The Focus Firmly Back

Victoria Munro writes:

Eight days into the two-week inquest of Peter Lynch — a Rotherham grandfather jailed for his part in the 2024 riot outside an asylum seeker hotel — the tension that has been simmering since the beginning finally boils over. After a short shouting match with the lawyer representing his family, coroner Nicola Mundy orders the jury out, retires to her private chambers and, minutes later, abruptly boots everyone out of court. Her staff periodically emerge from the locked room to apologise that they can’t tell us what is going on, before eventually sending us for an early lunch.

It’s no surprise that this inquest proved explosive, on more than one occasion. Following his death two years ago, Peter Lynch went from a total unknown — one of 120 people sentenced for taking part in a mob several times that size — to a right-wing cause célèbre. “Peter Lynch was one of us,” Tommy Robinson posted to his approximately one million followers on X at the time. “Tormented to suicide? Away from his family!” A week after his death in late October 2024, thousands attended a demonstration which Robinson organised in his memory, with some wearing custom t-shirts that declared “I AM PETER LYNCH”.

Just days after his death, Telegraph columnist Isabel Oakeshott wondered whether the 61-year-old was Britain’s “first political prisoner” before describing his sentence and eventual death as “a stain on the British state”. The Guardian’s Owen Jones argued jailing those with racist views could never cure them of their bigotry. But the media’s fascination with Lynch hasn’t extended to time-consuming reporting about his death. For all but the first and last two days of his inquest, I was the only journalist in the room.

Back on day eight of proceedings, we are eventually allowed to shuffle back into Doncaster Coroners Court. “What happened before, frankly, I hope I never have to see again,” coroner Mundy tells us sternly. “In 20 years sitting as a coroner, I have never been subjected to such open disrespect in court.” Though this specific argument began after she objected to some of the body language displayed by the family’s barrister Richard Copnall — she alleges he has been looking at the ceiling, raising his eyebrows and pulling faces — it’s not the first time she has grown frustrated with him. At several points, she steps in when Copnall attempts to challenge witnesses on whether Lynch’s actions, both outside the hotel and in prison, were actually racist. “I have said many times that this inquest is not to prove whether Mr Lynch was a racist,” she tells him at one point, “but rather to explore his mental health.”

After Copnall apologises to the court “unreservedly,” adding that “no disrespect was intended,” coroner Mundy seems satisfied that we can resume. “I want to put the focus firmly back on Mr Lynch,” she insists.

Many readers will be familiar with the disturbing events that took place outside a Holiday Inn in Manvers on 4 August 2024, but it’s worth outlining Lynch’s involvement that day. 

The riot targeted a hotel housing asylum seekers in a small town on the Rotherham/Barnsley border, one of several pockets of unrest around the country that summer triggered by the shocking murder of three young girls at a dance class in Southport. The killer, Axel Rudakubana, was born in Cardiff to Rwandan parents, but viral rumours spread on social media suggested he was an asylum seeker who had arrived on a small boat.

Lynch arrived at the hotel that day wearing a Tommy Robinson t-shirt and bearing a hand-written placard listing the people and organisations he believed were “all corrupt”, including MPs and journalists. Parts of his list were more baroque and suggested he had fallen into the world of online conspiracy theories, mentioning NASA, the Deep State and a smudged section that appears to read “freemasons working for the elites”.

At first, the protest outside the hotel was not unlawful, according to sentencing remarks from Judge Jeremy Richardson KC. Even once the crowd became “difficult to control and increasingly violent,” at which point Lynch started yelling abuse at the officers present, Richardson suggested that the 61-year-old would only have been charged with the relatively minor offence of threatening behaviour, if things had stopped there.

Things did not stop there. Photos show rioters hurling chairs at the hotel’s ground-floor windows and setting a large bin on fire next to the building — our reporter Dan, present that day, overheard a man remark “burn them all”. Despite acknowledging Lynch never attacked anyone or the hotel, Richardson argued he had “encouraged others to behave violently” through his behaviour. “You were abusive to officers, you would not move, you made racist remarks, shouting ‘scum’ and ‘child killers’. You were unquestionably endeavouring to rev up the situation as best you could.” Since the court had a duty to make it clear “that participating in this form of violent disorder will be punished severely,” Richardson noted he would have handed out the most severe sentence possible — four years — had Lynch not pleaded guilty. Instead, his sentence was two years and eight months.

“I didn’t know my dad was attending the Save the Children rally,” Lynch’s son Lewis told the court, in a pre-written statement read out in court, “but it didn’t surprise me as he felt passionate about ensuring the country was safe for his grandchildren.” Lewis was also sentenced to two years and eight months for taking part in the riot and was sent to the same prisons — HMP Doncaster and later HMP Moorland — as his father. “He didn’t understand what he had done to get such a harsh sentence,” Lewis’ statement added, “and he felt like his whole life had fallen apart.”

Throughout the inquest, there is much discussion of the fact that Lynch had never been in prison before and how overwhelming prison life can be to those unused to it. At one point, the prison offender manager assigned to Lynch in HMP Moorland says: “He was 61 and had found himself in prison, he came across as embarrassed about his situation.”

It’s clear that Lynch, who was born in Mexborough and lived with his wife Andrea in Wath-upon-Dearne at the time of his arrest, was a regular attendee of demonstrations focused on grooming gangs. A YouTube video posted last year shows both him and Lewis at a protest outside Parliament in 2019, which called for an inquiry into the scandal. (In late 2025, over a year after Lynch’s death, the government finally set one up.) Joel Goodman, a freelance photographer who has covered many similar protests, believes he photographed Lynch at a Tommy Robinson rally in Leeds a year earlier. In several of the notes Lynch wrote from his cell, he references attending a rally organised by Robinson in Trafalgar Square the month before the riot.

In a note Lynch addressed to his family from his cell, he denied that his motivations for attending were racist. “I have not hurt anyone, other than their feelings, for not protecting our children. The police and prosecution people seemed to turn it all into racist slurs.” In a letter addressed to the judge, which he did not send, he insisted: “I have worked with many people of all colours, creeds and religions and I have never had problems with anyone.” Another letter to his family recounts a conversation with his solicitor, in which he allegedly insisted he had no problem with immigrants “so long as they are checked so they are not rapists, murderers or terrorists, as it will be our neighbourhood where they are placed and our families and children at risk”.

Lynch was far from the only Rotherham resident still harbouring resentment over the town’s infamous grooming gangs scandal. The fact that the majority of those who perpetrated the abuse were of Pakistani heritage has led some to insist that local authorities did not act out of a fear of being deemed racist. Indeed, in her 2015 review of the council, Louise Casey noted a culture of “suppression and misplaced ‘political correctness’” and said council staff and councillors lacked the confidence “to tackle difficult issues for fear of being seen as racist or upsetting community cohesion”. (Professor Alexis Jay, whose 2014 report revealed the scale of the abuse, disagrees, arguing it was instead due to a “desire to accommodate a community that would be expected to vote Labour”.)

Casey’s report found that by “failing to take action against the Pakistani heritage male perpetrators of CSE in the borough, the Council has inadvertently fuelled the far right and allowed racial tensions to grow.” When I visited Rotherham two months before the riot, a white resident admitted: “You can see that bubbling under the surface. It seems as though they were allowed to do what they wanted.” / Outside the hotel, when Lynch shouted at officers from South Yorkshire Police that they had failed to protect kids, he arguably had a basis for that specific claim. In September last year, the police watchdog IOPC upheld a complaint that senior officers in the force had “failed in their statutory responsibilities to protect children”. Then again, Lynch was not protesting outside a police station, he was protesting outside an asylum seeker hotel. When he shouted “scum” and “child killers,” it could be taken two ways: did he mean the police officers, or those cowering within the building?

Carole Bradley, an employee at asylum seeker charity ASSIST Rotherham, remembers she was on her way to offer support to those in the hotel on 4 August and couldn’t understand at first why police were refusing to let her anywhere near it. “Some friends of ours were there, who are socialists and quite big supporters of asylum seekers,” she tells me over the phone. “They were a bit misguided, to be honest, because their presence actually made things a lot worse.” Over the 25 years she has worked supporting asylum seekers in Rotherham, she has seen a significant increase in hostility. “I think people have got to a point where they are absolutely fed up with everything and don’t know enough about asylum to make informed judgements,” she says, “and they are just kicking back at anyone available at the time.”

‘He didn’t trust me’

On 10 August, six days after the riot, Lynch was arrested and taken to Shepcote Lane Police Station for questioning. Witnesses who met him there tell the court that he refused to answer any questions put to him, other than to confirm he was: “Peter, living man, son of Michael and Lily”. The court later hears from interviewing officer DC Lisa Yates, who suggests this phrase indicated a belief in “sovereign citizenship,” a radical movement that argues all forms of government rule are illegitimate. Some adherents, she explains, reject any legal document, including birth certificates. “They choose to introduce themselves through biological lineage. That’s how I took that phrase.” 

At this point, the court begins to explore what will prove to be a thread that runs throughout proceedings: whether Lynch’s more unusual behaviour should have raised concerns about his mental health, despite there being no such issues in his medical record.

For example, towards the end of the inquest, HMP Moorland prison officer Paul Friend notes that Lynch seemed to believe “the whole legal system was conspiring against him”. When Copnall suggests this belief might have been evidence of delusional thinking, Friend insists it’s par for the course. “I have seen many prisoners before that believe the system is out to get them personally and they have never exhibited mental health issues or gone on to self-harm in my knowledge,” he says.

Lynch appeared in court, submitted a guilty plea and was immediately remanded to HMP Doncaster on 12 August, just over a week after the riot. After receiving his sentence from prison 20 days later, he was moved to HMP Moorland on 2 September and found dead in his cell in the early hours of 19 October. In total, the period from the hotel riot to his death was just 76 days.

Throughout the inquest, the court hears how Lynch was repeatedly offered or told how to access support for his mental health and insisted that he didn’t need it. Indeed, during one of the only times he was seen by a mental health professional — when Siobhan Riordan, a registered mental health nurse at HMP Moorland, pulled him for a private chat — it quickly emerged she was there by mistake. She’d been instructed to check on Lynch’s son, Lewis, and had grabbed the wrong Mr Lynch. Since she was there anyway, she offered her time if Lynch did want to talk.

Riordan recalls that, at times during their conversation, he became “quite tearful,” although this seemed a proportional response to the “very strong sense of injustice” he was feeling. When asked why she chose not to flag that Lynch might be struggling — something the court heard any member of prison staff could do at any point by “opening an ACT document” — she again suggests his responses were typical. “Other people I have cared for have had the same sense of injustice and reacted in the same way,” she says, adding: “He was not extremely distressed, he was not hysterical, and the episode was quite short-lived.” 

However, while listening to two weeks of people recounting their interactions with Lynch, it seems clear he was the kind of person who would be reluctant to accept help, especially from anyone working for the justice system that had robbed him of his freedom. A member of prison staff at HMP Doncaster, for example, recalls Lynch saying he was receiving support from other prisoners but that this “made him uncomfortable”. The court also hears from Adam Harper, the prison offender manager Lynch was assigned at HMP Moorland, who recalls Lynch “broke down crying” during their first interaction.

“He was very frustrated with the turnover from being sentenced to being in prison, he didn’t understand the system,” Harper recalls.“He said he didn’t trust me, although he was very polite, but he didn’t trust justice system staff.” Given that Lynch was, at one point, hiding his face in his hands, Harper chose not to push him to open up in this first meeting, in the hopes they could slowly build a rapport. This conversation took place on 10 October. The two men never met again.

During the inquest, the jury hears written statements from two witnesses describing events at HMP Doncaster that, if they occurred as depicted, clearly demonstrated Lynch was a danger to himself. (The jury is reminded that, because the lawyers available are unable to question these witnesses, the evidence must be taken with a grain of salt.) Lynch’s former cellmate Leonard Tyler wrote that he was “a really nice, genuine guy” but “struggling with prison life,” adding that “feared for his family and what police might do while he was in prison” and “worried how his wife would cope financially with the bills”. When Lynch’s son Lewis later arrived at the prison, he assumed the two men would want to share a cell. “But Peter wasn’t keen on that idea,” Leonard wrote. “I think he must have been planning suicide and that’s why he didn’t want to be with his son.” 

Prison records show that Tyler and Lynch shared a cell for just six days — from 13 to 19 August — and, in this short period, Lynch attempted suicide twice, according to Tyler’s statement. Tyler “didn’t think it was [his] place” to inform staff, but he told Lewis after they met in the exercise yard. 

Lewis’ own statement alleged that, following this conversation, he spoke to a custodial manager at the prison and suggested an ACT should be opened. “But I know nothing happened after reporting this,” he wrote. Staff from HMP Doncaster tell the court they have no record of either these incidents or Lewis raising concerns, although a custodial manager who fits the description he gave is off sick and currently uncontactable. However, the prison’s head of safer custody, Neil Godfrey White, told the inquest he was confident the conversation cannot have occurred as described. “I have been in the prison service nearly 20 years now and I have never seen a situation where an individual attempted suicide but no action has been taken by anyone.” 

The court hears that, because a note was added to Lynch’s prison record at HMP Doncaster describing him as racist, neither prison would let him share a cell with non-white inmates. “It’s not to pick on people,” an officer from HMP Moorland explains. “It protects the racist too, because others might not agree with their views.” When questioned by Copnall, Godfrey White admits he cannot find a basis for this note in Lynch’s record and agrees that, “in the absence of any such material,” it should not have been made. The court also hears from HMP Moorland governor Rozlyn Rose that staff were keen to ensure inmates from the riot did not share cells, fearing this could “tip the balance from a safety point of view,” especially as the prison had a large population of foreign nationals. Following his transfer to HMP Moorland, Lynch was placed in a cell on his own, which the court hears may have been because the available shared cells were not suitable for him. It was in this single cell that Lynch was able to end his life. 

The court also hears evidence about an incident at HMP Moorland two days before Lynch’s death, which led prison staff to initiate a disciplinary process called adjudication. “It’s clear from his letters that this episode was playing on his mind and he felt he had been stitched up and his words had been twisted,” Copnall tells the court. Two prison officers, Michael Bycroft and Paul Friend, had taken Lynch for random drug testing and, while they were waiting for him to produce a urine sample, allege he began speaking about his views on immigration. 

“He spoke about how immigrants are all rapists, murderers and paedophiles and shouldn’t be allowed in the country,” Bycroft says, adding that he and Friend repeatedly asked him to stop making what they deemed racist remarks. When Lynch refused to stop expressing his opinion, after a clear warning that he would be disciplined if he continued, Friend told him he would begin the adjudication process. Bycroft recalls that Lynch “seemed confused” as to why he was in trouble. 

Copnall directed both men to the adjudication papers found in Lynch’s cell — where it states Lynch described all immigrants as criminals, he had added a note saying “to check they are not”. “Can I put to you that your recollection is flawed and Mr Lynch was not saying all immigrants are rapists and murderers, but was saying that those who come into this country should be checked to make sure they are not?” Copnall asks Bycroft. “I don’t recall him using the words ‘vetted’ or ‘checked’,” the office responds. When a similar question was put to Friend, he insists that the written account is accurate. When they spoke in the testing suite, he tells the court, Lynch did not argue Friend had misheard him, he only objected to whether what he had said was racist. 

The final note Lynch left for his family seems to reference this incident, again maintaining he was misquoted. It suggests that, in his mind at least, he has been plunged into a Kafkaesque nightmare he could not escape. “It’s getting harder as I’m on my own, defending myself with words that can be changed,” he wrote. “I can’t defend myself if people slightly misheard or change what I have said, I’m basically defenceless.” In the last phone call Lynch had with any of his family members — a chat with his son Keiran, which is played to the court in full — he mentioned he has been “stitched up big time”.

From his other letters, it seems he felt this was just the latest example of him being backed into a corner. Even his decision to plead guilty, he wrote, was only because his solicitor told him he should, meaning he felt he had no choice. In his earliest note, Lynch alleged that the officers who interviewed him at the police station introduced him to his Asian duty solicitor with the words: “This is Mr Lynch and he has been shouting that Muslim grooming gangs should be brought to justice.” Lynch suggested the officers made this remark to prejudice his solicitor against him, adding: “I didn’t have a problem with him until they did that. I requested a new solicitor, in case he may have taken a bad view of me after what they said.” 

DC Yates, giving evidence at court, categorically denies that any remark along these lines was made. She points out that she and her colleague DC Gilbert, who did not appear in court, had already spoken with the solicitor in private, meaning there was no reason to make such a comment in front of Lynch. “It would not make sense. That was not said as an introduction.” As she escorted the solicitor out of the station, he reportedly remarked that he had been “very close” to refusing the job. 

Lynch’s letter also alleged that his interviewers spoke to him on the way back to his cell. “They told me they are after me big time as some video of me went viral,” he wrote. In a later letter, he said he was told that this instruction had come “from the top,” adding: “So I think they are not over with me yet.” Again, the court hears this interaction did not take place. 

After two weeks of intense cross-examination and occasional arguments, the jury’s conclusion inevitably feels like an anti-climax. Peter Lynch’s death is ruled as suicide by hanging, and no criticism of either prison is included in the report. The jury’s foreperson reads: “Mr Lynch’s own beliefs that he was defenceless and couldn’t protect his family, the children or the people led him to take the action he did.” 

It’s not surprising that those on the far-right wanted to make Lynch into a symbol for their movement. A sentence of two years and eight months for holding a sign and shouting at police would seem harsh to many people. (Similarly severe sentences were handed down after the London riots in 2011, which many criticised at the time.) However, Lynch’s family — I would argue to their credit — seem uninterested in allowing his memory to be used this way. When Urban Scoop, a site owned by a close associate of Tommy Robinson, offered the family part of £4,000 donated by its supporters, they were rebuffed. The family “did not want donations from Tommy Robinson or Urban Scoop,” the organisation wrote last year. “We respect that they have their reasons.” 

When it comes to the question of why Peter died in prison, my personal view is that DC Yates’ suggestion that he believed in “sovereign citizenship” may hold the key. Peter considered the state rotten to the core — since his family refused my request for an interview, I will never learn exactly how he came by his beliefs, although the grooming gang scandal was likely a factor. As a result, he chose to introduce himself by his biological lineage, as a gesture of his refusal of any form of government rule. When he abruptly ended up in prison, after more than 60 years as a free man, he was forced to confront the fact that this refusal ultimately mattered very little. He didn’t need to accept the government’s power over him; they had it regardless. 

Four days ago marked the second anniversary of the riot and, as is so often the case with horrific events in deprived northern towns, it seems many would simply like to leave it in the past. While on the phone with Carole Bradley from ASSIST Rotherham, she admits that her charity seems to have much less work than it once did, adding that she’s heard the same from a local GP practice that treats the local asylum seeker community. “I think they are not putting many of them in Rotherham now,” she says of the Home Office. “They are just dispersing them to different places.” It seems to her like a remarkable short-sighted solution. “I think it’s going to be kicking off all over the place.”