her parents. It’s a race against time. We can arrest him for breaching his bail but I wouldn’t bet on him being remanded for long on that charge. We’ve now got at least three forces involved. I don’t really know where he is or when he will strike next, but it is a when, not an if.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Are we still the lead force? I wouldn’t want any ambiguity about who is in charge to allow anything to fall between the gaps.’
‘Yes. I’m the SIO and I am getting great co-operation from the other forces. Everyone sees the risk.’
‘Well done. Make sure it stays that way. Would you like me to brief the ACC, given it’s cross border?’
We all know that can be a thankless task, through Grace’s experiences with ACCs Vosper, Rigg and the odious Pewe. Thankfully, my bosses were far more approachable.
‘Oh yes, if you don’t mind, thanks. Tell him too that if it becomes a firearms job here, Superintendent Steve Whitton is Gold and Chief Inspector Jim Bartlett is Silver.’ I was most relieved. Steve was the best commander the force had, and my deputy at Brighton, and Jim, as well as being a fine leader, is my stepbrother.
Nev’s eagerness was tempered with just the right mix of anxiety. He was leading a battle of wits to predict and prevent Dhalla’s next move: a fight to protect three innocent lives from a hunter so driven, so focused, that it seemed he would stop at nothing until he had his prey. The stakes couldn’t be higher.