Denis Gunn

Denis’s son PC Richard Gunn died in a traffic collision while responding to an emergency call in 2004. Denis talks about the array of emotions he felt in the aftermath of his son’s death, and how his first COPS weekend marked the start of the healing process for him.

It was just after 12:30am that the dreaded knock on the door came. There were two uniformed officers there. “Mr. Gunn?” one asked. “Yes,” I said. “Denis Gunn?” he checked. I knew at this point that I didn’t want to hear what he was going to tell me. “I’m afraid I have some very, very, very bad news for you.” He stressed the third “very” and that confirmed my worst fears. At 7:56pm on Sunday 14 March 2004, my elder son, Richard, was killed in a road accident while responding to an emergency call. He was 29 years old and due to be married exactly seven weeks later.

Throughout the night the officers, one of whom was Richard’s Chief Inspector and the other was to become our Family Liaison Officer, told me all they knew about the accident but it wasn’t easy to listen to, nor take in, so I don’t remember all that was said, though I shall never forget the words spoken at the door. I do recall, however, that after quite some time the officers asked us if we’d like to be alone and I almost snapped at them “No, please stay” for I somehow felt that all the time they were there I wouldn’t have to deal with the awful reality of it all.

My working life had been spent in information technology, regularly resolving one problem or another so I spent the entire night trying to work out circumstances in which the events of the previous evening could be changed to produce a different result, but clearly that wasn’t possible.

Some hours later when the officers did leave, I immediately turned to my wife Carol (Richard’s step-mother) and asked: “How on earth are we going to get by now?” for I just couldn’t anticipate life without Richard. He was, in my opinion, a key member of our family and a wonderful son.

He was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and ever since he was a young lad he’d wanted to be a police officer. He used to talk of possibly going back to the States to join up and although I never discouraged him, I always hoped he wouldn’t do so, for it was “dangerous” over there as a lot of American police are killed through gun crime. Instead, in March 1998, he joined Surrey Police and I was just so proud of him … and I always shall be.

I clearly remember his passing out parade after which I took one of the first photographs of Richard in uniform and when our FLO asked for a photo of him, it was this one I gave him. I did so without thinking why he’d want it but within days it was published everywhere, in local and national newspapers, and it also appeared on the BBC News website. For several days I didn’t turn on the television for fear of seeing details of the accident.

I wasn’t sure that I even wanted to know where it had happened but, later, when my younger son James wanted to visit the site, I knew I had to go with him. I have, since then, visited the scene regularly but, perhaps rather strangely, as the years have passed, I have found it more and more difficult to go back there and only do so now on the anniversary of the accident, on Richard’s birthday in June and again at Christmas, a time of year that Richard loved and made so happy for the family.

Fortunately Surrey Police arranged Richard’s funeral for I don’t know how I could ever have done so. It was held at a packed Guildford Cathedral on a bright, sunny, spring day and somehow the sunshine and the daffodils in full bloom near the cathedral helped ease my pain. I have, subsequently, planted a mass of daffodils in my garden and every year, in mid-March, they put on a wonderful display and always lift my spirits.

In July that same year I attended my first COPS Survivor Weekend. I didn’t think about whether or not to go; I just knew I had to be there for Richard. I know I was still in shock, still traumatised, but that weekend proved to be the start of the healing process for me. I met some wonderful people there, all of whom had been through what I was then going through. I found that I was able to talk about Richard quite openly without people trying to change the subject. Even now my own family don’t mention Richard in front of me for fear of upsetting me. Don’t they know I want to talk about Richard?

At that event I also met a lady whose son had been killed 18 years earlier and she told me that: “It doesn’t get any easier.” That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, though I knew it was true, and now, seven years later, I can confirm that. Every day, without exception, I think of Richard. I regularly talk to him and sometimes I feel him with me. He was in many ways, more like a good friend than a son and I miss him terribly.

Constable Richard Gunn, Surrey Police – Died on 14 March 2004, aged 29, when his police car crashed while responding to an emergency call.