On the night of April 21, 2015, a 47-year-old woman named Tracy Woodford was seen walking out of a pub with a man and she was never seen alive again.
The man was 50-year-old Christopher May and what happened that night would go down as one of the most gruesome crimes in the town’s history.
What followed was a horrifying series of events that would leave a community shaken and a family irrecoverably shattered.
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Content Warning: This video contains discussions of death and sensitive social issues.
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Transcript
Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is the story of Tracey Woodford's murder that shocked a whole country to the core because of its brutality.
Chapter 1: The beginning of the end
The first thing that struck them was the foul smell.
One of the two police officers sent to question Christopher May at his flat on the outskirts of Pontypridd described it as "gone-off meat or food". The other said it was like "cat's urine" or "gone-off milk".
They checked the kitchen but found nothing. They moved on to the bathroom where, at first glance, nothing appeared unusual.
But when they pulled back the shower curtain, everything changed. Lying in the shower were two dismembered arms and two legs.
Three days earlier, Tracey Woodford had said goodbye to her mother and brother before heading into Pontypridd town centre to do her weekly shop.
Little did Tracey's family know when their kind and caring daughter and sister made her way through the front door, it would be the last time they would see her alive.
Chapter 2: The Last Night
The air inside the Skinny Dog Pub was thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Tracy Woodford sat alone at the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She was already deep into her third drink, her cheeks flushed, her movements loose and unsteady. The ring she’d bought earlier that day—a small, silver band she’d been saving for—gleamed faintly under the dim pub lights. She smiled to herself, thinking about how her nieces would react when she showed it to them.
Across the room, Christopher May watched her.
He was a regular at the Skinny Dog, a man who blended into the background like a shadow. At 50, he was lean, with a face that carried the wear of a hard-lived life. His dark eyes flicked toward Tracy, studying her. She was pretty, in a simple way. Her brown hair was tied back, and her laughter—when it came—was warm and unguarded. But there was something else about her, something vulnerable. She was alone, and she was drunk.
Christopher slid off his stool and made his way over.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.
Tracy looked up, startled. She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure.”
He sat down beside her, ordering another round of drinks. They talked—or rather, he talked, and she listened. He was charming in a way that felt practiced, his words laced with just enough humor to keep her engaged. He complimented her ring, asked about her family, and laughed at her jokes. But his eyes never left hers for too long, and there was a hunger in them that Tracy didn’t notice.
By the time the clock struck midnight, Tracy was slurring her words. She stumbled as she stood, and Christopher was quick to steady her.
“You alright?” he asked, his hand lingering on her arm.
“Yeah, just… a bit dizzy,” she mumbled, leaning into him.
His friends—two men who had been sitting at a nearby table—exchanged a glance but said nothing. They knew Christopher well enough to stay out of his business.
“Let me walk you to the train station,” he offered, his tone casual.
Tracy nodded, too drunk to protest. She let him guide her out of the pub and into the cool night air. The streets of Pontypridd were quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. Christopher’s friends trailed behind for a while before peeling off, leaving the two of them alone.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, Tracy leaning heavily on Christopher’s arm. He kept his pace slow, his eyes scanning the empty streets.
“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping to a whisper, “you’re really something special.”
Tracy laughed, a soft, tipsy sound. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, turning to face her. His hands gripped her shoulders, his breath warm against her face. “I could take care of you, you know. Make sure you’re always happy.”
She blinked up at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Before she could react, he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. Tracy stiffened, pulling back.
“No,” she said firmly, her voice trembling. “I’m not… I’m not that kind of girl.”
Christopher’s expression darkened. For a moment, he just stared at her, his jaw tightening. Then, without a word, he grabbed her arm and started walking again, his grip firm enough to leave bruises.
“Let me go!” Tracy protested, trying to pull away.
But he didn’t stop.
The streets grew darker as they turned down a narrow alley, the shadows swallowing them whole. Tracy’s heart pounded in her chest, her drunken haze giving way to panic. She opened her mouth to scream, but Christopher’s hand clamped over it, silencing her.
“Shh,” he whispered, his voice eerily calm. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
But Tracy knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t be.
The last thing she saw before everything went black was the faint glint of her ring, catching the light as she struggled against him.
And then, nothing.
Chapter 3: The Morning After
The sun rose over Pontypridd, casting a pale golden light over the quiet streets. Birds chirped in the distance, and the town slowly stirred to life. But inside the small flat on Andrew’s Court, the air was heavy with silence.
Christopher May sat at his kitchen table, a cup of cold coffee in front of him. His hands were steady, but his mind raced. The scratches on his face stung, a reminder of the night before. He’d cleaned up as best he could, but the faint smell of bleach lingered in the air, mixing with something else—something metallic.
He glanced toward the bathroom, the door slightly ajar. His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to look away.
It’s done, he told himself. No one will know.
But deep down, he wasn’t so sure.
---
Tracy’s mother, Margaret, woke up early that morning, her heart heavy with worry. Tracy hadn’t come home last night, and that wasn’t like her. She’d called her daughter’s phone repeatedly, but it had gone straight to voicemail each time.
“Maybe she stayed at her sister’s,” Margaret muttered to herself, trying to shake off the unease.
But when she called Tracy’s sister, the answer was the same. “No, Mum, she’s not here. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”
Margaret’s stomach churned. She grabbed her coat and headed out the door, her steps quick and determined. She’d start at the shops, retrace Tracy’s steps. Someone had to have seen her.
---
At the Skinny Dog Pub, the bartender wiped down the counter, his mind still foggy from the late shift. He remembered Tracy—sweet, tipsy Tracy—and the man she’d left with. Christopher May. The memory made him pause. There’d been something off about the way May had looked at her, something predatory.
But it wasn’t his business, he told himself. People came and went.
---
Christopher forced himself to get up, to move. He had work today, and he couldn’t afford to miss it. Not now. He grabbed his jacket, his fingers brushing against something in the pocket. Tracy’s ring. He pulled it out, staring at it for a moment before shoving it back in.
Keep it together, he thought. Just act normal.
He stepped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him. The flat felt smaller now, suffocating. He needed air.
---
Margaret stood outside the Cash Generator shop, her hands trembling as she spoke to the clerk.
“Yes, she was here,” the young man said, nodding. “Bought a ring. Seemed really happy about it.”
“Did she say where she was going after?” Margaret asked, her voice desperate.
The clerk shook his head. “No, sorry. She just left.”
Margaret’s heart sank. She turned and walked down the street, her eyes scanning the faces of passersby. Where are you, Tracy?
---
Christopher arrived at the steakhouse, his head down as he clocked in. His coworkers glanced at him, their eyes lingering on the scratches on his face.
“Rough night?” one of them joked.
Christopher forced a laugh. “You could say that.”
He kept to himself, scrubbing dishes with mechanical precision. But his mind kept drifting back to the flat, to the bathroom. He could still see it—the blood, the way the light had reflected off the tiles.
Stop it, he told himself. Just focus.
But the images wouldn’t leave him.
---
By midday, Margaret had reached the Skinny Dog Pub. She stepped inside, the smell of alcohol hitting her like a wall. The bartender looked up, his expression shifting when he saw her.
“Have you seen my daughter?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Tracy Woodford. She was here last night.”
The bartender hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door. “Yeah, she was here. Left with a guy. Christopher May.”
Margaret’s blood ran cold. “Do you know where he lives?”
The bartender shook his head. “No, but… he’s a regular. Comes in most nights.”
Margaret thanked him and left, her mind racing. She needed to find this Christopher May.
---
Back at the flat, Christopher returned from work, his nerves frayed. He unlocked the door, stepping inside. The smell hit him immediately, stronger now. He gagged, covering his mouth with his hand.
You need to fix this, he thought. Before someone finds out.
He grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and headed toward the bathroom. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the sight inside making his stomach churn.
But he didn’t have a choice. He had to finish what he’d started.
---
That evening, Margaret stood outside the police station, her hands clenched into fists. She took a deep breath and walked inside.
“I need to report a missing person,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “My daughter, Tracy Woodford. She’s been gone since last night.”
The officer behind the desk nodded, pulling out a form. “We’ll do everything we can to find her.”
But as Margaret gave the details—Tracy’s description, the ring she’d bought, the man she’d left with—she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
And she was right.
---
Christopher sat in his flat, the trash bag at his feet. He stared at the wall, his mind blank.
You’re safe, he told himself. No one knows.
But the scratches on his face burned, and the smell of bleach couldn’t quite mask the truth.
Somewhere, deep in the shadows of Pontypridd, Tracy’s story was far from over.
Chapter 4: The Discovery
The flat on Andrew’s Court was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Christopher May sat on the edge of his couch, his hands clasped tightly together. The trash bag was gone, but the weight of what it had contained still pressed down on him. He’d done what he had to do—cleaned up, disposed of the evidence. But the smell lingered, a sickly sweet stench that seemed to seep into the walls.
He glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. He should’ve been at the Skinny Dog by now, nursing a pint and pretending everything was normal. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave the flat. Not tonight.
His mind raced, replaying the events of the past 24 hours. Tracy’s face, her protests, the way she’d fought him. He shook his head, trying to push the memories away.
It’s over, he told himself. Just keep it together.
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t over. Not yet.
---
At the police station, officers were already working on Tracy’s case. Margaret’s report had set things in motion, and CCTV footage from the Skinny Dog Pub had given them a lead.
“This is the guy she left with,” one of the officers said, pointing to the grainy image on the screen. “Christopher May. Local. Lives on Andrew’s Court.”
The sergeant nodded, his expression grim. “Let’s pay him a visit.”
---
Christopher heard the knock on the door and froze. His heart pounded in his chest, his palms slick with sweat. He glanced around the flat, his eyes landing on the bathroom door. It was closed, but he could still see it in his mind—the blood, the mess he’d tried so hard to clean up.
The knock came again, louder this time.
“Christopher May?” a voice called from the other side. “This is the police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Christopher swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand. He wiped his hands on his jeans and walked to the door, his steps slow and deliberate.
Stay calm, he told himself. Just stay calm.
He opened the door, his face a mask of indifference. Two officers stood in the hallway, their expressions neutral but their eyes sharp.
“Can I help you?” Christopher asked, his voice steady.
“We’re looking into the disappearance of Tracy Woodford,” one of the officers said. “We understand you were with her last night.”
Christopher nodded, his mind racing. “Yeah, I was. We had a few drinks at the Skinny Dog. I walked her to the train station, but she decided to go home on her own. That’s the last I saw of her.”
The officers exchanged a glance. “Mind if we come in?”
Christopher hesitated, his stomach twisting. But he knew refusing would only make him look guilty. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside.
The officers stepped into the flat, their eyes scanning the room. The smell hit them immediately, and one of them wrinkled his nose.
“What’s that smell?” the sergeant asked, his tone casual but his eyes narrowing.
Christopher shrugged. “I had a bit of a spill earlier. Cleaning products.”
The sergeant nodded, but his gaze lingered on Christopher’s face—on the scratches that stood out against his pale skin.
“What happened there?” he asked, pointing to the marks.
Christopher touched his face, feigning surprise. “Oh, that? My cat. She’s a bit feisty.”
The sergeant didn’t respond, but his expression said enough. He turned to his partner. “Check the bathroom.”
Christopher’s heart skipped a beat. “There’s nothing in there,” he said quickly, his voice rising. “Just… personal stuff.”
The officer ignored him, walking toward the bathroom door. Christopher’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
Stay calm, he told himself. They won’t find anything.
But he wasn’t so sure.
The officer pushed the door open, stepping inside. For a moment, there was silence. Then, a sharp intake of breath.
“Sergeant,” the officer called, his voice tight. “You’re going to want to see this.”
Christopher’s stomach dropped. He took a step forward, but the sergeant blocked his path.
“Stay right there,” the sergeant said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Christopher watched as the sergeant walked into the bathroom, his heart pounding in his ears. He could hear the officers talking, their voices low and urgent. Then, the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back.
The sergeant stepped out of the bathroom, his face pale. He looked at Christopher, his eyes hard.
Lying in the shower were two dismembered arms and two legs.
“Christopher May,” he said, his voice cold, “you’re under arrest.”
Christopher’s legs gave out, and he sank to the floor.
He said ‘I know’.
The officers moved quickly, cuffing his hands behind his back.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the sergeant began, but Christopher wasn’t listening.
His mind was back in the bathroom, back with Tracy. He could see her face, hear her voice.
No, he thought, his chest tightening. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But it had.
--
South Wales Police's forensic investigation team was called to the flat while May was taken to Merthyr Tydfil police station for questioning.
They found a number of tools including a handsaw, kitchen knife, Stanley knife, a pair of scissors, and secateurs.
A duvet was wrapped around carrier bags containing blood-stained clothes and a black Adidas rucksack was found containing the upper torso of a woman.
A black handbag contained the top of a thumb and four fingers which matched with the right arm found in the shower.
---
Outside, the night air was cool, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds. Christopher sat in the back of the police car, his head bowed.
The flat on Andrew’s Court was now a crime scene, officers swarming the building. The bathroom was sealed off, the contents of the bathtub carefully documented.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows of Pontypridd, Tracy’s story was finally coming to light.
But for Christopher, it was only the beginning of the end.
Chapter 5: The Unraveling
The police station was a blur of activity. Officers moved quickly, their voices low and urgent. Christopher May sat in a small interrogation room, his hands cuffed to the table. The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow on his pale face.
Across from him, Detective Inspector Gareth Hughes leaned forward, his eyes sharp and unyielding.
“Let’s go over it again,” Hughes said, his tone calm but firm. “You left the Skinny Dog Pub with Tracy Woodford. What happened after that?”
Christopher stared at the table, his jaw tight. “I already told you. I walked her to the train station. She said she was fine, so I left her there.”
Hughes raised an eyebrow. “And the scratches on your face? Your cat did that?”
Christopher nodded, but his eyes flickered with unease. “Yeah. Like I said, she’s feisty.”
Hughes leaned back in his chair, studying him. “Funny. Your neighbors say you don’t have a cat.”
Christopher’s hands clenched into fists, the cuffs rattling against the table. “They’re lying.”
Hughes didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he slid a photograph across the table. It was a close-up of the bathtub in Christopher’s flat, the contents unmistakable.
Christopher’s breath hitched, his eyes darting away.
“Care to explain this?” Hughes asked, his voice icy.
Christopher shook his head, his throat dry. “I don’t know what that is. Someone must’ve planted it.”
Hughes leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We both know that’s not true, Christopher. You’re a butcher. You know how to handle a knife. You know how to… dismember.”
Christopher’s face twisted, a mix of anger and fear. “I didn’t do anything!”
Hughes slammed his hand on the table, making Christopher flinch. “Then tell me the truth! What happened to Tracy Woodford?”
Christopher’s shoulders slumped, his defiance crumbling. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
---
Meanwhile, in another part of the station, Margaret Woodford sat in a small waiting room, her hands trembling in her lap. An officer sat beside her, offering her a cup of tea.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the officer said gently. “We’ll find her.”
Margaret nodded, but her eyes were distant. She’d seen the look on the officers’ faces when they brought Christopher in. She’d heard the whispers, the urgency in their voices.
Something’s wrong, she thought. Something’s terribly wrong.
---
Back in the interrogation room, Hughes decided to change tactics. He pulled out another photograph, this one of Tracy’s ring.
“Recognize this?” he asked, sliding it across the table.
Christopher’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “No.”
Hughes leaned in closer. “It was in your pocket, Christopher. Tracy’s ring. The one she bought just hours before she disappeared.”
Christopher’s face went pale, his hands shaking. “I… I found it. On the street. I was going to turn it in.”
Hughes shook his head, his expression grim. “You’re lying. And we both know it.”
Christopher’s shoulders slumped, his head dropping. For a moment, the room was silent. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
Hughes’s eyes narrowed. “What happened, Christopher?”
Christopher took a deep breath, his voice trembling. “She… she came back to my flat. We were drinking, talking. I thought she wanted… but she didn’t. She said no. I got angry. I didn’t mean to… I just…”
His voice broke, and he looked up at Hughes, his eyes filled with desperation. “It was an accident. I swear.”
"Where the rest of the body?"
May replied "Some of her is in the cupboard and in the drain at Pontypridd RFC".
Hughes didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at Christopher, his expression unreadable. Then, he stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Christopher May,” he said, his voice cold and final, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Tracy Woodford.”
Christopher’s head dropped again, his shoulders shaking. But there were no tears, no remorse. Just silence.
---
Outside the interrogation room, Hughes met with his team.
“We need to search the area around the rugby club,” he said, his tone urgent. “He mentioned a drainpipe. If there’s more evidence, we need to find it.”
The officers nodded, their faces grim. They knew what they were looking for—what they were hoping not to find.
---
Hours later, under the cover of darkness, a team of officers arrived at the Pontypridd Rugby Club. The drainpipe was easy to find, its entrance hidden in the shadows.
One of the officers shone a flashlight into the pipe, the beam of light cutting through the darkness.
“It’s deep,” he said, his voice echoing. “We’ll need to go in.”
The team moved quickly, donning protective gear and preparing to descend into the pipe. The air was damp and cold, the smell of earth and decay filling their nostrils.
They first encountered pitch blackness and running water, but once they had walked 138 metres the pipe opened into an underground chamber.
One of the officers turned his head to the right to avoid a heavy flow of water from the left and saw a human head, wet from the spray of the water and lying on its right side. There were slash marks across the face and bruising.
On a ledge a metre or so from the bottom of the chamber, there was an Iceland carrier bag containing a lower torso.
As they made their way deeper into the pipe, the beam of the flashlight caught something—a shape, barely visible in the darkness.
The officer stopped, his breath catching.
“We’ve got something,” he said, his voice tight.
The team moved closer, the beam of the flashlight illuminating the gruesome discovery.
Tracy’s head.
Her face was bruised and battered, her eyes closed as if in sleep. The officers stood in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.
“Call it in,” the lead officer said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve found her.”
---
Back at the station, Hughes received the news. He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he hung up the phone.
It was over.
But for Tracy’s family, the nightmare was just beginning.
Chapter 6: The Aftermath
The news spread quickly through Pontypridd, a quiet town unaccustomed to such horrors. By morning, the name Tracy Woodford was on everyone’s lips, her face plastered across newspapers and television screens. The details were sparse, but the grim reality was clear: Tracy was gone, and the man responsible was behind bars.
Christopher May’s arrest sent shockwaves through the community. Neighbors who had known him for years struggled to reconcile the man they thought they knew with the monster he had become.
“He was always quiet,” one neighbor said, shaking her head. “Kept to himself. But I never thought… never imagined he could do something like this.”
At the Woodford home, the atmosphere was heavy with grief. Margaret sat in the living room, surrounded by family and friends, her face pale and drawn. Tracy’s sister, Sarah, held her mother’s hand, tears streaming down her face.
“We’ll get through this,” Sarah whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
Margaret nodded, but her eyes were distant. She couldn’t shake the image of Tracy’s face, the way she had smiled when she left the house that day.
If only I’d stopped her, Margaret thought, her chest tightening. If only I’d known.
---
At the police station, Detective Inspector Gareth Hughes reviewed the evidence, his expression grim. The case against Christopher May was solid—the scratches on his face, Tracy’s ring in his pocket, the gruesome discovery in his flat and the drainpipe. But there were still questions that needed answers.
“What about the missing organs?” Hughes asked, looking up from the autopsy report.
The forensic officer shook his head. “No sign of them. He must’ve disposed of them somewhere else.”
Hughes frowned, his mind racing. Christopher had been a butcher for 18 years. He knew how to handle a knife, how to dismember. But why take the organs?
“We need to search his flat again,” Hughes said, his tone firm. “Every inch of it. If there’s anything else, we need to find it.”
---
Christopher sat in his cell, his back against the cold concrete wall. The reality of his situation was beginning to sink in. He’d been charged with murder, and the evidence against him was overwhelming.
But he wasn’t ready to give up.
They can’t prove it, he told himself. Not if I stick to my story.
He’d already started crafting a new narrative, one that painted Tracy as the aggressor. He’d claim self-defense, say she attacked him, that he had no choice.
They’ll believe me, he thought, his jaw tightening. They have to.
But deep down, he knew the truth. And it terrified him.
---
The search of Christopher’s flat yielded nothing new. The officers combed through every room, every drawer, every inch of space. But there was no sign of the missing organs, no clue as to where they might be.
Hughes stood in the bathroom, his eyes scanning the tiles. The blood had been cleaned up, but the faint smell of bleach still lingered.
“Where did you put them, Christopher?” Hughes muttered, his voice low.
He stepped out of the bathroom, his mind racing. There had to be something they were missing.
---
At the rugby club, the drainpipe was sealed off, a grim reminder of what had been found there. The officers had searched the surrounding area, but there was no sign of the missing organs.
“We’ll keep looking,” one of the officers said, his tone determined. “We’ll find them.”
But Hughes wasn’t so sure. Christopher was smart, methodical. If he’d disposed of the organs, he’d done it carefully.
---
The days turned into weeks, and the case against Christopher May grew stronger. Forensic evidence linked him to the crime, and witnesses came forward, painting a picture of a man with a dark side.
But for Tracy’s family, the pain was far from over.
At her funeral, the church was packed, the air thick with grief. Margaret sat in the front row, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She stared at the coffin, her heart breaking with every breath.
My baby, she thought, tears streaming down her face. My sweet, sweet girl.
Sarah sat beside her, her arm around her mother’s shoulders. She wanted to be strong, to be the rock her mother needed. But inside, she was falling apart.
The service was a blur of words and tears, of memories and regrets. When it was over, Margaret stood at the graveside, her hand resting on the coffin.
“I’ll find out the truth,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I promise.”
---
Back at the police station, Hughes reviewed the case file one last time. The trial was set to begin in a few weeks, and he was determined to see justice served.
But there was still one question that haunted him: where were the missing organs?
He picked up the phone, dialing the forensic lab.
“Anything new?” he asked, his tone hopeful.
The voice on the other end was apologetic. “Nothing yet. But we’re still looking.”
Hughes sighed, hanging up the phone. He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing.
Where are they, Christopher? he thought, his jaw tightening. What did you do with them?
But for now, the answer remained out of reach.
---
In his cell, Christopher sat in silence, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The trial was coming, and he knew he had to be ready.
Stick to the story, he told himself. They can’t prove anything.
But deep down, he knew the truth. And it was only a matter of time before everyone else did too.
Chapter 7: The Trial
The courtroom was packed, every seat filled with onlookers eager to witness the trial of Christopher May. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the case pressing down on everyone present. Margaret Woodford sat in the front row, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Beside her, Sarah held her mother’s hand, her face pale but determined.
Christopher sat at the defense table, his expression blank. He wore a suit, his hair neatly combed. His lawyer, a sharp-eyed man named David Ellis, leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Christopher nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the table in front of him.
The prosecution team, led by barrister Emily Carter, was ready. They had spent weeks preparing, gathering evidence, and interviewing witnesses. They were determined to see Christopher convicted, to bring justice for Tracy.
The judge entered the room, and everyone rose to their feet. The trial was about to begin.
---
Emily Carter stood before the jury, her voice calm but firm.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began, “this is a case about betrayal, about violence, and about the brutal murder of an innocent woman. Tracy Woodford was a kind, loving person. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend. And her life was taken from her in the most horrific way imaginable.”
She paused, letting her words sink in.
“The evidence will show that Christopher May lured Tracy back to his flat under false pretenses. That he attacked her when she refused his advances. That he strangled her to death and then dismembered her body, using skills he learned as a butcher to hide his crime.”
The jury listened intently, their faces grim.
“But this case is not just about what Christopher May did,” Carter continued. “It’s about who he is. A man with a history of violence. A man who has shown no remorse for his actions. A man who deserves to be held accountable for what he has done.”
She turned, pointing at Christopher.
“By the end of this trial, you will see the truth. And you will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Christopher May is guilty of murder.”
---
David Ellis stood next, his demeanor calm and collected.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “my client, Christopher May, is not the monster the prosecution has made him out to be. He is a man who made a terrible mistake, a man who acted in self-defense.”
He walked over to the jury, his tone persuasive.
“The evidence will show that Tracy Woodford was not the innocent victim the prosecution claims. That she was, in fact, the aggressor. That she attacked Christopher in his own home, and that he was forced to defend himself.”
He paused, letting his words hang in the air.
“Christopher May is not a murderer. He is a man who acted out of fear, out of desperation. And he deserves your understanding, your compassion.”
The jury watched him closely, their expressions unreadable.
---
The first witness was called: the bartender from the Skinny Dog Pub.
“Can you describe what happened the night Tracy Woodford was last seen?” Carter asked.
The bartender nodded, his voice steady. “She was sitting alone at the bar. Christopher May approached her, started talking to her. They left together around midnight.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about their interaction?”
The bartender hesitated. “He was… persistent. She seemed uncomfortable, but she was also pretty drunk. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
Carter nodded, her expression grim. “Thank you.”
Ellis stood for the cross-examination.
“Did you see Christopher May force Tracy Woodford to leave with him?”
The bartender shook his head. “No.”
“Did you see him threaten her in any way?”
“No.”
“So it’s possible she went with him willingly?”
The bartender hesitated again. “I suppose.”
Ellis nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”
---
The next witness was Margaret Woodford. She took the stand, her hands trembling as she clasped them together.
“Can you tell us about your daughter, Tracy?” Carter asked gently.
Margaret nodded, her voice breaking. “She was… she was the sweetest girl. Kind, loving. She would do anything for her family.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“The morning of April 21st,” Margaret said, tears streaming down her face. “She left to go shopping. She was so excited about buying that ring. She never came home.”
Carter’s expression softened. “Thank you, Mrs. Woodford.”
Ellis stood for the cross-examination, but his tone was respectful.
“Mrs. Woodford, did Tracy ever struggle with depression?”
Margaret hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But she was doing better. She was happy.”
“Did she ever act impulsively? Make decisions without thinking them through?”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”
Ellis held up his hands. “Just trying to understand, Mrs. Woodford. Thank you.”
---
The trial continued, each witness adding another piece to the puzzle. The forensic team testified about the evidence found in Christopher’s flat, the gruesome discovery in the drainpipe. The officers who had arrested Christopher described his demeanor, the scratches on his face, the smell of bleach in his flat.
But the most damning testimony came from Christopher himself.
He took the stand, his voice calm but his hands trembling slightly.
“Can you tell us what happened the night Tracy Woodford died?” Ellis asked.
Christopher nodded, his eyes downcast. “We were drinking at my flat. She… she came on to me. I told her no, but she wouldn’t stop. She got angry, started hitting me. I tried to push her away, but she kept coming at me. I… I panicked. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
The courtroom was silent, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone present.
Carter stood for the cross-examination, her eyes blazing.
“You claim Tracy Woodford attacked you. Yet the evidence shows that you strangled her, dismembered her body, and disposed of her remains. Does that sound like self-defense to you?”
Christopher hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I… I didn’t know what I was doing. I was scared.”
Carter leaned in closer, her voice cold. “You were scared? Or you were angry? Angry that she rejected you? Angry that she said no?”
Christopher’s face flushed, but he didn’t respond.
Carter turned to the jury. “This man is not a victim. He is a predator. And he deserves to be held accountable for his actions.”
---
The trial lasted for days, each side presenting their case with passion and determination. But in the end, it was the evidence that spoke the loudest.
The jury deliberated for less than an hour before reaching a verdict.
Christopher May was found guilty of murder.
The courtroom erupted in a mix of gasps and murmurs. Margaret Woodford buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Sarah held her mother tightly, tears streaming down her face.
Christopher sat motionless, his expression blank.
The judge sentenced him to 28 years in prison, his voice cold and final.
“You took the life of an innocent woman,” the judge said, his eyes locked on Christopher. “And for that, you will pay.”
Christopher was led out of the courtroom, his head bowed.
For Tracy’s family, it was a small measure of justice. But the pain of her loss would never fully heal.
And for Christopher, the nightmare was just beginning.
Chapter 8: The Sentence
The heavy doors of the prison clanged shut behind Christopher May, the sound echoing through the cold, sterile hallway. He walked with his head down, his hands cuffed in front of him, flanked by two guards. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the gray walls.
This was his new reality.
He was led to a small cell, the door sliding open with a metallic groan. The guards removed his cuffs and stepped back, their expressions impassive.
“Welcome home,” one of them said dryly before the door slammed shut.
Christopher stood in the center of the cell, his eyes scanning the cramped space. A narrow bed, a sink, a toilet. That was it. No windows, no personal touches. Just four walls and the weight of what he’d done.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees. His mind raced, replaying the trial, the verdict, the look on Margaret Woodford’s face as the judge handed down the sentence.
28 years.
It might as well have been a lifetime.
---
Outside the prison, Margaret and Sarah stood in the parking lot, the cold wind biting at their faces. Reporters had gathered, their cameras flashing, their voices clamoring for a statement.
Margaret ignored them, her eyes fixed on the ground. She felt numb, the weight of the trial still pressing down on her.
“It’s over,” Sarah said softly, her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “He’s going to pay for what he did.”
Margaret nodded, but her heart felt heavy. No amount of prison time could bring Tracy back.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered.
---
Back in his cell, Christopher lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening, the weight of his isolation already crushing.
He thought about Tracy, about the way she’d looked at him that night. The way she’d said no.
Why did you have to say no? he thought, his jaw tightening. Why did you make me do it?
But deep down, he knew the truth. He’d made the choice. He’d crossed a line, and there was no going back.
---
Days turned into weeks, and Christopher settled into the monotonous routine of prison life. He kept to himself, avoiding the other inmates, his reputation as a murderer earning him a wide berth.
But the isolation was suffocating.
One day, as he sat in the prison yard, a man approached him. He was tall, with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek.
“You’re May, right?” the man asked, his voice low.
Christopher looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you?”
The man smirked. “Heard about your case. You’re famous around here.”
Christopher didn’t respond, his hands clenching into fists.
The man leaned in closer, his breath hot against Christopher’s ear. “You think you’re tough? You think you’re safe? You’re not.”
Christopher’s heart pounded, but he kept his face expressionless.
The man straightened up, his smirk widening. “Watch your back, May. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
He walked away, leaving Christopher alone in the yard.
---
That night, Christopher lay in his cell, his mind racing. The man’s words echoed in his head, a constant reminder of the danger he was in.
You’re not safe.
He thought about Tracy, about the way she’d fought him. The way she’d looked at him with fear in her eyes.
You did this to yourself, he thought, his chest tightening. You brought this on yourself.
But the guilt was too much to bear.
---
Meanwhile, Margaret and Sarah tried to move on with their lives. They visited Tracy’s grave regularly, leaving flowers and talking to her as if she were still there.
“We miss you,” Margaret whispered one day, her hand resting on the cold stone. “Every day, we miss you.”
Sarah stood beside her, tears streaming down her face. “We’ll never forget you, Tracy. Never.”
But the pain was still there, a constant ache in their hearts.
---
Back in prison, Christopher received a letter. It was from his lawyer, David Ellis.
Christopher, the letter began, I’ve been reviewing your case. There may be grounds for an appeal. If you’re interested, let me know.
Christopher read the letter twice, his hands trembling. An appeal. A chance to get out.
But as he sat there, the weight of what he’d done pressing down on him, he knew the truth.
There was no escaping this.
He crumpled the letter and tossed it into the corner of his cell.
---
The days dragged on, each one blending into the next. Christopher kept to himself, avoiding the other inmates, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
But the guilt was always there, a constant reminder of what he’d done.
One night, as he lay in his cell, he heard a noise outside his door. He sat up, his heart pounding.
The door slid open, and two men stepped inside. They were big, their faces hard and expressionless.
Christopher scrambled to his feet, his back pressed against the wall.
“What do you want?” he demanded, his voice shaking.
The men didn’t respond. They just moved closer, their eyes locked on him.
Christopher’s heart raced, his mind screaming at him to run, to fight, to do something.
But there was nowhere to go.
The last thing he saw was the glint of a shiv in the dim light.
And then, nothing.
---
The next morning, the guards found Christopher’s body in his cell. He’d been stabbed multiple times, his blood pooling on the floor.
The prison went into lockdown, the inmates whispering among themselves.
But for Christopher, it was over.
---
Margaret and Sarah received the news a few days later.
“He’s dead,” the officer said, his tone somber. “Killed in prison.”
Margaret nodded, her expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” she said softly before hanging up the phone.
She sat in silence for a long time, her mind racing.
Is this justice? she wondered. Is this what Tracy would have wanted?
But there were no answers. Just the quiet ache of loss.
---
Christopher’s death brought no closure, no peace. For Margaret and Sarah, the pain of losing Tracy would always be there, a constant reminder of what they’d lost.
And for Christopher, his fate was sealed the moment he took Tracy’s life.
In the end, there was no escaping the consequences of his actions.
The nightmare was over, but the scars would remain forever.
And that's the story that has the whole world shocked beyond belief.
Don't forget to check my Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series on www dot the chase austin dot com and on Amazon. Links in description.
My name is Chase Austin and this is Blood Trails.
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