Peter Redman

My name is Peter Redman. I was a detective sergeant for Essex Police and I was stationed locally here at Chelmsford. My God, Redman's voice is straight up ASMR. My first involvement was a phone call one evening. An inquiry had been sent from Devon and Cornwall to look into an address in Chelmsford, Beardsley Drive.

I spoke to him on the phone and strong North American accent. I didn't want to tell him that potentially your friend's dead. I tried to say, could I meet him? I would go and meet him.

When I told him that Ron was dead, I mean, he wasn't hugely emotional, but it was how I would have expected someone to be told that someone's dead, really. I've done a few death notifications in the past.

So I made an appointment. He came in and I got him, brought him through to my office, sat him down. We had quite a long chat, very personable character, very distinguished looking, very smart person. Casually dressed, but you could tell by the shoes, the jeans, the jacket. Very expensively dressed. And he explained that Ron had gone off to France.

He said, would I mind getting hold of him?

And I said, yeah, no problem. Could do that.

I'd got a hire car that had been delivered to me, a brand new car, that day for a trip I was due to take the following day. So I thought, perfect, opportunity to take the new car out for a spin.

Woodham Walter is a beautiful chocolate box village that could be in Devon or North Yorkshire. The countryside is beautiful.

Driving down here, you've got the two houses here.

Driven down here, I think, well, that's not it. That doesn't appear to be it. That doesn't appear to be it. I pulled up at the end of the drive here, literally just here, and went and knocked on the door.

They said, no, this is a little London house. Farmhouse is next door. Who do you want? I said, oh, I'm after David Davis.

Hello, my colleague's recording.

And went in and had quite a lengthy conversation with them. Lovely cup of tea and biscuits. I got the impression that they knew the neighbours quite well, or as well as the neighbours would allow them to know. And they were telling me all about how they'd been there. Sometime, I think they thought they were American. There was Ron, and he's got a much younger wife, very pretty, very pretty.

And I said, she's very quiet, doesn't have a lot to do with anyone. It's him who is the dominant part.

They were sailors, and they often went down the West Country.

Thinking, what on earth have I turned up here? All sorts of things are going through your mind. Why do they know him as Ron Platt? Yet he was, to me, he's Mr. Davis. Why?

My name is Peter Redman. I was a detective sergeant for Essex Police and I was stationed locally here at Chelmsford. My God, Redman's voice is straight up ASMR. My first involvement was a phone call one evening. An inquiry had been sent from Devon and Cornwall to look into an address in Chelmsford, Beardsley Drive.

I spoke to him on the phone and strong North American accent. I didn't want to tell him that potentially your friend's dead. I tried to say, could I meet him? I would go and meet him.

When I told him that Ron was dead, I mean, he wasn't hugely emotional, but it was how I would have expected someone to be told that someone's dead, really. I've done a few death notifications in the past.

I'll come to the police station. So I made an appointment. He came in and I got him, brought him through to my office, sat him down. We had quite a long chat, very personable character, very distinguished looking, very smart character. Casually dressed, but you could tell by the shoes, the jeans, the jacket. Very expensively dressed. And he explained that Ron had gone off to France.

And I said, yeah, no problem. Could do that.

I'd got a hire car that had been delivered to me, a brand new car, that day for a trip I was due to take the following day. So I thought, perfect, opportunity to take the new car out for a spin.

Woodham Walter is a beautiful chocolate box village that could be in Devon or North Yorkshire. The countryside is beautiful.

Driving down here, you've got the two houses here.

Driven down here, I think, well, that's not it. That doesn't appear to be it. That doesn't appear to be it. I pulled up at the end of the drive here, literally just here, and went and knocked on the door.

They said, no, this is a little London house. Farmhouse is next door. Who do you want? I said, oh, I'm after David Davis.

My colleague's recording.

And went in and had quite a lengthy conversation with them. Lovely cup of tea and biscuits. I got the impression that they knew the neighbours quite well, or as well as the neighbours would allow them to know. And they were telling me all about how they'd been there. Sometime, I think they thought they were American. There was Ron, and he's got a much younger wife, very pretty, very pretty.

And I said, she's very quiet, doesn't have a lot to do with anyone. It's him who is the dominant part.

They were sailors, and they often went down to West Country.

Thinking, what on earth have I turned up here? All sorts of things are going through your mind. Why do they know him as Ron Platt? Yet he was, to me, he's Mr. Davis. Why?