SCREAM AND I'LL KILL YOU
Rookie police officer Michelle Tighe bravely volunteered to be a honeytrap to help detectives desperately hunting a murderous rapist stalking a city’s women at night. Then, after she nervously lured the suspect down a dimly lit side street, came his chilling threat...
THE neon lights of clubland flashed red on PC Michelle Tighe’s face as she leaned forward to turn up the car’s heater. She sank back into the passenger seat, asking herself for the last time: is he out here tonight? It would be 2am soon, pub closing time on a cold March night in Bristol, 1979. A few figures were already tumbling onto the pavements. A young man in a tight T-shirt and flares squinted drunkenly at their police car and put out his hand, trying to flag it down.
‘Better luck next time, matey,’ said Kelvin, from behind the wheel. Michelle glanced at him. How many decoys had Kelvin Hattersley helped deploy over the past few months? Not that it mattered now. This was their last run, a final chance to catch the so-called ‘Clifton Rapist’, whose despicable crimes had terrorised the city.
Nine women had been horribly assaulted. Public anger was at fever pitch. You only had to look at the latest headlines: ‘A city in fear’; ‘The police should do more’; ‘How many more women will be attacked before he kills?’ Michelle, 23, was a rookie officer who had volunteered for an extraordinary undercover sting, Operation Argus.
Over a three-month period, she and 15 other officers – a further 11 women and four men in drag – had walked the quiet streets at night, hoping to smoke out the attacker. Tonight, the operation was being brought to a close. Michelle glanced out at the darkened side streets. Did the man lurk down these roads like a spider in a web, setting a trap and waiting for a woman to fall in? Or, like a predator, did he pick his victim on the main street, then stalk her until he found a dark corner?
AS KELVIN slowed to a stop, Michelle pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, her skin pale from doing this job night after night. She opened the door and was hit by a wall of cold air. ‘Subject’s left the car…’ she heard Kelvin say.
She headed up the incline towards White-ladies Road, a broad thoroughfare with bars, clubs, shops and restaurants on either side. ‘Alpha One. Subject’s past me,’ she heard in her earpiece – the voice of one of the hidden surveillance officers who would be observing her.
The cold was seeping through her duffle coat. Kelvin’s voice: ‘There’s a man on your tail. He’s in a car, a Ford Capri. Repeat, a yellow Ford Capri. He’s driving behind you. Looks just like the photo-fit. Repeat, there’s a man on your tail.’
Cars cruised down the hill towards her, but she could neither focus on them nor on a crowd of women just yards away. She listened for a car behind her. Was that him? There had been no sound in her earpiece for a few minutes.
Then there was a crackle. And another voice, higher-pitched than Kelvin: ‘This is Control. We’ve run a check on the number plate. You’re not going to believe this. He’s a killer. A killer. Out on life licence. He also raped his victim.’
It took a few moments for the words to land in her mind. A killer? ‘You can pull out at any time. If you carry on, he has to touch you. Repeat. He has to touch you. But you don’t have to go through with this…’
THE attacks had begun on a warm summer night in July 1977. Hot Chocolate’s So You Win Again was playing as Alice Matthews, 27, left the Platform One nightclub, near Clifton Down station, in the early hours.
As she walked along Whiteladies Road – the very route Michelle would take, working undercover – she passed a toy shop window packed with action figures from the new James Bond film, The Spy Who Loved Me.
Alice could hear footsteps. She turned, but there was no one there. She felt a sharp pang of fear.
Then the footsteps began again.
On impulse, she turned into Pembroke Road, a broad avenue with large, beautiful houses, and ducked into a garden to hide. In an instant, a man had both hands around her throat. He dragged her towards him and whispered: ‘Don’t scream or I’ll kill you.’ Alice knew this wasn’t a Bristol accent.
This man spoke with gruff, short vowels – he came from somewhere up north. She was sexually assaulted. Somehow, through tears, she managed to find a phone box and dial 999.
The police told her the best they could do was try to get a blood grouping from samples on her clothes – such was the state of forensics in the 1970s – and she could help with a photofit. Slowly, a picture appeared. He was white. He had a thick mane of black shoulder-length hair, a large handlebar moustache, dark, almost black eyes and unblemished skin.
That was him. That was the man. Strangely, she felt more angry at herself than at him: ‘Why didn’t I fight? I just froze.’
She believed the chances of catching him were equal to the column inches in the papers: zero.
There was no report of what happened to her in that week’s Bristol Evening Post.
There was no Rape Crisis centre in the 1970s. Victim Support had been set up a couple of years before, but Alice wasn’t referred.
Back then, women just had to get on with it.
THE second attack by the Clifton Rapist came three days later, when 18-year-old Patsy Delaney – the youngest victim – left Tiffany’s nightclub at the far end of White-ladies Road just after 1am. The first she knew of the attack was the man’s hands around her throat and a beer-soaked voice whispering something about her being killed if she screamed.
He dragged her into a doorway and asked if she’d been raped before. When she said ‘No’ he told her she would be now.
Afterwards, she ran to a phone box and called her boyfriend. They drove around looking for the attacker and at one point saw a yellow Ford Capri in the distance – but it could have been anyone driving.
She felt a sharp pang of fear. Then the footsteps began again
Patsy went to the police, but – like Alice – was told that if the sample contained enough semen they might get the attacker’s blood group. She went home traumatised, depressed and angry.
The next day, the first article about the attacks appeared in the Bristol Evening Post, sandwiched between a report on the crippling cost of school meals and a feature about a 97-year-old wood carver.
Denise Turner, a 33-year-old folk singer returning home from a gig, was attacked in September. Helene Baur, 21, an Austrian student, was raped in November.
Over Christmas, things went quiet, but in March 1978 there were two attacks. Joanna McGarry, a 23-year-old law student who was working in a bar, was driving home after closing time when she noticed she was being followed by a yellow Ford Capri. As she pulled over, she saw the car drive past.
Joanna got out of her car, closed and locked its door and walked to her flat. The man appeared from behind some bushes. He told her not to scream. If she did, he would kill her. He then dragged her into the garden. Later that month Wendy Johnson, a 21-year-old nurse, was attacked in an alleyway in Kingsdown as she walked home from the Bristol Royal Infirmary.
She noticed little about the man but his dark clothes and the smell of alcohol.
The so-called Clifton Rapist was now headline news – at least locally. Nationally, the focus was on the north of England, where the Yorkshire Ripper was on the loose. But concerns for women’s safety were being raised, alongside growing criticism of Avon and Somerset Police. Why weren’t they getting anywhere? In April, 45year-old Rachel Doulton was attacked in her Clifton flat.
In December, Tilly Sanderson was assaulted. She had so little faith in the police that she did not even report the attack. Just a week later Anna Soltys, 20, a Polish au pair, was targeted.
Like Alice Matthews, the first victim, she was on her way home from the Platform One nightclub.
MEANWHILE, Michelle was just out of basic training and learning fast how limiting life as a WPC could be. She was not allowed to visit a crime scene without a male officer. On night shifts, women were not allowed to leave the station at all, but she could ‘man’ the front desk, a term that made her inwardly groan. Women could be part of the police force, that was accepted. Typists, canteen ladies, definitely. Officers, potentially. Detectives, no.
At Redland police station, cases involving detectives meant climbing the attic stairs to the smokefilled CID room where the self-proclaimed ‘Gods’ worked: ‘Make us a cup of tea, sweetheart,’ was the stock request shouted at women before they could ask about the crime they needed to discuss. So it was unusual – thrilling even – to be called to a secret briefing in January 1979. By this time, the Clifton Rapist had been active for 18 months. The police had interviewed known offenders and flooded the streets with uniformed officers, but several arrests had led nowhere. Victims had failed to identify anyone in police line-ups. The two foreign girls who had been assaulted had given up and gone home.
Hundreds of people carrying flaming torches had gathered in front of the town hall, with banners held aloft reading ‘Anti-Rape Group Bristol’, ‘Young or old, no escape, we all go in fear of rape’.
‘Nine women have been attacked. What have the police done?’ shouted a protester.
‘Nothing,’ chanted the crowd. At home, on a Friday night off, a junior officer was watching a TV documentary about an American undercover operation. After a string of thefts, the police had left a delivery van with its doors temptingly open, then pounced when a thief had made a grab for something. That was important. The criminal had to commit a crime – had to take something – before the covert team leapt in. Could that work with a rapist? It is perhaps a sign of Avon and Somerset’s desperation that the idea made its way up the line.
At the initial Operation Argus briefing, Chief Superintendent Malcolm Popperwell, head of C-Division, which controlled the
She noticed little but his dark clothes and the smell of alcohol
Clifton area, emphasised how dangerous taking part might be: ‘Our intention is that he sees a girl, is lured into the dark, pounces and is caught.’ ‘I’m in,’ said Michelle.
She and the other volunteers, both men and women, would get self-defence training, and be carrying radios, hanging from a neck strap to receive messages from colleagues through a discreet earpiece. Operation Argus opened on a freezing night in January in what was already becoming known as the Winter of Discontent. As well as being one of the coldest on record, everyone seemed to be going on strike: lorry drivers, bin men, even gravediggers.
But what followed were weeks of discontent for the police too. They walked the streets at night to no avail. The men, at least, were paid overtime. The women were not.
One night, while Michelle was walking the streets in disguise, one of her senior, married colleagues drew up in his car. She noticed the band of white skin on the third finger of his left hand. ‘Where’s your wife tonight?’ ‘She’s happy with me going out. You know, I saw a few of the boys earlier and just thought I’d have a bit of a cruise.’ Disco music was playing on his car speaker.
‘Do you like wine, Michelle? Bet you can’t afford it on your pay. I’ve become a bit of a connoisseur. You know, I’ve got a bottle of something really special in the back.’ Michelle started walking. The Rover followed slowly. ‘Jump in, let’s have a drink,’ he persisted. Michelle stopped. Then she said gently, while tapping her ear: ‘Argus.’ She relished the look of horror on his face when he realised Control had heard every word.
ON March 21, 1979, the team was told the operation was too expensive to continue. Michelle wasn’t even meant to be on the final run. One of her flatmates, Jackie, was on the rota but had to be in court early next morning and asked Michelle to take her place. So it was in the very last hours of Operation Argus that Michelle got that message telling her she was being tailed by a man who had been imprisoned for rape and murder.
She knew that if she went through with this, she would have to lead him into a side street. There, and only there, might he attack. He had threatened to kill every single one of his Bristol victims. What if he had a knife? What if he took her hostage? ‘Do you copy?’ crackled the voice in her earpiece. ‘You have a killer on your track.’ Ahead was the well-lit road: safety. To her left, the darkened side streets: danger.
Michelle took a deep breath and made up her mind.
She tried to remember what she’d been taught about selfdefence, how to react if he tried to strangle her. It was dark, but there was a street lamp up ahead: ‘All I have to do is get there,’ she thought. Once she was within its pool of light, fellow police officers hidden in nearby gardens or waiting in cars would have a good view of her. She had heard footsteps.
Now there was silence: that was scarier. Then, suddenly, there he was. They stood under the glare of a street lamp: convicted killer and decoy cop. He seemed to be looking straight through her. Then he said: ‘Don’t scream or I’ll kill you.’
Michelle felt his hands around her throat. He dragged her towards a garden. She screamed at the top of her voice, then felt a rough punch to her face. She recoiled, shouted again. The man pulled her faster and harder into the darkness.
PC Andy Kerslake sprinted across the road, hoping to find the right garden. Ronald Evans made a run for it: Andy rugby-tackled him to the ground. Kelvin was shouting, ‘OK, lads, who’s got the cuffs?’
Michelle stumbled out of the garden. ‘We’re going to need a statement from you,’ said Kelvin. She was very pale, with marks around her neck. As she was driven to Redland police station she was shaking.
But when she walked into the bar at the station the following evening (this was the 1970s, when many police stations had their own bar and snooker room) she was greeted with a cheer.
She was back-slapped, hugged and embraced by officers she had never met, as well as many she counted as friends. Ronald Evans, the Clifton Rapist – the man whose vicious assaults had terrorised Bristol for more than a year – had finally been caught.
RON the Electrician: a family man, a loving father to a young daughter and husband to a pregnant wife, had been unmasked as a violent rapist. His friends and colleagues knew nothing of his crime, nor that he had killed 21-year-old Kathleen Heathcote in Nottinghamshire in 1963, when he was just 22.
He had pounced after drawing up beside her in his car as she walked home at night. Her body was later dredged from a lake. He was sentenced to life imprisonment for her murder, but had been released on licence in 1975.
When he was arrested for the subsequent rapes, he tried to deny everything, but eventually admitted to five of the assaults. That was enough for the police to get him to court. He could give no reason for his behaviour. Evans was recalled to prison to serve his life sentence, and got 18 months for every woman he admitted attacking.
The trial caused a sensation, not just because the Clifton Rapist had been nailed but because of the astonishing story of the decoy operation that had brought him in.
Michelle – whose bravery was commended by the judge – suffered nightmares for months after. She was never offered any counselling or support. In the weeks that followed Evans’ arrest, no one of a higher rank ever asked how she was getting on. It was just part of the job.The heroine of Operation
Argus left the force after the birth of her second child and rejoined in 1995 as an administrator. In 2018, having retired from the Force and in her early 60s, she got a phone call from Victim Support: ‘We have you listed as a victim of Ronald Evans, back in ’79?’
Michelle explained that she had been a police officer, not a victim, but she could guess what was coming next. Ronald Evans, now aged 77, was to be released from prison: ‘He walks with a stick, he is very old and infirm. Did you know he’s Britain’s longest-serving prisoner?’ Despite the passing of time, she wondered how safe women really were from him.
She was right to wonder. After his release, he went on to befriend vulnerable women, assaulting at least one.
Again recalled to jail, he remains there to this day. Today, Operation Argus couldn’t happen: neither health and safety guidelines, nor the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act would allow it. Any of the officers could have been seriously harmed. But somehow, this extraordinary operation worked – and all because, on a snowy morning in 1979, a brave, young police officer was willing to put her own life on the line.
■ Names of all rape victims have been changed.
Our intention is that he sees a girl, pounces and is caught
■ Adapted from Decoy by Robert Murphy, © Robert Murphy 2024, to be published by HarperNonFiction on April 25 at £9.99. To order a copy for £8.99 (offer valid to 06/05/24; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/ books or call 020 3176 2937.