The government has written to Sainsbury's and Morrisons asking them to stop "advertising and promoting" heated tobacco products, which it says is against the law.

The BBC reported in February the supermarkets were displaying posters and video screens showing devices which create a nicotine-containing vapour by heating tobacco with an electric current.

At the time, both supermarkets said they believed the adverts were legal.

In response to the letter, Sainsbury's said it was in "close contact with the government", while Morrisons said it would reply "in due course".

In 2002, the Labour government under Tony Blair passed a law banning tobacco advertising. It defined a tobacco product as something designed to be "smoked, sniffed, sucked or chewed".

Morrisons has argued that this means that it doesn't apply to heated tobacco products, as they don't produce smoke.

Advertising for Philip Morris International's (PMI) iQos heated tobacco device on posters and video screens was still on display in Sainsbury's and Morrisons stores visited by the BBC in June, where they were visible to children.

PMI said it believes the Department of Health's interpretation of the law is wrong, and said it has "complied with all applicable laws and regulations" since it launched iQos in 2016.

The government has now written to the supermarkets clarifying that in its opinion, the law does apply to these products.

A Department of Health and Social Care (DHSC) spokesperson told the BBC: "In May, we wrote to supermarkets reiterating that the Tobacco Advertising and Promotion Act 2002… applies to all tobacco products currently on the market, and formally requested they stop advertising and promoting heated tobacco products in stores.

"All tobacco products are harmful to health," the spokesperson added.

Surveys by the charity Action on Smoking and Health suggest that awareness of heated tobacco products has risen sharply over the past year, and is even higher among young adults, compared with those over 40.

Among 11 to 17-year-olds, nearly a quarter had heard of heated tobacco, up from 7.1% in 2022, the last time they were surveyed.

Some 3.3% of respondents to their survey said they had tried heated tobacco, and for 11 to 17-year-olds, the figure was 2.7%. While low, the charity said this was still "worryingly similar to the levels of use among adults".

Experts say that although research on the health effects of heated tobacco is limited, it is likely to be less harmful than cigarettes, but worse for you than vapes, and less effective at helping smokers quit.

• Are heated tobacco products a new health risk?

A spokesperson for Morrisons said it was reviewing the letter and would respond "in due course".

Sainsbury's said it believed its ads were compliant with the law. A spokesperson said: "We remain in close contact with the government and industry partners and are planning our transition to ensure we also comply with planned incoming legislation."

It would be for a court to rule definitively whether the government is right that heated tobacco advertising is banned under current law - but so far no-one has brought a case.

The law will be clarified when the government passes the Tobacco and Vapes Bill, which is expected to conclusively ban all tobacco and vape advertising and sponsorship.

The bill is making its way through parliament and is currently at the committee stage in the House of Lords.

Hazel Cheeseman, the chief executive of Action on Smoking and Health, urged the government to pass the law as quickly as possible.

"It is outrageous that certain supermarkets still do not seem to be prepared to comply with the law, even when told they are in breach.

"The longer this takes to resolve, the more children will be exposed to tobacco product marketing," she added.

The Tobacco Advertising and Promotion Act applies UK-wide, but health is a devolved issue. The devolved administrations in Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland all said they agreed with the DHSC in England that advertising heated tobacco is banned.

Asda and Tesco both said they do not accept tobacco advertising.

On the frozen frontline in the east of Zaporizhzhia, a Ukrainian soldier surveyed the fallout from a Russian assault. It was the middle of January 2024 and the ground was covered in ice. Two weeks earlier, an 18-strong Russian assault team had broken through the line and seized three positions, killing five Ukrainians and losing 10 Russians before ceding the thin stretch of land back to the Ukrainians just hours later. The three positions that had changed hands were each just a few foxholes in the ground –⁠ dots on a devastated landscape of craters and shredded trees.

The Ukrainian soldier filmed as he looked over the remains of his fallen comrades. "This is Vitas, the small one," he said, using the dead man's callsign. He examined another body. "A silver ring, this is Grinch," he said. With difficulty, he turned over another frozen body. It was in bad condition, but the face was recognisable. The soldier sighed. "What can I find to cover you, so that you won't get cold," he said to the dead man. He picked up a nearby helmet and placed it over the damaged face. "We have found the Penguin," he said.

A year later, in January 2025, a Russian soldier was frog-marched down the corridor of a rundown local courthouse in Zaporizhzhia flanked by five Ukrainian soldiers and a large rottweiler trained on the Russian's scent and straining at its leash to attack him. Dmitriy Kurashov, callsign 'Stalker', was about to go on trial for the alleged battlefield execution of Vitalii Hodniuk, a veteran 41-year-old Ukrainian soldier known by the callsign 'Penguin'.

The trial was to be the first of its kind. According to Ukrainian authorities, Russian troops have executed at least 124 prisoners of war on the battlefield since the full-scale invasion began, but Kurashov is the first person to be brought to trial in Ukraine for the crime. His case is one of a tiny number among the tens of thousands of open war crimes cases where a suspect has been captured and can be made to stand in the dock. Adding to the unprecedented nature of the event, three members of Kurashov's own unit had agreed to testify against him.

In the bright, boxy courtroom, Kurashov was locked in a glass-enclosed dock. Short in stature, his head often bowed, he cut a subdued figure. When he did look around, he was forced to swivel his head because he had lost one eye to a grenade at the front. It was not Kurashov's first time in the dock; he had been jailed twice before in Russia, and was among the thousands of prisoners freed by the state to take part in the war.

The prosecutor read the charges. Kurashov was accused of shooting Hodniuk execution style as the Ukrainian soldier attempted to surrender – a violation of the laws of war. Kurashov had intially pleaded not guilty, during the pre-trial phase, but now in court he switched his plea to guilty. Informally, he maintained his innocence, and was making the switch purely to speed up the process, he said.

According to the UN, battlefield executions by Russians have increased at an alarming rate over the past year. In a February report, the UN human rights mission in Ukraine said it had found evidence of 79 executions by Russian forces since August 2024, as well as evidence of three illegal killings by Ukraine using first-person drones. The UN also said it had found at least three calls by Russian public officials ordering or approving executions, and according to Ukraine there is evidence of Russian battlefield commanders ordering executions up and down the frontline.

The assault on the front by Kurashov's unit was to be his first proper operation, just a few weeks after joining the war. The unit was part of "Storm-V", a detachment of the 127th motorised rifle division made up almost entirely of freed prisoners. The Storm-V units have been used by Russia as cannon fodder, sent to stage assaults on the worst parts of the frontline. They are a grim echo of similar units formed by Stalin, characterised principally by their extremely high rate of attrition.

The operation began early on the morning of 6 January 2024 under a dense fog. The 18-strong Storm-V team approached the frontline in two armoured vehicles and a tank and the assault began. Kurashov was directed towards the small cluster of foxholes where Hodniuk and others were hiding, following a Russian artillery barrage.

This is where Kurashov's account diverges from that of the prosecution and the Russian soldiers testifying against him. They say Kurashov called into a foxhole for those inside to surrender and Hodniuk emerged unarmed and kneeled on the ground, only for Kurashov to shoot him with a burst from his AK-47. Kurashov says that it was not him who fired the shots but another Russian, a medic with callsign "Sedoy", who was later killed.

The Russians could not hold the position for long. Overpowered by Ukrainian forces just hours later, Kurashov and the other survivors crawled out of the foxholes and surrendered. They were marched away from the front to a Ukrainian armoured vehicle and taken as prisoners of war. Ukrainian soldiers who saw Hodniuk's body told the country's state security service, the SBU, that it lay face down with no weapon nearby.

The SBU could not access the scene, because it was too close to the contact line, but the agency began what would become an extensive remote investigation. At an SBU location in Zaporizhzhia last month, the officer in charge – who spoke on condition of anonymity because of his work in the security service – drew a map of the scene and explained how they put Kurashov in the dock.

"The first step was interrogating the eight prisoners of war," he said. "They were questioned as witnesses and later their identities were fully confirmed via social networks, mobile phones, and partial radio intercepts that preceded the event. The entire unit in that sector was tracked."

Initially, there were two suspected executions. Another Ukrainian, callsign 'Grinch', had been beaten to death with a shovel, one witness said. But the SBU couldn't prove it. "The polygraph didn't confirm the information and when the bodies were eventually recovered from the battlefield, none of them had such injuries," the investigator said. "My opinion, after examining all the facts, is that this was made up."

It was, he said, an example of Ukraine's ability to investigate and prosecute war crimes impartially, despite being the victim and under an ongoing state of war from the aggressor. "Look, we have one suspect on trial for an execution," the SBU investigator said, referring to Kurashov. "I signed it and sent it to court because we've gathered enough evidence that points to guilt. If our goal was simply to suspect anyone and send them to court we would have ten prisoners passing through every day."

The seriousness with which Ukraine is treating this criminal prosecution is apparent. The SBU investigation produced more than 2,000 pages of evidence. Each of the witnesses was put through filmed reconstructions of the event on a Ukrainian army shooting range. In court, all efforts have been made by the prosecutor and the judges to ensure that Kurashov understands his rights, that he can understand his translator, and is given the opportunity to cross examine witnesses against him – an opportunity he has so far declined. (Kurashov's state-appointed lawyer declined to speak to the BBC. She has spoken only briefly in court, on administrative matters and to clarify some descriptions of the event by witnesses.)

The three Russian witnesses all testified on the first day of Kurashov's trial – three former prisoners who like Kurashov had gambled on surviving the war to gain their freedom. One had been serving 25 years to life for killing two drug dealers, another nine years for grievous bodily harm for killing a man with a brick in a fight, a third eight years, also for grievous bodily harm.

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They gave evidence via video link from an adjacent courtroom, so they could be locked in their own dock. Dmitry Zuev, 44, was to be the key witness. He told the court that he saw Kurashov call for the Ukrainians to come out of the foxhole and surrender, after which Hodniuk emerged and knelt with his hands up. Then there were more gunshots and explosions, Zuev said, and he saw Hodniuk fall face down into the mud. Zuev also told the court that he personally knew the medic, Sedoy, who Kurashov has accused of the killing, and Sedoy was not there.

Oleg Zamyatin, 54, testified that Hodniuk was not holding a gun when he emerged from the foxhole. Zamyatin did not see Kurashov fire the alleged shots, he said, because there were explosions at the same moment.

"But I can say that it was him," Zamyatin told the court. "Because there was no one else at that spot except him."

Konstantin Zelenin, 41, the commander of Kurashov's small assault group, told the court he was hiding in a crater when he saw Hodniuk exit the foxhole on the right side with his hands up.

"Then, just a split second later, as the shelling began again, I heard a burst from an automatic rifle," Zelenin said.

"On the right side was Stalker, and he was there alone."

In the dock, Kurashov sat largely mute as his former unit mates testified against him, speaking only occasionally to his lawyer through a slim gap in the enclosure's door. It is not clear yet if he will testify on his own behalf. The day after one of his hearings, he agreed to talk to the BBC about how he had ended up on trial in Ukraine.

The interview was co-ordinated by the SBU and conducted at a derelict building in Zaporizhzhia being used as a kind of safe house by the service, which confirmed the basic facts of Kurashov's life. Kurashov appeared in good condition and said he had agreed freely to take part. The lead judge in his case permitted the interview, for which an SBU press officer was present some of the time. Kurashov's remarks to the BBC will not be admissible in court.

His journey to that miserable stretch of front where Hodniuk died – to becoming Stalker – began in an orphanage in Gremyachinsk, a decayed old coal town about a thousand miles from Moscow on the way to Siberia. Orphaned at birth, Kurashov was raised in a group home. As a teenager, he got into a fight with a police officer and was imprisoned for assault. He served four years, but on his release he had no family, friends or place to live, so he became a vagrant. He began robbing summer houses and shops for food and money, he said, resulting in another imprisonment, this time in a remote penal colony alongside men serving life sentences for the some of the most brutal crimes.

Six months into that sentence, representatives from the Russian military came to the penal colony and told the convicts they had an opportunity to turn a new page in their lives. Kurashov still had five years to serve. "They told us you can have a clean slate, become a clean person," he said. "Just sign this contract and go."

"Go" meant to the "special military operation" in Ukraine. Kurashov knew little about it, he said, but he thought anything was better than five more years in the penal colony or being turned out into the streets at the end of his sentence. So he signed, and was taken immediately to a training camp in occupied territory in Ukraine.

Kurashov described his unit as made up entirely of "people who had been pushed down by life and rejected by society, who were outside of society". They were given 21 days training, he said, during which they were drunk almost all the time. "They did not want to study or train," he recalled. "They all said they were just there to die."

There was no training on the Geneva Convention, to which Russia and Ukraine are both signatories, and which prohibits the killing of people who have surrendered or no longer pose a threat. In fact, the trainers told them the opposite, Kurashov said. "The ones who taught us how to take positions told us not to take any prisoners," he said. His description matches accounts from his unit mates, who told Ukrainian investigators they were instructed to execute prisoners and throw grenades into dugouts even if the enemy had surrendered.

It also matches accounts from other Russian prisoners of war. "I don't recall training on international humanitarian law," a Russian POW told the UN recently. "During our military training and later, commanders told us not to take [Ukrainian soldiers] as prisoners of war. It is logistically cumbersome."

According to Kurashov, the unit were told they would be carrying out logistical operations like digging trenches, but instead found themselves headed immediately for battle. During the brief assault on the Ukrainian position, Kurashov's impression was not one of an able military unit at war. "What I saw was people who just laid down and died," he said. Within hours, 10 of the 18-strong assault team were dead and the remaining eight were in captivity.

Within a fortnight, the incident had become one of Ukraine's many thousands of war crimes cases. Ukraine has no specialist war crimes courts, so the cases generally fall to whichever court is local to the offence. In this case, the Zavodskyi District in Zaporizhzhia.

Prior to the full scale invasion, 32-year-old Zavodskyi District prosecutor Mykyta Manevskyi had taken on a range of civil crimes like robbery, vandalism and fraud, plus two murder cases, but never a war crime. "When you're working with an ordinary murder case, it has difficulties but it's pretty simple," Manevskyi said. "You know where the murder took place, you can collect DNA and fingerprints, you can find the murder weapon. You have almost immediate access to the body. You can conduct forensic tests."

In this case, Manevskyi's murder scene was on the contact line. "We could not even extract the body for two months," he said. "It made it difficult to perform any kind of forensic examination. The body was too long under the sun, the rain and snow, and it was harmed by artillery strikes."

That made it difficult to ascertain anything concrete about the nature of the shots that killed Hodniuk. "This is not the level of detail, unfortunately, that we need when investigating a murder," Manevskyi said. "So we had to focus more on working with the witnesses we had."

In fact, the prosecution is relying almost totally on the testimony of the Russian soldiers. There are no other eyewitnesses, no drone footage of the actual event and the physical evidence is circumstantial, much of it badly degraded by the battlefield conditions which persisted for weeks before the bodies could be recovered.

But the testimony is not without its complications. The witnesses are all POWs, being held by the nation prosecuting the case. They were each interrogated up to 10 times by the Ukrainian state security service, during which time some of their stories evolved. One bore a grudge against Kurashov from their time together in training, he told investigators. Another said he resented the defendant for, in his view, getting them caught.

"It is a tricky area," said Sergey Vasiliev, a professor of international law at the Open University of the Netherlands. "POWs are a particularly vulnerable category of witnesses, any evidence they give should be taken with a grain of salt." There was nothing inherently wrong with POWs testifying, Vasiliev said, but various factors could have affected their decision to appear for the prosecution. "Maybe they are expecting better treatment in Ukrainian custody, maybe they expect to be prioritised in a prisoner swap," he said. "They could have various incentives to lie."

Kurashov maintains his story about the medic, Sedoy. He told the BBC he had pleaded guilty because he believed the sooner the trial was over the sooner he could be exchanged back to Russia.

But if Kurashov is found guilty, he is no longer a prisoner of war. He is simply a prisoner in Ukraine's civil legal system. Yuriy Belousov, the head of the war crimes department of Ukraine's Office of the Prosecutor General, told the BBC that Russian soldiers convicted of war crimes would go to prison in Ukraine and stay there. "We prosecute on behalf of the victims and their relatives and they should feel justice has been done," Belousov said.

In the end, it may not be that simple. Russia has captured many thousands of civilians during its full scale invasion of Ukraine and is effectively holding them hostage in Russian prisons. If the Kremlin decides it wants Kurashov back, it may have leverage to get him.

"That is less of a legal and more of an ethical issue," Belousov said. "If, let's say, 100 people would be offered to exchange for this one, then yes maybe. It is our obligation to prosecute on behalf of victims, but it is also our obligation to save our people who have been kept in Russia."

Belousov and his colleagues are aiming at bigger fish than Kurashov. Their goal for this year and next is to bring cases against middle and higher level Russian command, he said. According to the testimony from the captured Russians in Kurashov's unit, their senior commander issued an order directly before the assault that no prisoners should be taken.

According to Belousov, similar evidence has been found up and down the frontline. Grim video evidence, sometimes shared on Russian social media, appears to bear that out. Russia has in turn accused Ukrainian troops of extra-judicial killings, and Ukraine has launched several investigations into its own forces (the exact number is unclear). But the number of allegations against Russia far outweighs that against Ukraine. Russia has previously denied committing war crimes in the conflict.

The UN has also documented several cases of Russian public figures calling for executions. Last July, after Ukraine's Azov Brigade posted a social media video showing one of its members shooting a Russian soldier in a dugout, the deputy head of Russia's Security Council, Dmitry Medvedev, called for "total executions" of Ukrainian servicemen.

"No words about mercy. No humanity. No pardon. They have no right to life. Execute, execute and execute," Medvedev wrote on the Telegram social media platform.

Medvedev's words will not cost him anything. Instead they run downhill until they reach the level of Vitalii Hodniuk, Dmitry Kurashov, and all the other Russian and Ukrainian men killing each other in service of the war's obscure goals. In this case, one of those men stands accused of breaking the laws of the killing he had been sent to do – laws he may well have been ordered to disregard.

If found guilty, Kurashov faces up to life in prison. At the end of his conversation with the BBC, he said that he had no real vision for the future, other than a desire to return to Russia. "At least I will have a disability," he said, referring to the loss of his eye, and the anticipated benefits it would draw. "I won't have to be a vagrant anymore."

Vitalii Hodniuk cannot return home, of course. It was two months before his body could even be recovered. His family did not want to speak publicly about his passing, but they did assist in the SBU in its investigation. Hodniuk's record shows that he was an experienced soldier who defended Ukraine against Russian-backed forces from 2015 to 2020 and joined up to fight again in 2022.

Last May, six months after he died, the Penguin was brought back to his village to be buried. On a bright morning, just a stone's throw from where he grew up and went to school, people lined the street on their knees to watch his coffin pass by.

Kurashov's trial continues.

Daria Mitiuk contributed to this report. Photographs by Joel Gunter.

The paternity leave offer for new dads in the UK is "one of the worst in the developed world", according to a new report published this week.

The government says the system needs to be "improved" and has promised to review parental leave. But how does the situation in the UK compare to elsewhere?

BBC News spoke to dads across Europe about how much time they can take off work after the birth of their children - and how that has changed fatherhood for them.

When Jamie's daughter Kiara was born three years ago, he says it was "incredibly difficult".

"I had to watch my partner struggle looking after our child," Jamie says. "The biggest thing I remember was the crying. My daughter clearly needed support and my wife was noticeably struggling and exhausted."

A few weeks after Kiara was born, Jamie's mother-in-law flew from Zimbabwe to support the family, because Jamie was only entitled to statutory paternity leave.

Rules in the UK allow new fathers and second parents in full-time employment to take up to two weeks off work. That applies to all partners, regardless of gender, after the birth, surrogacy or adoption of a baby, but not those who are self-employed or dads earning less than £123 a week.

Those eligible receive £187.18 a week, or 90% of their average earnings, whichever is lower. This works out as less than half of the National Living Wage.

Jamie, from Ashford in Kent, says the statutory pay "was frankly pennies".

He and his partner are now expecting their second child, in August - something they began saving for before Jamie's wife Zanele even fell pregnant.

Jamie says his "frustration" about paternity pay led him to attend the world's first "dad strike" earlier this week, when fathers from across the country protested outside the government's Department for Business and Trade in Westminster.

"Seeing things change relatively recently in other countries... why are we not keeping up?" Jamie says.

For Octavio, spending four months at home with his daughter Alicia has made "a tremendous difference".

He split his paternity leave into two parts - six weeks - which was mandatory -immediately after Alicia was born, and the remaining 10 weeks when his wife went back to work.

"The extended quality time with Alicia allowed us to develop a strong bond that I believe wouldn't have formed as deeply otherwise," says Octavio, a computer engineer from Seville.

Over the past few years, Spain has increased the amount of time given to new fathers. In 2019, dads were entitled to five weeks off work. But from 2021, that was extended to 16 weeks at full pay, including for those who are self-employed. There is no cap on the salary paid. It means parental leave is now equal between mums and dads in Spain.

"These changes have truly made a significant difference," says Octavio.

France has also made progressive steps on paternity leave in recent years.

Antoine is an architect who lives on the outskirts of Paris, and has benefitted from the changes. When his son Thibault was born five years ago, Antoine, who works full-time, was entitled to two weeks paternity leave.

But in September 2020 paternity leave in France doubled, meaning Antoine got four weeks off work when his second child was born in 2023.

"It allowed me to support my wife and children," he says. "Fathers should be allowed to be more present during these family life periods that enrich all relationships and allow them to fully take their place as full-time parents."

France's paternity leave rules mean dads - including those who are self-employed - must take a week off work immediately after their child is born. Pay is covered by the employer for the first three days, but after that is state-funded.

The remaining 21 days, which can be split into two chunks, are optional and can be taken anytime within the next six months. Pay is capped at €3,428 (£2,921) a month.

André, who was born in Portugal and spent nine years living in England, says the prominent role played by dads in Denmark was one of the first things he noticed when he moved there.

"You see dads strolling around with their kids and young babies," André says. "I was like: 'Wow, I'm not used to this.'"

Dads in Denmark, including those who are self-employed, can take up to 24 weeks off work at full pay by the state.

After eleven weeks, the remaining 13 can be transferred to the birth partner if wanted, so they can use them as extra maternity leave. One of the parents can postpone up to 13 weeks of parental until their child is aged nine.

André decided to split his parental leave - taking two weeks immediately after his baby Miro was born and saving the remaining 11 weeks - so he can look after his nine-month-old son when his partner returns to work.

"In Denmark, it's expected that the partner is more present," André says. "You're not only connecting with your child, but you want to develop the family as a whole together."

Dads with full-time jobs in Poland are entitled to two weeks of paternity leave. But unlike in the UK, the salary is paid at 100%, which Kamil says was "great".

Shortly after his daughter Marianna's first birthday, Kamil took another nine weeks of non-transferable parental leave, which must be taken in the first year. This is available to both parents, as long as they are employed, and is paid at 70% of a full-time salary.

"For many families, the 70% nine weeks is very low," Kamil says, "but... when I took the leave my wife started going back to work. I earned 30% less, but she started earning more, so it was beneficial for our family."

Kamil says those extra nine weeks alleviated a lot of "stress" as his wife transitioned back into work after a year off on maternity leave.

"I was confident," Kamil says. "I felt as though I was doing a good job - and my daughter felt good with me."

Mattias, from Stockholm, says comforting his three-month-old son is "the best feeling I've ever experienced".

Mattias is able to take advantage of one of the most generous paternity leave policies in the world. Parents in Sweden, including those who are self-employed, can share up to 480 days of parent leave, with 90 days reserved specifically for each parent.

Ringfencing time off for dads was first introduced in Sweden in 1995, with the introduction of a "daddy month" - 30 days just for fathers. This use-it-or-lose-it model increased to 60 days in 2002, and 90 days in 2016.

The first 390 days for each parent are paid at 80% by the government, up to a monthly salary cap of SEK47,750 (£3,590). After that, there's a daily statutory compensation of SEK180 (£14).

Mattias took six weeks off when Otto was born and will use another nine months of parental leave from November.

"We could share the load in the beginning when everything was new," Mattias says. "Those six weeks allowed us to be parents together - that made a huge difference. "

Paternity leave - the view from the UK

Some companies, both in the UK and abroad, pay out of their own pocket for enhanced paternity leave policies beyond the statutory minimum. But research from 2023 showed just 12% of fathers from low-income households had access to their full entitlement of employer-enhanced parental leave and pay.

Alex Lloyd-Hunter, co-founder of The Dad Shift, says "money is the single biggest barrier" to dads taking time off work and wants the government to fund better paternity leave for all dads.

A report, published this week by the Women and Equalities Committee (WEC) said statutory pay in the UK was "completely out of kilter with the cost of living". It suggested the government should consider increasing paternity pay to 90% or more and paternity leave to six weeks in a phased approach.

The report also looked at shared parental leave, introduced in 2014, which allows parents to share up to 50 weeks of leave and up to 37 weeks of pay after the birth or adoption of a child. The review found many families considered it "unnecessarily complex". It is used in fewer than 2% of all births and a report from 2023 suggests almost half (45%) of dads were not even aware shared parental leave was an option.

"We know the parental leave system needs to be improved," a spokesperson for the Department for Business and Trade said, adding the government would review maternity leave, paternity leave and shared parental leave.

They also pointed to changes which mean dads will soon no longer have to be employed by a company for 26 weeks to be entitled to statutory paternity leave.

Stark images, captured from a drone by environmental campaigners and shared with the BBC, appear to show how nickel mining has stripped forests and polluted waters in one of the most biodiverse marine habitats on Earth.

The Raja Ampat archipelago - a group of small islands in Indonesia's Southwest Papua Province - has been dubbed the "Amazon of the Seas".

But mining for nickel - an ingredient in electric vehicle batteries and in stainless steel - has ramped up there in recent years, according to the organisation Global Witness.

In a move that was welcomed by campaigners, the Indonesian government this week revoked permits for four out of five mining companies operating in the region.

In a statement published online, Indonesia's Ministry for the Environment said: "Raja Ampat's biodiversity is a world heritage that must be protected.

"We pay great attention to mining activities that occur in the area."

But photographs - taken by Global Witness as part of an investigation - appear to show environmental damage already done.

Aerial images show forest loss and sediment run-off into waters that are home to biodiverse coral reefs.

Global Witness told the BBC that land use for mining, across multiple small islands in the archipelago, increased by 500 hectares - equivalent to about 700 football pitches - between 2020 and 2024.

Some conservationists, including the organisation Greenpeace, are concerned that the government's decision could be reversed by legal action by the mining companies.

And one company that operates on Gag island, which has particularly rich deposits of nickel, has been allowed to continue its operations. The government said it would order the "restoration of the ecological impacts that occur" there.

Coral reef conservationist and ecologist Dr Mark Erdmann told BBC News that he was "blown away, and so happy" about the government's decision to revoke the mining permits.

"This is the global epicenter of marine biodiversity," he told BBC News.

Dr Erdmann has worked in Raja Ampat for more than two decades and is one of the founders of a shark rewilding project there called Reshark. He added: "It was a voice of outrage form Indonesian people that made the government pay attention."

But this ecological controversy is an example of how the demand for the metals needed to power battery technology - for electric cars and other low carbon energy sources - can damage the environment.

Indonesia now accounts for more than half of the world's nickel mine production, according to a report last year by the Institute for Energy Economics and Financial Analysis.

And while the beauty and biodiversity of the Raja Ampat has drawn attention to mining activity there, mining has been linked to ecological damage elsewhere too.

A 2024 study by Forest Watch Indonesia found a link between the loss of forests associated with mining activity and increased local flooding and landslides.

Increasing demand for so-called critical minerals is shaping economic decisions around the world. It was the driving force for President Trump's recent executive order to jumpstart the mining of metallic nodules from the deep sea in international waters. It is a move that China has called illegal.

Dr Erdmann pointed out that balancing economic growth with environmental protection was a particular dilemma for Indonesia. "It has a lot of nickel - one way or the other, some of it's going to come out of the ground," he said.

Dr Michaela Guo Ying Lo from the University of Kent led a study in 2024 of the impact of mining on local communities in Sulawesi, the large Indonesian island that has most of the country's nickel deposits.

That concluded that mining activity reduced poverty slightly, but that there was significant "worsening of environmental well-being" including increased local water and air pollution.

"Indonesia is positioning itself globally in the nickel market," Dr Lo told BBC News. "But it's important not to forget what's happening locally."

Imam Shofwan, an environmental campaigner from an organisation called Jatam, based in Jakarta, told BBC News: "They say nickel is a solution to the climate crisis. But it's causing deforestation and destroying farmland."

He also pointed out to the BBC that low-lying coastal areas, where some nickel deposits are found, are some of the places most vulnerable to the effects of climate change, including rising sea levels.

Dr Erdmann commented: "The nickel dilemma is a horrible one.

"Mining is always going to be environmentally impactful and we all tend to think that electrification is a good idea. But what is the acceptable damage that we're willing to see?"

The BBC contacted the Indonesian government for comment, but did not receive a reply.

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We are driving at speed through the green hills of rural Hertfordshire. Through the passenger seat window, large elegant houses flash by. Each front lawn is neat, each hedgerow well-kept. It looks like England from a storybook - but this part of the country is actually on the frontline of a relatively new (and some might say divisive) approach to crime prevention.

In the driver's seat is Robert, a guard employed by Blueline Security. His car is painted with blue and yellow stripes, meaning it looks a lot like a police car. Inside there's a walkie-talkie, a first-aid kit, and a Belgian Malinois dog called Bella (given similar training to a police dog, I'm told).

But Robert - who wears a bullet-proof vest and carries a pair of handcuffs - is careful to point out that he is not a real policeman.

"The more keen eye will realise that this isn't a police car," he says as he flicks his indicator. He points out that they follow the regulations on vehicle markings designed to distinguish police cars from other cars.

"But it looks similar enough where criminality will see it at a distance and think, 'Let's maybe not go there'."

Blueline is one of a handful of "private policing" firms that have emerged in recent years. It has operated mostly in wealthy enclaves of southern England since 2019 and, for a fee, its team of ex-police or ex-army guards can patrol villages, looking for burglars and car thieves. Robert, in fact, spent 14 years working in the police force.

Various similar businesses have sprung up around the UK in recent years, including My Local Bobby, which was founded in 2016 and now has almost 150 security guards, as well as a fleet of cars.

According to some customers who spoke to the BBC, this fills a gap left by the real police, who they claim they no longer trust to turn up promptly to a 999 call in their villages.

To residents who can afford these firms, they are a "lifeline", as one customer tells me. But to others, they represent an affront to the values on which British policing was founded; a step towards a country in which the wealthy get better access to law enforcement than the poor.

One former senior figure in the Metropolitan Police says she fears the emergence of a "two-tier society".

So, with pressures on real police growing, is there room for private firms to help ease the load - or do so-called "private bobbies" blur the lines between police and profit?

Rise of 'private policing'

The firms offering "private policing" that I've spoken to say that demand for their services has risen.

According to a paper published last year by criminologists from the universities of Sheffield and Brunel, the UK's private security industry grew substantially between 2008 and 2021, with an increase in revenue and in the number of licensed security guards.

And, according to the Home Office, the number of real police officers in England and Wales fell most years from 2009 onwards, reaching a low of about 122,000 in 2017 - before ticking back up, to about 147,000 last year.

The study's co-author, Dr Matteo Pazzona, a Senior Lecturer in Economics at Brunel University, describes a shift in policing from the "public to the private" realm. Whilst most UK security guards work in shops and other businesses, his data does also signal a rise in the sort of residential work carried out by private firms, he says.

There are lots of reasons why the security industry might have grown over this period. But David Spencer, a former Detective Chief Inspector at the Metropolitan Police, thinks that private firms could be filling the gaps left by police.

"If you've got money and you don't feel that the police are effective, then it's no surprise if you decide to use your resources to keep your family safe," he says.

Confidence 'hangs by a thread'

Until the 19th Century, protection from crime was largely a privilege enjoyed by the rich. Wealthy people employed "thief takers" to guard their property, whilst ordinary folk had to make do with volunteer watchmen, who focused on the more basic task of keeping order.

That changed when Sir Robert Peel, a Tory prime minister, started London's Metropolitan Police - Britain's first modern, professional force funded from general taxation.

He instilled in the force several principles that can still be reeled off from memory by many constables today: being visible in the community; treating members of the public equally, regardless of wealth or social standing - and perhaps more important than all: policing with trust.

Now, some worry that trust is being undermined.

Most burglaries and car thefts go unsolved. A YouGov survey from last month found that 50% of adults in Great Britain held "not very much confidence" or "no confidence at all" in their local force - up from 42% in 2019.

The government's police inspector, Andy Cooke, said in a report in 2023 that confidence in police "hangs by a thread" (although his report last year noted some improvements).

Mr Spencer, who is now head of crime and justice for the centre-right Policy Exchange think tank, says demands on police time have risen dramatically. Online fraud has shot up in recent decades, and police have recognised the need to tackle issues that were once considered "private" (like domestic abuse and sexual violence). And police resources are failing to keep up pace, he says.

This, he thinks, helps explain the interest in so-called private police.

A deterrent to burglars?

Laura (who didn't want to share her full name) signed up for private security to patrol her road a few weeks ago, after a spate of burglaries in the area. She lives in rural Hertfordshire with her husband and one of her three children.

She already had CCTV installed and, on the night that her neighbour was burgled, it showed a gang of masked men sitting on her garden chairs. "You can see them looking at the camera, and they've seen it's zoomed in on them. And then they went."

Her neighbours held a meeting; about 40 households decided to subscribe to a private firm. Each pays £1,500 per year. In return, guards patrol the area daily. Laura says she can call a guard at any time.

"I don't think we can afford to be confident that [the police] would get here in good time," she says.

However, private guards have no more power than a member of the public. The aim for many is not to catch or restrain criminals but to act as a deterrent.

Jamie Strickland, a former soldier who founded Blueline, stresses that he does not regard his business as a replacement for the police and argues that even a perfectly-resourced force would struggle to reach remote areas of the countryside.

"The police can't be everywhere all the time," he adds.

But a spokesperson for the National Police Chiefs' Council says they remain "resolutely committed" to attending the scene of crimes, and that all English and Welsh police forces now aim to attend a property following every burglary report.

They added that private firms "should not replace or supplement police and it is for properly trained officers to intervene when a crime has been committed".

'I'm lucky I can afford it'

The question, though, is whether so-called private police firms signal the emergence of an unfair two-tier system, in which the wealthiest can pay to be better protected from crime.

This is a concern for Parm Sandhu, a former chief superintendent at the Metropolitan Police who left the force in 2019 and has since written a book about her experiences of prejudice.

"If you're living on a council estate, you cannot afford to pay for policing," she says. "Does that mean you deserve to be burgled, sexually assaulted, or mugged? No you don't."

She argues that the correlation between falling police numbers and an expanding private security industry signals something "totally wrong".

Andy, who also lives in rural Hertfordshire, near Laura, and employs a private security firm, has his own feelings on this. "I look at it and say, 'It's £1,500 a year, I'm lucky I can find that,'" he says.

But he argues that not everyone who uses the service is wealthy. "You watch the CCTV [of burglaries], you feel worried for your family." The expense, he adds, is worth it for that reason.

Still, doubts remain.

Ms Sandhu points out that the police-like appearance of some of these security firms could be confusing. "If you've got somebody who's under the influence [of] drugs or alcohol, they will look up quickly and think, 'Oh, this is a police officer'," she says. "It's really important to have that differential between police officers and security guards.

"Members of the public [could] go to them thinking they're talking to police officers, and take their advice."

Which raises the question of what, exactly, private guards can do. The companies I speak to are clear that their staff can restrain somebody they suspect to be a criminal, only in the same way that any member of the public can, a power commonly known as a "citizen's arrest".

And it comes with risk. Under English and Welsh law, a citizen's arrest can only be used for an "indictable" offence - a serious crime tried at the Crown Court. You cannot use a citizen's arrest for a lesser "summary" offence (tried at the magistrates' court).

In the heat of the moment, it may be difficult for a guard to judge the difference - and if they get it wrong, they could be guilty of a crime themselves.

Questions about accountability

There are also questions about accountability. Police forces are inspected by the Government's Inspectorate of Constabulary; if a serious complaint is made against a constable, it will be investigated by an independent regulator.

Few such tools of accountability exist for private firms - other than having their licence revoked by the Security Industry Authority.

But Martin Gill, a criminology professor and the director of Perpetuity Research, a security consultancy, points out that in shopping centres and hospitals, the "majority of policing is undertaken by private police forces" (in other words, security guards). Most of them, he argues, do a "very good job".

In his view, when a private firm starts operating in a residential area, the local police force should engage.

The founder of My Local Bobby, David McKelvey, says he now has a "good relationship" with police forces, after a rocky start. "There was a lot of reticence [from the police] in the first place, but now they're starting to see the benefit of [our service]," he claims.

He would like police to work closer with firms. "At the moment, there's a reticence still within policing to sharing information [and] intelligence. Often that information is absolutely vital for us to do our job."

The College of Policing has said police forces should only share intelligence under strict circumstances.

Not quite Starsky & Hutch

Ultimately, the sort of work carried out by 'private bobbies' is a tiny fraction of the real police work carried out across the country. But whether more residential communities will in future opt for the private model depends largely on whether the police are able to restore public confidence, says Mr Spencer of Policy Exchange.

"If it doesn't, then I think it's inevitable we will see more people […] turning to private providers," he says.

Back on the road with Robert, midway through his patrol, his radio buzzes. A customer has called: a horse is loose and wandering in a country lane. Within minutes, he has driven there and helped return it to its field.

It's not quite Starsky & Hutch, Robert concedes, but it's an insight into the sort of work they do. And yet, he admits, there are limits.

He recalls one shift, on an April night this year, when he drove along a country road in his patch and saw a car that looked like it was being used for drug dealing.

"If they've had drugs and they're behind a wheel, that's a summary offence - I have no power to deal with it," he says.

Instead, he sat in his car and called the real police.

Top image credit: Getty Images

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The anointment of Sir David Beckham is a moment of establishment recognition three decades in the making. But as the former footballer was conferred his knighthood on Friday, reports of family drama threaten to overshadow the milestone.

Known for his precision on and off the pitch, Sir David has spent decades carefully curating his family's public image.

This year is one of celebration for the former England captain - turning 50 at the helm of an estimated £500m empire.

But for the past few weeks, much of the online interest around the Beckhams has focused on reports that eldest son Brooklyn and his wife Nicola Peltz have fallen out with the rest of the family.

An expert in reputation management says reports of the feud have begun to affect the family's public image, noting press coverage of the Beckhams has taken on a more soap-opera-like tone.

Celebrity crisis PR Lauren Beeching says recent media conversation has "started to feel more like something you'd see around a reality TV family".

Reports of a family fallout began three years ago as stories emerged claiming that Nicola had refused to wear one of Victoria Beckham's designs on her wedding day.

Nicola later said she had wanted to, telling the Times Victoria realised her atelier couldn't make it in time so she had to pick a different designer. Nicola denied there was a feud in the family.

But scrutiny continued, with shows of unity (from warm social media posts to shared events) being framed as the Beckhams putting the feud behind them, or discouraging rumours of discord.

Eventually, speculation seemed to die down. But reports of a rift returned last month after Brooklyn, 26, and Nicola, 30, were absent from David Beckham's 50th birthday celebrations and didn't post a birthday message online.

A source told the BBC Brooklyn had chosen not to go to the party as his younger brother Romeo was attending with a woman Brooklyn had previously been linked to.

The source added that this woman's invitation had been "a big source of further tension".

Sir David and Lady Victoria have never acknowledged the rumoured rift, and have not responded to the BBC's requests for comment.

Ms Beeching believes there's now a risk the feud stories could start to shape the family's image, "instead of the achievements they actually want to be known for". "Once you start being spoken about like a reality TV family," she continues. "That reputation starts to slip".

As Manchester United's golden boy, David Beckham quickly transcended football to become a global celebrity.

He and Spice Girl wife Victoria created Brand Beckham - fusing fame, fashion and football to redefine modern stardom.

"Their brand has always been about control of narrative, image, and legacy," says Mr Borkowski. "The media didn't chase them. They gave it a trail to follow - blending scandal with strategy and high-end deals."

Beckham "made metrosexuality mainstream", he adds. "He showed working-class lads you could wear nail polish, model for Armani, champion grooming rituals - and still bend a free-kick past the keeper at crunch time. All while embodying a very traditional ideal: devoted husband, hands-on dad, family first."

"I lived my career through the spotlight," Sir David told BBC Radio 4's Front Row in 2013. "You have to be a certain person, you have to create a certain person, and you have to be yourself."

These parallel identities - carefully constructed yet authentic - gave Beckham his unique pull.

While the Beckham family have always been relatively private, Ms Beeching sees David's 2023 Netflix documentary as a turning point in how the public perceived them.

"The Beckham brand has always been seen as aspirational, not accessible, but since the documentary, there's been a notable increase in how much the family share on their social media accounts, which puts them closer to being reality stars," she says.

Ms Beeching says recent news has pulled the family "away from legacy-building and into soap opera territory, which was never their lane".

The constant rumours about the family's dynamic have led some fans to take on a "Sherlock Holmes role" - so now, every absence in a photo becomes a hidden theory and every Instagram caption has a sub context.

Feud is 'built to go viral'

Matt Navarra, a social media consultant, tells the BBC fans expect to see social signals of closeness such as mutual follows, birthday posts and supportive comments.

"When these signals are missing, people don't assume neutrality, they assume tension."

Fans and tabloids were quick to pick up on Brooklyn and Nicola's German Glamour magazine shoot earlier this month as a signal that the rift was far from over - the couple avoided mentioning the Beckhams, but Nicola's love for her own family was referenced several times.

Since then, every Beckham Instagram post and like (or lack thereof) has been agonised over, and even if discussion of the feud are eventually put to bed, it's unlikely that social media sleuthing will end.

Mr Navarra explains that even if facts are revealed and the rift rumours are quashed, "the social media algorithm doesn't care about accuracy - it cares about engagement".

This feud is the "perfect storm as it's built to go viral", and social media doesn't just fuel speculation, it manufactures and rewards it, he says.

Of course, family drama is also more relatable than a knighthood, and there's always been an insatiable appetite for famous families feuding in the spotlight.

Ms Beeching sees parallels between the Beckham family fallout and the rift between the Sussexes and the Royal Family, which continues to make headlines.

"The Royal Family lost control over the narrative as Harry and Meghan became more independent, and that's the same here with Brooklyn and Nicola, who are both adults and are forming their own public personas," she says.

Like Meghan, Nicola Peltz was already a known figure before marrying Brooklyn. The daughter of a billionaire businessman and model, "Nicola doesn't need to rely on the Beckhams for money or fame", says Wayne Barton, who wrote a biography about Beckham in 2020.

In a bid to not be perceived as nepo babies - children of celebrities who get fast-tracked to success - "Brooklyn and Nicola are in search of their own identities, which "may be putting them at odds with the careful public image that the Beckhams have created for the family", he says.

Sir David's polished image has, on occasion, been tarnished by scandal - in 2003, he faced accusations of an extra-marital affair with his former personal assistant Rebecca Loos.

Nicole Lampert, the Daily Mail's showbiz editor at the time, says the Beckhams perfected "smiling through" issues - letting actions speak over words.

In 2004, the couple staged a photocall skiing together to demonstrate a united front - with Victoria giving what Lampert describes as a pained "rictus grin".

Generally, however, the Beckhams have remained tight-lipped when it comes to scandals, such as criticism over David Beckham's involvement with Qatar, and leaked emails in 2017 that included disparaging comments about singer Katherine Jenkins being awarded an honour over him.

Brand is 'bruised not broken'

Having been in the spotlight for decades, the Beckham brand will survive the feud and it's currently "bruised but not broken", according to Mr Navarra.

One way the Beckhams could limit the damage to their brand would be by "showing family unity with a picture on social media or at least acknowledging that all families have their ups and downs", he suggests.

But trying to inauthentically manage the situation and making things look overly staged could backfire and the "narrative of a feud will become permanently baked in".

Mr Navarra doesn't believe there are many real implications to the Beckham brand right now and the reports aren't affecting their earning potential, brand collaborations or level of interest in them.

"If anything, it humanises the family a bit," he explains, but he cautions there could be a greater impact on their reputation if the feud escalates or more damaging rumours come to light.

For Mistry Jignesh, 72 hours feel like an eternity.

Since Thursday evening, Mr Jignesh and his family have been doing the rounds of the Civil Hospital in Ahmedabad, trying to find details of his 22-year-old niece - one of the 242 passengers that died in an Air India plane crash earlier that day.

Authorities had been telling him they would return his niece's body in the 72 hours normally required to complete DNA matching - which end on Sunday.

But on Saturday, he was told that it might take longer as officials are still searching for bodies from the site of the crash, he claimed.

"When people are still missing, how can they possibly complete the DNA process by tomorrow? What if my niece's remains have not even been found? The wait is killing us," he said.

Officials have refused to comment on Mr Jignesh's claim, but a fire department officer and a police official told the BBC on the condition of anonymity that a search for remains of the passengers is still under way.

Rajnish Patel, additional superintendent of the Civil Hospital, said on Saturday that 11 victims had been identified so far based on their DNA samples, adding that their families had been informed.

The Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner, which was on its way to London's Gatwick Airport, erupted in a fireball merely seconds after it took off from Ahmedabad's main airport, in what has been India's worst aviation disaster.

Only one of the 242 passengers and crew on board survived. At least eight others were killed as the plane struck the hostel of a medical college when it came down on a densely populated residential area near the airport.

Things have moved swiftly since.

The Indian government has ordered a high-level investigation into the incident and has ordered all Boeing 787s operated by local carriers to be inspected.

While the reason of the crash remains unknown, the country's aviation authority has said it is looking into all possible causes for the accident, also bringing in foreign aviation experts to assist with the inquiry.

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Back at the hospital, doctors are racing to complete the DNA sampling of the victims so that they can start returning bodies to their families.

But for families like Mr Jignesh's, time passes in dragging lulls.

Officials have talked about how the process of identifying bodies has been extremely challenging - and is being carried out in small batches - as most of the remains have been charred beyond recognition.

"There is no scope for mistakes here - we have to ensure that every family receives the right body," said HP Sanghvi, the director of Directorate of Forensic Sciences in Gandhinagar city. "But DNA identification is a time-consuming process. Besides, given the scale of the disaster, there is also a possibility that the DNA of several passengers was damaged due to the extremely high temperature of the blast."

Jaishankar Pillai, a forensic dentist at the hospital, told reporters that his team has been trying to collect dental records from charred bodies, as that might be the only source of DNA left.

The wait has been beyond agonising for the families, many of whom refused to speak to the media, saying they just want to go back home with "whatever is left of their loved ones".

"We are in no condition to say anything. Words fail us right now," a woman, who was waiting with three members of her family outside the autopsy room, told the BBC impatiently, as she quickly slipped into her car.

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Meanwhile, officials at the BJ Medical College have started to vacate several wards of the hostel, near which the plane struck. So far, four wards - including the hostel canteen, the site of the crash - have been completely emptied out.

But students living in other nearby wings of the hostel have also begun to leave.

"In one of the wards, there are just three people left - everyone else has gone back to their homes for now. They will leave soon too, but until then, they are sitting there, all alone, haunted by the memory of what has happened," their friend, who is also a student at the college and wanted to stay anonymous, said.

But between the college and hospital - in the vast expanse of this city of more than seven million people - there are many others who also are reeling from the tragedy.

The last Kartik Kalawadia heard of his brother Mahesh was on Thursday, some 30 minutes before the crash.

It was a phone call Mahesh made to his wife: "I am coming home," he said to her.

She never heard from him again.

A music producer in the Gujarati film industry, Mahesh had been on his way back home from work that day and was crossing the area when the plane hurtled down and crashed into the buildings.

Mr Kalawadia told the BBC that his brother's last location before his phone became unreachable was just a few hundred metres away from BJ Medical college.

The family has since filed a police complaint and has made countless visits to the Civil Hospital. They have found nothing so far.

"The hospital told us they have no record of my brother. We also tried tracing his scooter, but nothing came of that either," Mr Kalawadia said.

"It's like he vanished into thin air."

At a press conference on Saturday, Civil Aviation Secretary SK Sinha admitted that the last two days had been "very hard", but assured the investigation was proceeding smoothly and in the right direction.

But Mr Kalawadia wondered if any of these inquires - into the plane crash, the victims and beyond - would help him find his brother, dead or alive.

"We don't know the answer, but we can hope it's a positive one, I guess," he said.

Back at the Civil Hospital, the wait continues to haunt families.

When the BBC last met Imtiyaz Ali Sayed over Thursday night, he was still in denial that his family - his brother Javed along with his wife and two children - could have died in the crash.

But on Saturday, he seemed closer to "accepting the truth".

"With just a few hours left, we are now trying to decide what will it be: will we bury him here, or in the UK, where his wife's family lives," he said.

"To me, it makes no difference you know?" he continued, "because he's gone, from ashes to dust and back to God."

The homes of two Minnesota state lawmakers have been targeted in shootings early on Saturday morning, CBS News, the BBC's US news partner, reported.

They were the homes of State Senator John Hoffman and Minnesota House Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman, both from the Democratic-Farmer-Labour (DFL) Party, in Champlin and Brooklyn Park, neighbouring cities near Minneapolis.

It is unclear who was shot in the homes or their condition, CBS reported.

Minnesota Governor Tim Walz earlier said "targeted shootings" had taken place.

Brooklyn Park Police Department has issued a shelter-in-place order for a three-mile (4.8 km) radius of Edinburgh Golf Course.

Zach Lindstrom, the mayor of nearby Mounds View, said elected officials had received a "safety alert".

Authorities are warning people in the area not to answer their door for a police officer unless there are two officers together, local outlet Fox 9 reported.

Mayor Lindstrom said on X that he had heard the suspect was someone impersonating an "officer and they haven't been caught".

Walz said on X that authorities are "monitoring the situation closely" and he has activated a State Emergency Operations Center - used for managing disasters or emergencies.