Just the Job, Lad

by Mike Pannett

  I don’t know why this was on my mind when I drove in for my night shift. Maybe I’d half heard something on the telly before I came out. Ann had been watching a film set in an American high school as I put my pack-up together in the kitchen. Those places look like jungles to me and kids always seem to be ganging up on each other. Or maybe the memory had just popped into my mind because I was relaxed, well rested after a day spent between the recliner, working on my revision, and the sofa, where I’d had a nice nap mid-afternoon.

  The other thing that was on my mind as I drove down to town was the chat Fordy and I had had with Des and Amanda. I was wondering when we’d get some kind of result from them. That case mattered a great deal to me. As I saw it, the dealers who exploit their young customers are no more than a type of bully anyway – so maybe there was a theme there in the way I responded to this case. But the CID lad didn’t work the same shifts as us, and neither did the crime analyst; they tended to work office hours, and with the weekend coming up it would be a few days before Fordy and I could get together with them and receive an update. So I knew I’d have to be patient.

  It seemed pretty quiet as I came through town – quiet for a Friday, at least – and when I got to the station and met with the late-turn officers at briefing they said they’d had a pretty steady shift so far. Maybe it was the weather; it had been threatening rain all evening and it was still very cool for the time of year. Here we were, halfway through the summer and we really hadn’t had a lot of what you’d call holiday weather yet. It was a real shame for all the schoolkids, mooching around the streets, hoping for a nice day on the beach at Scarborough or Filey. A lot of people had given up hope already, and were talking up the prospects of an Indian summer. As far as I was concerned, though, they were clutching at straws.

  So with not a lot going on in town, we did the usual tour around the time the pubs were turning out, then made our way back to the station. The usual thing on a weekend, if you had time, was to pop back in around midnight before heading back out for the finish-off – the late licences, discos and the like. The plan was to grab a quick drink before you got involved in jobs that could easily tie you up for the rest of the night. We had the full complement on duty, and I’d been paired up with Jayne. I’d been quizzing her about her revision, partly because I genuinely wanted to see her do well, partly because, to put it bluntly, I was worried that she’d outshine me. Either that or she’d beat me to the first sergeant’s vacancy that came up, always assuming that she wanted to remain in the North Yorkshire area. So when she said she was finding it tough going, and was struggling to make time to do all the work, I was, I’ll admit it, slightly relieved. It wasn’t just me finding it hard, then.

  It got to past midnight, and nothing much had happened. I was getting fidgety. Some coppers love it when there’s nothing doing, but I’m one of those who would far rather be busy. Not only does the time drag when you’ve not much on, but, as my grandmother always used to tell us, the devil finds work for idle hands. Which is why I always ended up in the CCTV control room with my cup of tea, looking at the various images that were being beamed in from the cameras around our patch. During the day, or the evening, I’d often wander in and have a chat to our shift operator, Phil. He was a Malton lad, born and bred, and knew a lot of the locals. Sitting with him looking at the TV screens you got a sort of overview of what was going on – at least in Malton and Pickering, which is where the cameras were sited. And you got to see some pretty odd things. Most people are unaware that they’re being filmed, but some are more savvy. So from time to time you’d get a hen party putting on a show for the cameras. It could get . . . interesting, let’s say. Other times you just got a general sense of the mood on a particular evening. You could have an instant overview of how many groups were out, how drunk and rowdy they were, what kind of spirits they were in, even what the weather was like. It may sound daft but the weather has quite an effect on our job. Rain, for example, will – literally – put a damper on the evening and send people scuttling off home early, which is why we refer to PC Rain. So, as I say, I liked to keep an eye on what the cameras were feeding us, and I liked chatting with Phil. He was full of stories about the things he’d seen captured on-screen. He loved to tell about the night he was using the cameras to keep an eye on a drunken man as he staggered along Yorkersgate to the traffic lights and then started weaving his way down towards the station. By carefully twiddling his controls and altering the angle, and switching from one camera to the next, Phil had just about managed to keep the guy in view while he passed on directions to one of the cars coming in from the other side of town. It was all going fine until the drunk went off-camera, somewhere down towards the river, causing a major panic. With cars now approaching the areas from three separate directions, Phil sat there twiddling away like a man possessed. He had a camera down on Railway Street, and after panning it round to its full extent, left and right, he swivelled it downwards. There, right underneath it, was the drunken lad, propped up against the post and sleeping like a baby.

  Spending as much time as I did in Phil’s control room, and being the kind of person I am – namely, someone who cannot resist fiddling with things – I soon learned how things worked. Not only that but I’d got Phil to give me the password to get into the system. He wasn’t strictly supposed to let me have it, but, like a lot of people, he found it was easier to give in to me than to argue. I can be very persistent. Besides, he would usually go home after two o’clock, and as I said to him at the time, it made sense to have someone about the place who could manipulate the cameras. This particular night he hadn’t actually gone off duty but, with Chris Cocks being busy, he’d taken a call from a member of the public and was listening to an apparently endless complaint. I’d grabbed his seat and was flicking idly from one camera to another, through a series of quiet street scenes, when something – or rather someone – caught my eye.

  I spotted a young lad, eighteen or nineteen years old, walking along Wheelgate, one foot in the road, the other on the pavement. I recognised him right away. It was his hair, all long and frizzy, and his build. He was a good six feet tall but I doubt he weighed more than nine and a half stone. I knew him because he lived in Easingwold, and I’d had occasion, a year or two previously, to talk to his parents about underage drinking. He wasn’t a bad lad at all, and had accepted the talking-to in the spirit in which I intended it, since when, as far as I was aware, he’d kept out of trouble. Anyway, here he was, in Malton, obviously drunk, at just gone midnight, which made me curious. I panned the camera and followed him up the road as he made his way towards the bank opposite the Gate Inn. He stopped at the hole in the wall, reached into his hip pocket and took out a card. When someone who’s a bit worse for wear is standing at a cashpoint they can be quite vulnerable, so I swung the camera round to take in a bit more of the street. There, walking along the opposite pavement, were two other lads I recognised.

  In London, as much as I patrolled the streets for ten years and got to know a lot of people, it was quite rare for me to bump into someone I knew. If I did, it was often a case of ‘fancy seeing you here!’ Not only is the population huge, but it’s constantly shifting, and there are always people visiting or passing through. Transient, you might say. Everyone is a stranger, it seems. But in a small town like Malton, and a thinly populated area like Ryedale, it’s different. You get to be on first-name terms with people on your beat. Certain characters, particularly your loudmouths and bullies, they stand out. And they show up time and again, especially at the weekend when they’re fuelled with drink. And that’s precisely what these two characters were, crossing the street now and heading towards the unsuspecting lad from Easingwold.

  One was known as Big John. He was a mechanic of some sort; I think he worked on agricultural machinery. He would be in his late twenties, and he’d got himself a reputation around Malton as something of a hard case. He’d come to notice with monotonous regularity. Time after time you’d go to a fracas ou
tside the Milton Rooms, or one of the pubs, and he’d be among the crowd, pushing and shoving, shouting the odds and puffing out his chest, spoiling for a fight. He was someone who, if you met them in the street and he was stone cold sober, you’d move out of the way and give plenty of room. He gave out a strongly aggressive vibe. And to be fair, he was well made. He had what you’d call a blacksmith’s hands, and huge biceps.

  If Big John was, as his name suggests, on the large side – although a lot of his bulk was due to his intake of beer – his mate, Shaun, was a man mountain. If I say he was close to seven feet tall it’d sound as though I was exaggerating. I’m not. I have had the dubious pleasure of leading him by the hand – well, he had cuffs on at the time, and I was escorting him to the big van – and he made me feel like that seven-stone weakling you used to see in the adverts for Charles Atlas’s bodybuilding courses. Shaun was a woodman, or forester. He was a mate of an individual I’d dubbed Tango Man, who’d got himself arrested on his own stag night a year or so previously and almost missed his wedding. Shaun was not a fighter, as such. Not in the way Big John was. But when he’d had a drink he tended to be a bit mouthy, abusive even. He’d push his luck, but by and large he knew just how far to go. It was rarely enough for you to feel justified in bringing him in, but he was always pushing things as far as he could, keeping you on edge.

  By now the young lad from Easingwold – Will, his name was, had got his cash and was walking, no, weaving his way across to the takeaway. He was clearly well under the influence. And between him and the kebab place were Shaun and Big John. Even as I stood there, leaning over the screen, I felt myself tense up. It was one of those horrible situations where you just knew what was going to happen, but there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it.

  The lad Will staggered to one side of the pavement, and then back again, right into the path of Shaun. As the young lad’s shoulder met Shaun’s midriff, Big John leaned across and eyeballed him. Here we go, I thought. ‘Jayne,’ I shouted, ‘get ready. There’s gonna be trouble here.’

  I hesitated for a moment. Was it going to blow over? Would it be just a bit of argy-bargy? A spot of banter? I could now see Will remonstrating with both of them. He was pointing at them while staggering about. No, I was thinking, don’t try it, lad. Walk away. He had about as much chance as a Jack Russell pup taking on a pair of Rottweilers. I knew Will was going to get hit, but I was quite unprepared for the ferocity of the assault. Jayne came rushing into the room, but we could only stand and watch as Big John swung a giant fist and hit the lad smack in the face, catapulting him across the pavement. He fell flat on his back and lay there, half in the road and quite motionless, while the two hard cases – the two bullies, I should say – strode off as if they’d done nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘Phil, get off the phone, keep an eye on Big John and his mate. He’s just smacked somebody.’ I shouted.

  Then I sent out an active message. ‘Big John Simmonds has just assaulted a youth in Yorkersgate and is now making his way to the marketplace. We’re going to need an ambulance and someone to back up. Show me dealing.’

  ‘All received Mike, can I have a unit to back up?’

  Ed came straight in, ‘Yes, control, show me and Fordy backing up.’

  ‘Received. For information just getting on to ambulance control now.’

  In the corridor Ed was dashing out with Fordy. ‘C’mon,’ I said, ‘it might take four of us to square these two up.’

  Jayne and I got into our car, put on the blue lights, raced down to the traffic lights and crossed into Yorkersgate. We were just pulling up at the takeaway when we got the message from Phil on the CCTV.

  ‘Ambulance just coming down Commercial Street, Mike. Be with you in two minutes. Big John and his mate are still in the marketplace.’

  ‘Thanks Phil, We’re just going to check on the casualty then we’re going to get hold of them.’

  Young Will had been moved out of the gutter and was now sitting against the wall of the kebab place with three or four youths standing over him. As we approached him I could see that he was conscious, but looking very groggy. Behind us Fordy and Ed got out of their car and set about moving the onlookers out of the way.

  ‘Christ.’ Jayne was as shocked as I was at the state of Will’s face. His nose looked all out of alignment, and was spilling blood down his mouth and onto his T-shirt. Both his lips were split. I slipped a pair of plastic gloves on and gently moved his lips to check on the extent of the damage. I could see that his two front teeth were literally hanging out. He was in a right mess; this was a serious assault. The lad was barely conscious and needed to be taken to hospital as soon as possible. I was very relieved to hear the ambulance approaching from the direction of the train station.

  ‘Right,’ I said to Jayne as the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. ‘Let’s go and round up Big John.’

  ‘We’d better come with you,’ Ed said. He’d got names and addresses from the witnesses and would sort out the statements later.

  Jayne and I got in the car and drove towards the marketplace. ‘This sort of thing makes me angry,’ I said. ‘We need to bring this Big John character in.’

  ‘Yeah we do,’ she said.

  ‘The guy’s a thug and a bully. I doubt he’ll come quietly.’

  When you witness something that affects your emotions and floods your system with adrenaline the way this assault had, that’s when you really have to be on your mettle. The challenge is to maintain a professional approach and not let your feelings take over. At the same time, you know someone like Big John will attack you as soon as look at you. You have to be prepared to get in quick and restrain him before he gets any ideas.

  ‘Malton control to 1015, over.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Suspect heading across the marketplace towards the Royal Oak, over.’

  ‘Yeah, received. About a minute away. Stand by.’

  ‘I mean, there’s no bloody need for it, is there?’ I said to Jayne as I swung into the marketplace. ‘Poor lad, probably on his way home and taking out a few quid for some supper and he ends up in hospital. Yes, he’s had a drink and he decided to stand his ground, but they knew he was no threat. No threat whatsoever. You didn’t see it, but I’m telling you he could’ve killed him, a blow like that. Specially if he’d hit his head on the pavement.’

  ‘Yeah, but the good thing is, it’s all recorded on CCTV.’

  ‘True.’ We were outside the Royal Oak now. The two men were crossing the road right in front of us and making their way across the car park. ‘Here we go. Jayne. Let’s not go wading in; keep them at a distance.’ I swung the car around them, then pulled up just in front of them and got out.

  I didn’t wait for them to speak. I got straight to the point. ‘John,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to tell you that I just witnessed you assault somebody in Yorkersgate outside the takeaway. Just stay where you are and stand still.’

  He took half a step back, then stepped forward, staring me right in the eye. ‘What the f*** you on about?’

  ‘I’m telling you now, I saw it happen. You are under arrest for assault.’ I could immediately see him tense up and clench his fists. ‘No, no way are you f***ing arresting me,’ he snarled.

  At the back of my mind I was remembering a conversation I’d had with Thommo about Big John. ‘Whatever you do Mike, don’t CS gas him, because it doesnae work. It just enrages him.’ Strange as it may seem, some people do seem to have a tolerance to CS gas, and in my experience I’d say it tends to be people with some kind of inner strength – or mental-health issues. I was looking at Big John, wondering what was the best approach here, when, just for a second, he was distracted as Ed and Fordy’s car pulled up behind him. He had a quick look over his shoulder, then turned back towards me and started coming my way.

  It’s in situations like this that I’m glad of the experience I gained in the TSG. Over the years I have faced everything from rampaging football fans to m
ajor-league pub free-for-alls and full-scale riots in Trafalgar Square. And you don’t come through that lot without picking up a few tricks. When you’re dealing with someone twice your size you have to summon up every ounce of strength you possess, and one way of doing that, I’ve found, is to remind yourself that you’re going to get just one chance – and it has to work. I looked at Big John and told myself, he’s coming in. End of story. Crouching low on one knee, I drew my right leg back, took aim, and let fly, scything my way through Big John’s legs.

  I gave it everything I had, and more. Down he went, a look of utter shock on his face as he hit the ground. In an instant Jayne was on his back, pressing his face into the pavement with her knee. As he scrabbled at the ground to try and heave her off, young Fordy landed on the back of his legs.

  ‘Shaun, mate, where are you?’ Big John was struggling for breath. I looked up and saw his mate coming towards me, his arms spread wide as if he planned to wrap them around me. I cracked my Asp open, and held it back over my shoulder in a strike position ‘Keep back, or you’re coming in too!’ I shouted. That was enough to change his mind. I’d dealt with him before in similar situations. He was all mouth until it came to actual confrontation.