Dani Garavelli

Dani Garavelli writes a column for the Herald on Sunday, and recently researched and presented the Radio 4 documentary Prosecuting Polmont.

From The Blog
10 January 2025

At first glance, the row of booths could be mistaken for a chorus line dressing room. There are eight in all; each with its own strip-lighting, giant mirror and packet of wipes. But the yellow bins betray the true purpose. They are there for the disposal of used syringes at the UK’s first sanctioned safer drugs consumption facility.

Diary: Cinema-going

Dani Garavelli, 10 October 2024

Igrew up​ in the seaside town of Prestwick, on the West Coast of Scotland. In its heyday, Prestwick was a haven for workers from the shipyards and factories, who would travel ‘doon the watter’ by paddle steamer or train for the Glasgow Fair, the fortnight in July when all the city’s industries shut down. At one end of the promenade stood the bathing lake: an Olympic...

Diary: Election Night in Glasgow

Dani Garavelli, 18 July 2024

‘What is the point of voting?’ a man in beige salwar kameez yelled. ‘Whoever wins, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.’ He was halfway up the street when he turned to add: ‘And murderers keep on murdering.’ It was 2.45 p.m. on Friday, 7 June. Dozens of Jumu’ah worshippers – some in prayer hats and sandals, some in sweatshirts and jeans...

On the sideboard​ in my dining room stands a model ship, approximately 85 cm long and 70 cm high, its hull lined with square portholes through which the barrels of tiny cannon protrude. There are intricately carved staircases, a ship’s wheel, a lattice hatchway cover and a windlass for pulling up the anchor. The words ‘BON’ and ‘HOMME’ are clearly legible on the...

Sharon and I are the same age – we were both 25 when her seven-year-old daughter daughter, Nikki, was killed – but born into different worlds. She had been in care, and was a single mother with four girls: Stacey, eight, Zara, three, and Niomi, nearly two, as well as Nikki. I had gone to university and was recklessly ambitious. I had hesitated before knocking on her door that first time. But I took to Sharon, whose prickly exterior is a defence mechanism and whose refusal to be cowed into silence I came to admire. I got to know her better the following year when I covered the trial of George Heron, which was moved away from the North-East to Leeds and lasted six weeks. Courts are intense, hermetic places where relationships form quickly; I spent most lunchtimes with her family in a nearby pub. The prosecution case was doomed from the start. Heron, an ‘oddball’ and Dr Who fan, who wore a baseball cap and oversized glasses, had denied killing Nikki more than 120 times before he finally confessed.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences