Introduction
On 13th March 1996 the nation suffered profound shock and loss as the actions of a single individual robbed so many of their lives and loved ones.
Any discussion of Dunblane must begin with respect for that grief. But remembering Dunblane also means remembering it truthfully. And truth, in this case, is uncomfortable.
This is a highly emotive subject no matter what side of the debate you fall on but the 30-year anniversary must call for some considered reflection. In the space available I will not do justice to all the issues but there is one theme that remains particularly relevant today.
Narrative
A narrative that followed the tragedy was simple: the law was inadequate.
Yet the evidence presented to the subsequent Cullen Inquiry shows something entirely different. By 1996, the police already had the powers to refuse or revoke a firearm certificate if a person was not fit to be entrusted with a gun or if public safety was at risk.
They had the discretion to impose conditions, restrict access, and intervene early. These powers were not theoretical but rather they were well‑established and routinely used elsewhere.
Missed Opportunities
What Police also had was information. Complaints about the individual’s behaviour around boys’ clubs. Concerns raised by members of the public. Internal unease among officers. A pattern of conduct that, taken together, should have triggered review. The Cullen Report documents these warnings in detail.
One of the most striking pieces of evidence came five years before the shooting. In November 1991, Detective Sergeant Paul Hughes submitted a written recommendation access to firearms be removed. His assessment was stark:
“He is a scheming, devious and deceitful individual who is not to be trusted… He has an extremely unhealthy interest in young boys.”
This was not rumour. It was a formal, internal warning from a child‑protection specialist. Yet the certificate was renewed. The tragedy is not that the police lacked the tools. It is that they did not use them.
That distinction matters. It matters because when institutions misdiagnose the cause of a failure, they repeat it.
A Consistent Message
I see this pattern often in my work. People sometimes assume that because I spent years in policing, I will instinctively defend the institution.
But in July 2024, I delivered a presentation to a room including police licensing managers, shooting organisations, and opposition groups. In this I used Dunblane and other tragedies as examples of what happens when a licensing system has the powers, has the information, and still fails to act. The silence in the room wasn’t discomfort. It was recognition.
Everyone there understood that the most dangerous failures in licensing are rarely legislative. They are operational: poor information handling, inadequate resourcing and a lack of focus on the core work.
As Relevant Now
That brings us to today’s debate about aligning Section 1 and Section 2. On the surface, it is presented as an enhancement to public safety. But beneath that sits a familiar instinct: when the system struggles, change the law.
For the shooting community, misdiagnosis doesn’t just distort public debate – it shapes the regulatory pressures they live with for years afterwards.
The lesson of Dunblane is not that Britain needed different laws. It is that the police needed (and still need) the confidence, competence, and support to use the laws they already have.
Reform
As we mark another anniversary, we honour the victims by remembering the truth, not the myth. Dunblane was preventable under the law as it existed. The tragedy was not legislative failure. It was institutional inaction. And if we forget that, we risk repeating it.
That is why, if we want a safer, more resilient licensing system, we must insist on accuracy – in memory, in diagnosis, and in reform.
