The Case I Can’t Forget is a weekly series that hears from the people working at the coalface of public service about the cases they have carried with them throughout their careers.
This week, retired detective Neil Lancaster writes about his first experience of cot death, also known as sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), on Christmas Eve 1997.
If you have a story you’d like to tell, email lucy.pasha-robinson@huffpost.com
It’s early afternoon on Christmas eve of 1997 in the CID office at Kilburn Police station in North West London.
Tinsel hangs limply from my old-fashioned computer as I beaver away trying to get my outstanding list of unsolved crimes into some kind of order before we all depart for a much-anticipated Christmas break. The office was thinning out quickly as the more experienced members of the department were in the process of sneaking out to the pub as a precursor to the festive season.
I had only recently transferred to the CID as a trainee detective having previously been working in uniform for the preceding seven years. I had worked the previous three Christmases and was very much looking forward to an uninterrupted break with my young family.
I had been an active PC and had experienced pretty much all that a busy, north London borough could throw at me. I’d tackled violent criminals, comforted victims and witnessed death on many occasions. I really thought I was an old sweat street cop who had seen it all.
I was in for a shock.
“Looks like we have a call out, Lanco. I don’t think we are going anywhere for a while,” sang the cheery voice of my mentor and friend, Paul, a worldly-wise detective. I groaned inwardly.
“Cot-death, north end of the borough,” Paul announced as he reached for his coat, a half-smile on his face as he assessed my reaction. My stomach lurched just a little. I had dealt with the many faces of death in the previous years, but this was a new one for me.
On arrival at the scene, a tidy semi-detached house, I was met by an old friend who I worked with a few months ago. Stress was etched on her face. “Sixteen-month-old little girl, Neil. Parents have gone and are being comforted by family nearby. The child, a little girl, has gone to Northwick Park Hospital.”
I looked around the house which was clean, tidy and with a fridge full of food. There were no tell-tale signs pointing towards neglect. The police doctor was still present. “I’m not saying there is anything suspicious, but the hypostasis on the child’s face isn’t what I would expect if the child hadn’t been moved as claimed.”
This was now just a little alarming. Hypostasis is the mechanism of how blood and body fluids gather post-mortem. The doctor was still not overly concerned, but he wanted to be careful.
Cue phone calls to the coroner and crime scene coordinator, then known as lab sergeants. Because of the festive season and urgency, the coroner ordered a post mortem to be undertaken immediately.
Spin forward a few hours and at 9.30pm myself, Paul and the lab sergeant are assembled in the Morgue at Northwick Park Hospital. This was my Christmas Eve and I stood there apprehensive at what was to come. I was appointed as exhibits officer, which necessitated my presence throughout the whole PM in order to deal with any evidence retrieved.
I felt sick with emotion about what I was about to witness as the pathologist breezed in with a cheery: “Merry Christmas, everyone.”
I had been present at PMs before and after the initial shock I eventually would come to find them, perversely perhaps, quite interesting. The human body is a marvel of evolution and its inner workings are fascinating.
This, however, was a child. No, this was a baby and I didn’t know how I was going to react. I will refer to her as ‘Baby M’. She was beautiful and she was perfect and just looked like she was sleeping.
In the end, I did my job. I witnessed proceedings silently, as my role demanded, ready to act if called upon. The process was carried out with incredible expertise and as much dignity as is possible in the circumstances.
Finally, the pathologist made his finding. “No evidence of anything other than this is a clear case of sudden infant death syndrome,” he announced pragmatically.
Paul and I travelled back to Kilburn Police Station silently. He seemed fine but I could not stop thinking of what this meant to the parents of Baby M. What about them? What would every Christmas be like for them from now on and forever?
I couldn’t organise my thoughts as we pulled into the back yard at the station, it felt like a cog had worked loose in my brain.
“You OK, Lanco?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I lied.
“Let’s finish the paperwork and grab a pint before we go home?”
“Why not,” I replied. I certainly couldn’t face going straight home.
I went to my locker to collect a few things before we departed feeling my emotions beginning to rise to the surface. As I opened my locker, I felt the tears seep from my eyes and I began to sob quietly as I leant against the grey, metallic cupboard. My sorrow began to turn to anger. Anger at myself. What did I have to cry about? I was supposed to be a professional. I had a lovely family to go home to right now and Christmas to celebrate. What about the devastated parents to whom Christmas would forever be an unimaginable torture?
Suddenly I unleashed a torrent of punches over and over again into the locker, relishing the pain in my knuckles as I dented the flimsy metal with suffused rage. My emotions consumed and angered me as I had no idea how to deal with them.
As Paul and I clinked glasses in the nearby pub he looked at me with kindness, “Tough day at the office, Lanco, eh?”
“I’ve had better,” I replied.
“Yes, mate. Just go home and hug your boys. It’s not always like this in the CID.”
And I did. I went home and hugged my kids and I thought about Baby M and her desperate, destroyed parents.
To this day, nearly a quarter of a century later I always do the same every Christmas. I hug my family and I think about Baby M and her devastated family.
Some jobs change you forever.
Neil Lancaster is a former specialist detective, and now a crime author. His debut thriller Going Dark is out now.
The Sands National Helpline provides confidential support for anyone who has been affected by the death of a baby. Call 0808 164 3332.
The Case I Can’t Forget is a new series from HuffPost UK that hears from those on the frontline of public service about the cases they have carried with them throughout their careers. If you have a story you’d like to tell, email lucy.pasha-robinson@huffpost.com.