He and the four others battled their way down the ramp through the thicket of angry supporters, and ran off the bridge towards the group hurling the rocks. There was not much five police officers could do but draw their batons, snarl, shout and run like hell towards the mob. This was all or nothing; if the crowd fought back Darren and his mates would be toast.
But their battle cry, their controlled aggression and the cowardice of the antagonists resulted in the group scattering like scared children into the darkness.
When they returned to the station, the train company and police had done their best to evacuate the crowds onto trains heading to Brighton city centre. We, of course, had a welcoming party there for them.
As the fans alighted at the main Brighton railway station, they were poured into yet another cauldron of fury. Thankfully, all the pubs had followed our advice and closed early, meaning that at least they could not further fuel the hatred, but this gave both sides just one focus.
We were prepared for one last confrontation, and we were not to be disappointed. As the trains spilled the fans onto the platforms, the majority had to dash to make their connections but for some the presence of their adversaries proved too tempting.
Despite the proximity of electrified rails and hundreds of tons of rolling stock, the rivals clashed once more. It was only kicking, punching and spitting, but these people, who tomorrow would be back behind their desks – we once famously ejected a City of London hedge fund manager from the Amex for disorderly conduct – became mindless morons again. We quickly crushed this and with tremendous courage separated the fighting fans.
Soon the city returned to normality but I had to contend with the post mortems in the press and from my bosses over the following days. All were reasonably satisfied, despite the idiocy we had to control.
I was blessed with supportive leadership throughout my command at Brighton and Hove. Having a Chief Constable who was an avid sports fan certainly helped this time round, but all my bosses honoured the trust they had placed in me. Grace’s experience is varied but I saw many similarities between his interaction with ACC Rigg when being briefed on an impending arrest in Dead Like You and the discussions I was accustomed to. His boss, through the simple use of the word ‘we’, affirmed to Grace that if things went wrong he would not be hung out to dry alone. Such was the backing I was lucky to receive.
Future matches between the two clubs have remained hate-filled and characterized by tribal stupidity, but it seems the fans burned themselves out that day and the levels of disorder we saw then have not been repeated since.
Much of the credit for that goes to Darren Balkham and his counterparts in London. They worked tirelessly behind the scenes to demonstrate to the fans that their lawless behaviour would not be tolerated and, to a degree, the fans have listened. Time will tell if that remains the case.
18: BATTLE OF RIGHTS
It doesn’t take much to trigger a riot. A determined crowd with a subversive element mixed with aggressive policing is an almost guaranteed recipe for disorder.
In some cases, such as the UK riots of 2011 where towns and cities across the country burned and shops and warehouses were looted by rampaging mobs, the police can be caught off-guard by a mob so intent on creating mayhem and so huge in number that, despite everything, they become overwhelmed and the trouble spreads like a plague. In others, anarchy can be sparked by the two sides, police and protestors, refusing or not knowing how to communicate across the divide.
There are dozens of theories why Brighton is one of the most politically active cities in the UK. Some say it’s the two universities, others its proximity to London. But whatever it is, as a cop balancing people’s rights to protest while preventing looting, arson and chaos is one of the biggest challenges of policing this unique place.
Being a detective, like Roy Grace, for most of my service, I spent much of the 1990s observing the pitched battles between groups such as Reclaim the Streets and the police from a distance. Occasionally picking up an investigation into a group of protestors who had been arrested for violent disorder was about as close as I came to the action. I had actually trained as a public order officer early on, but that came slightly too late for the 1984 miners’ strike and my move to CID robbed me of the chance to police the live animal export protests at Shoreham Harbour, ten years later.
However, you make your choices in life and for me the day-to-day buzz I felt catching some seriously bad people eclipsed the occasional adrenaline rush of standing on a riot line. Little did I know that in the twilight of my career I would command hundreds of officers keeping the peace at anti-war protests, student demos and major football matches.
I knew when I was promoted to Superintendent at Brighton some retraining would become necessary. Every year, Sussex – second only to London – would typically have over thirty large protest events, the vast majority being on my patch. Someone needed to take command of those and now, in my shiny new uniform, much of it fell to me.
I was up for it. It was like a rebirth; something new to immerse myself in. The thrill of planning and running a major public order incident is about as good as it gets for senior officers. The ambiguity of intelligence, limited resources, the eyes of the public firmly upon you; it is decision-making at its most critical.
Even now, I miss sitting in my office on a Saturday afternoon, advisors around me, overseeing an unfolding protest that, despite all the preparation, was teetering precariously between rowdy and riot. I loved being forced to make knife-edge choices based on every ounce of my training, experience and the trust in those around me. I knew whatever I ordered, however, would result in backlash from one quarter or another.
Too much force and the protestors and certain politicians would cry foul, too little and business owners, other politicians and residents would accuse me of running scared. The rights of the protestors inevitably conflicted with the rights of everyone else; I had to walk a thread-like tightrope.
These dilemmas were against the backdrop of the widespread criticism the Metropolitan Police experienced following the 2009 G20 protests. Some sections of the press had unhelpfully induced the public to think that public order policing was rooted in a philosophy of stifling free speech.
That is not to say there were not some dreadful things that happened in London over those few days; the death of bystander Ian Tomlinson being the worst. However, most officers aren’t looking for a fight – they just want to keep the peace and their mind, body and job intact.
There was acute nervousness at the top of our organization. Roy Grace spends a huge amount of time briefing and reassuring the Chief Constable or his ACCs that he has a strong grip on his investigations. His first encounter with his new boss ACC Peter Rigg, soon after his team picked up the investigation into the rape of Nicola Taylor in Dead Like You, presented him with a dilemma I was often faced with: provide them with platitudes or the warts-and-all truth.
As a Gold commander of any incident, you are the person in charge; the buck stops with you. However, the Chief Officers have a right to know what you are doing. I took this responsibility as seriously as Grace does. It could be easier to tell the bosses what you thought they wanted to hear but, like Roy, I never did that. Of course it was necessary to tune into their wavelength and talk about the things that would rightly concern them rather than the minutiae. But sugaring the pill to make things appear better than they were will always come back to haunt you.
By the time I had taken on the role of Divisional Commander at Brighton and Hove in 2009, the conflict between Israel and Palestine was flaring up, austerity was starting to bite and immigration rarely left the front pages. Amid all the cuts, this was a time of growth for public order policing.
Added to this was the rise of alternative politics, nowhere more so than in Brighton and Hove. Not only did part of the city elect the UK’s first Green MP, Caroline Lucas – for whom I have the most tremendous respect – but also its first Green-led council. The legiti
macy of protest as a form of political engagement was burgeoning.
On a simple public order operation most of the work of the Gold commander is before the event. During the hours of meetings with the Silver commander I would set out exactly what I wanted the police to achieve. Then we would go about choosing the right people for the key Bronze roles, working out how many officers we needed in all the disciplines, consulting with the affected communities and agreeing a detailed yet flexible plan. It’s actually more complicated than that but you hope, on the day, that with a fair wind it will all go like clockwork and, other than checking in at regular intervals, you can crack on with other matters.
However, it became very clear late one wintry Wednesday afternoon in 2010 that I was about to truly earn my money. Having planned the policing for what was billed as a peaceful protest through the city centre, I decided that as the operation was running smoothly I could chair the weekly Divisional Command Team meeting.
We were just debating where we would take the next round of savings from when a normally demure inspector burst in and spluttered, ‘Er, Mr Bartlett. I’ve been monitoring the radio. I think you’d better go up to the Silver control room, it’s all kicking off out there.’
In a reflex response I crashed my chair back and ran towards the nerve centre, watched by my envious colleagues, who all wanted a piece of the action.
As I dashed up the two flights of stairs, a plethora of possible disasters raced around my mind. Any hope of sliding off early today had been well and truly dashed.
We were policing a protest by students and others, following the recent announcement that university tuition fees were to treble. I knew that many local school children had decided to join the demonstration.
As I reached the Silver Suite, I burst through the doors and glanced at the same bank of CCTV screens that Grace relied so heavily on as he frantically tried to locate Red Westwood in Want You Dead. I could see a line of anxious-looking police officers stretched out along the Churchill Square shop fronts facing a hostile crowd.
I sensed a tension in the room, heightened by my presence. Clearly the inspector who had summoned me, in the style of You Are Dead’s Andy ‘Panicking’ Anakin, was not acting under anyone’s direction.
Public Order Tactical Advisors are the Regimental Sergeant Majors in any operation. Massively experienced and politely assertive they are invariably larger than life. While they make no decisions themselves, only a fool ignores their guidance. One of the most inspiring of these was PC Jonny Reade, who was working for the Silver commander, Jane Derrick, that day.
As an ex-Army officer, Jonny knew how the rank structure worked. He respected those who made courageous decisions, especially if they sought his counsel beforehand. He knew that promotion does not bring with it absolute knowledge and that the best leaders know whom to consult, and when. His military training gave him mastery in making his succinct advice, delivered beautifully in received pronunciation, sound like orders.
His vast form blocked my path as I tried to venture further in.
‘Sir, I am just wondering whether this is the optimum place for you to exercise effective strategic command at this very moment?’ he eloquently suggested.
Before I could argue, with a broad grin he clarified, ‘In other words, would you mind just fucking off for a few moments? Just a few, you understand. Silver and I will pop next door to see you just as soon as we have resolved a few issues.’
Before I could argue he held the door open for me and said, ‘Thank you so much, sir, I knew you would understand.’
Now that might seem odd, but Jonny was right. When all hell is breaking loose, it is the job of Silver to sort it out. Gold, the strategic commander, can do more harm than good. He or she can confuse the command structure, their presence can distract Silver’s urgent decision-making and they may be tempted to meddle. The place of Gold is at one step removed. In these circumstances Gold must let the dust settle, if only for a moment, and then bring everyone together to reassess the plan.
I quietly resolved to give them just five minutes to sort themselves out as I waited in the poky anteroom next door. It took no longer than three.
‘Right, sorry about that, Graham,’ said Jane Derrick as she and Jonny joined me. ‘You caught us just as we were reorganizing the troops to deal with some breakaway groups who tried to storm the shops in Churchill Square. I’m concerned too that there are so many kids in the crowds, they are putting themselves at risk.’
I asked Jane to run through what had happened and whether she had the right resources and specialist tactics available. I grilled her to make sure she still had control and was going to get the result I wanted.
‘It’s very stretched out there. We are being pulled in all sorts of directions. I’ve got some knackered Police Support Units (PSUs) and there are hours of work yet to do. Anarchists have infiltrated the march so we need to isolate them and try to persuade the kids to go home. All that, while we allow the rest of the protestors to continue peacefully as is their right.’
As she said that, there was a sharp rap on the door. ‘Ma’am,’ said a PC. ‘You are needed back in the room. The anarchists are making their way to the police station. Word is they are going to try to storm it.’
‘Shit,’ we all said in unison. All three of us, Jane, Jonny and I dashed back to the suite.
‘Before you say anything, Jonny, I’m coming in so don’t waste your breath.’ I sensed that this was one of the times when Silver would want me at her shoulder to give her the green light for some of our heavier tactics. ‘Right, Jane. Tell me what you need,’ I said.
‘I want every available officer outside the police station under the direction of an inspector. I want an extra two PSUs from around the force here ASAP,’ she replied.
It was a no-brainer to agree to her request, but easier said than done. However, when I saw one of the radio controllers, PC Nick Andrews-Faulkner, get up from his chair I knew the spirit of being all in this together was alive and kicking.
‘I’ve arranged a civilian replacement from next door. I’m going out to protect the building,’ he announced as he departed to don his protective uniform.
I could hear the orders being echoed through phone calls, radio messages and loudspeaker announcements, all directing any available cops out onto the street.
Soon, the few remaining officers left in the police station had taken up posts at every entrance and exit. Some were more prepared than others. While there were those in the correct uniform, many of the detectives were ill-equipped for battle, but no less eager for it.
Stiletto heels and woolly jumpers were unlikely to withstand the rigours of combat but the officers were trained – albeit some years ago – and no-one was coming into their station uninvited.
We knew we were up against it. Radio operators were snapping Jane’s orders out to those on the ground, external windows and doors were locked, CCTV was fixed on the front and rear of the nick. It was unthinkable that anyone should breach our stronghold. It would also wipe out radio control to half of the force.
As a background to the frantic radio transmissions, through the closed windows I could hear a rumbling crescendo of roaring and chanting.
‘Kill, kill, kill the Bill’ suggested that these black-clad and masked activists had no interest in the rise in tuition fees. They only wanted to fight the police and destroy the city.
In no time the crowds surged into John Street and started to build outside the police station. The chanting from the baying mob was angry and urgent. Our mishmash of willing staff could not hold out for long; they needed reinforcements.
I had authorized Operation Spearhead, the force mobilization plan, and I knew we had fifty extra officers due with us imminently. They couldn’t arrive soon enough.
The atmosphere in the control room was intense. The safety of the public and our officers rested squarely on the decisions we would take. It was much, much tougher out there on the streets, but the responsibilit
y we bore to make the right choices at the right time was massive. Sussex Police does not have its own horses, we have to buy them in, and baton rounds and tear gas have yet to be used on the mainland. We only had what we had: highly trained, variably equipped and phenomenally dedicated officers.
As we tried to convince the desperate staff guarding the station that help was on its way, I heard from the street the distinctive cry of one of my old duty inspectors, Nathan Evans. Now in a training role at HQ, he never let an opportunity to come back to the city for some action pass him by. His distinctive Welsh holler signalled that the cavalry had arrived.
It was hard to work out what orders he was bellowing from three floors up, but the fact that they were followed by the yells of a terrified mob fleeing along John Street meant they were clearly working. He had corralled the willing detectives and controllers, augmented them with fresh troops from the far-flung corners of the county and gelled them into a formidable band who proved too strong for those who presumptuously thought they could overrun us.
In the nick of time we had reasserted our control of the police station. Now we could get back to singling out the troublemakers and allowing those peacefully protesting to do just that.
After considerable discussion, I agreed with Jane’s request that we should employ what was, at that time, the most controversial tactic available. We were going to contain the anarchists.
The Metropolitan Police had recently been berated for this ‘kettling’ but, properly used, it is a very effective non-violent way of suppressing disorder. I knew I would spend the next days justifying this to a scandal-hungry media, but I had a community and dozens of cops to protect.
With our strengthened numbers, we were able to isolate the anarchists and identify the ringleaders. We ensured that we found out exactly who the hard core were and gauged whether they should be arrested for any previous offences before letting the innocent go, one by one. We might want to talk to them later when we started to trawl the CCTV, so collating their names and addresses before letting them trickle out was essential.
Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton Page 28
