The loss, so great, is visceral; the panic comes in waves,
that she will never see again a daughter's face, she craves.
The memories flood back with pain from morn to setting sun -
with silent scream, she urges her: don't trust him please, just run!
Her killer was at large that night, intent to hunt and feed
an appetite, engorged o'er time, from predatory greed;
determinedly, he'd stalk the street, immersed in fantasy -
a random female victim to indulge his monstrous spree.
But he was not just any man, he bore a special shield -
a serving Met* policeman in the diplomatic field.
And, in this guise, misconduct grew and quickly amplified
a bloated, vile immunity, polluting deep inside.
And Sarah's 'crime,' so innocent, was merely walking home,
while his, a gifted liberty, to claim her as his own.
He'd stop her, cite a Covid breach and cuff her in the street;
with warrant card and plain-clothed garb, his ruse would be complete.
Compliantly, she'd fall within his web and seal her fate
and, with this act, a horror that would dawn and escalate.
The nightmare took her miles from there, a hostage to his prey -
he'd rape and strangle with his belt, then calmly drive away.
Arrest was quickly followed by a groundswell of outrage
as facts about this pervert sparked a darkly, woeful stage.
His form revealed a sexist stain, exempt from rightful blame,
and buried in a culture of misogynistic shame.
Abuse of p'lice authority, to lure her to his snare,
would draw the highest whole life term, an order that was rare;
and chilling, sang-froid* arrogance would open up a door
to hate-fuelled crimes within the force* in numbers that would soar.
The case exposed a watershed where change would need to flow,
for trust in our 'protectors' had then plunged to all-time low.
Yet, three years on, the rot still rife and, urgently, we pray -
a mother's silent scream of dread might turn to hope, one day.
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