Good Cop, Bad War

by Neil Woods

  But while it was a relief to finally find a role, I still didn’t fit into the brash, abrasive culture at Derby. As my probation period drew to a close, I knew I would squeak through with the bosses, but I wasn’t sure I even wanted the job. So, when I happened to spot an ad for a position in Glossop, North Derbyshire, on the station noticeboard, I told myself I would apply and give it a go in another setting. If I didn’t get the position, I would quit.

  My acceptance letter from Glossop arrived the same day as the news that I had passed my probation. I folded the letter and stuck it in my pocket with a sigh. It looked like I was still a cop.

  CHAPTER 3

  GLOSSOP

  I REPORTED FOR duty on my first 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift, and found myself thrown straight into a murder inquiry. Someone had been beaten to death outside a rough pub in Hadfield, the neighbouring town.

  As the new guy, I was given the job of guarding the crime scene. On any investigation, anyone who enters or leaves the scene must be meticulously logged and follow a very specific path so as not to interfere with forensics. Any tiny mistake and a defence lawyer can have a field day in court tearing apart your laboriously collected evidence.

  So, I stood there all day with a clipboard, marking when the specialist units came and went. It’s a necessary and important role, but also generally acknowledged as the most boring job in British policing.

  But it did give me the opportunity to observe my new department at work. I was blown away. The entire squad acted with painstaking professionalism and attention to detail. To be fair, the guys at Derby would probably have got the job done too, but with the Glossop team there was never a hint of cynicism or arrogance. Questions would come up and I’d instinctively cringe, waiting for someone to crack the inevitable crass one-liner, but it never came. In fact, the team at Glossop conducted themselves with more than just professionalism – they acted with actual care.

  This was how I’d imagined police work when I had signed up at nineteen. People were thinking things out, building a timeline of the incident and putting together a suspect profile – all while taking care of some quite traumatised witnesses.

  Over the following few weeks my impressions of the Glossop team only multiplied. They quickly tracked and arrested the pub murderer, and consistently showed themselves to be brilliant, principled, hard-working people who cared deeply about the job. For the first time in my life I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.

  Two weeks into my reassignment to Glossop, I was sent out on my first solo foot patrol. It was a busy Saturday night as I paced the town in my clumpy regulation shoes and one of the awful, sweaty rubber macs they made us wear in those days.

  Completely by chance, I turned down an alley behind the local club at exactly the right moment to see some big lug raise a brick and smash it through the back window. There was a moment of silence as our eyes locked. I looked at him, he looked at me. Then he turned and ran.

  I heard myself shout, ‘Stop! Police!’

  Of course he didn’t stop. No one ever does. I had one split-second of self-awareness to think, ‘Oh God, did I actually just say that?’ before sprinting off in pursuit.

  We raced round the corner and down another alley, before he realised he wasn’t getting away. He turned and swung at me. I ducked, taking the blow on my helmet. Then, acting completely on instinct, I sidestepped left, threw my hip into his and slammed him hard onto the ground, exactly as I had been trained. Before I even realised what I was doing, I was snapping on the handcuffs and reading him his rights.

  This was an important moment for me. When I threw that big guy to the floor, I had felt a little surge of adrenaline, but no panic. In fact, I had felt weirdly calm, as if the world had suddenly slowed down. It was a big step for me to realise that not only could I keep my cool in stressful situations, but that a cop can apply serious force both ethically and intelligently.

  Not only could I do this job, I could do it well.

  From that moment I was making arrests of hostile suspects left, right and centre. It actually got to the point where my sergeant had to tell me to cool off. One Saturday night in town I made four arrests, two for common assault and two for criminal damage. In each incident people had been injured, and these arrests were absolutely necessary. But, on the Monday morning, Sergeant Hanford approached my desk. ‘Woods, my office please.’

  I instinctively cringed, remembering the dressing-downs I had received in Derby.

  ‘So, Woods, these four arrests you made on Saturday evening?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘You really can’t muck about like that, you know.’

  ‘But sir, those were serious crimes in progress.’

  ‘Listen Woods, I know you trained in Derby but that’s a big city. If a situation escalates, backup can be there in minutes. Things are different here. Where you were the other night, no one would have been able to reach you. You need to think ahead in these situations, Woods… we don’t do your big-city ways around here.’

  He raised his eyebrows to inject a little humour; I think we both knew it was odd I was getting told off for doing the job too well. But he was absolutely right, and it was another reminder that good police work isn’t about rushing in and bashing heads, it’s about thinking ahead and maintaining absolute tactical discipline.

  But, sergeants are nothing if not competitive. My record of arrests made my superiors look good. So, despite his admonitions, Hanford made sure I was rewarded. He recommended me for the Advanced Driving Course. In those days courses and specialised training were often given out to reward outstanding work. It’s an excellent way to incentivise people and expand their skills. Unfortunately, cuts have now made this impossible. Courses are now only offered to officers who will definitely need them, so Traffic Division might get on the Advanced Driving Course, but it would generally be off-limits to regular PCs.

  This is a shame because that course was a godsend for me. It meant I could step up and start manning the Rapid Response car, a whole new education in high-intensity police work. Jez Radway, the officer generally responsible for the Rapid Response car, was one of the most intelligent and principled people I met during my entire time on the force, and became a real mentor. It was Jez who took me aside one day and mentioned that if I wanted to apply for a placement with the Drugs Squad, he would write in support of my application.

  This was huge.

  Throughout the 1990s Britain was awash with narcotics. The fall of the Berlin Wall and opening of the Eastern Bloc had created a heroin superhighway from Central Asia. Crack had exploded out of the American ghetto and begun squeezing the life out of our own inner cities. Meanwhile, the ascendancy of dance music and the rave scene meant that MDMA, amphetamine and cannabis were the fuel that kept the engine of youth culture running.

  This led to massive political pressure on police forces to crack down on the drugs trade. And that meant bigger budgets for Drugs Squads all over the country. A force’s Drugs Squad, or DS, were always the guys with the best kit, the flashiest cars and the most experienced detectives. It was where any smart, ambitious young cop wanted to be. But most would have to wait years. Getting the tap was obviously a gesture of approval from the higher-ups – and I jumped at the chance to prove myself.

  The initial reception was a little disappointing.

  The officers on the Drugs Squad absolutely hated these month-long attachments. This was a tight-knit group of experienced detectives, involved in long, complex investigations. For them, being sent a new regular PC just meant another bumbling plod they had to babysit.

  So, I spent my first morning the same way as every single other officer on attachment – they took me out to the car park to show me their radio communications kit, then all had a good laugh when I stuck my finger in my ear as if I was in some Hollywood movie. This is a classic newbie error. Obviously, if you’re undertaking surveillance, the last thing you do is walk around with your finger in your ear like a cartoon spook. The equi
pment works just fine on its own; the finger-in-the-ear routine was just cooked up by film-makers because it looks cool onscreen.

  By now I had learned to expect a ribbing from the more experienced cops, and took it with a laugh. That afternoon though, everything became extremely serious, as I got my first taste of the DS at work.

  Intelligence had come in that a high-profile dealer was going to be shifting several kilos of cocaine that afternoon. After some discussion, the decision was made not to interrupt the move, but to simply observe and gather what info we could about his operation. This would be a full-surveillance deployment, which meant a convoy of five cars, out for six hours, with an outrider on a motorbike to cover any emergency gaps in visibility.

  Covert surveillance is a fine art, and these guys were masters. We acquired our target, and with complex, split-second coordination, one car flawlessly made way for another in convoy, so as not to alert him he was being followed.

  ‘Alpha 3 with the visual on West Green Avenue. We’ll pursue till next set of lights, then hand over. Can we get someone in position please?’

  ‘Roger that. Alpha 1 in position, ready for takeover at lights.’

  ‘Alpha 2 here. We’ve got the eyeball. Target indicating left, we’re going to have to overshoot. Backup from Alpha Bike please.’

  ‘Alpha Bike ready.’

  These guys would speed to 140mph just to be able to take their next position, all while planning several steps ahead like chess masters. I was in awe. This wasn’t locking up drunken idiots on the street; this was dynamic, highly targeted, intelligence-led police work.

  Then we ran into trouble.

  Our target pulled over, ditched his car and walked into a council estate. There was no way in by road, and we had lost our line of sight.

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Rob, one of the experienced detectives up front. ‘There could be any number of exits from that bloody estate, and we’ve got no idea what he’s even doing in there.’

  ‘I’ll go in.’ I didn’t hesitate for a second.

  Rob snapped his head round sharply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll go in on foot, see where he goes and where the exits are… don’t worry, I can do it.’

  The two detectives exchanged a glance, then Rob just shrugged. ‘Well, go on then, what are you waiting for?’

  I leapt out of the car, then slowed my walk and hunched my shoulders as if trying to keep off the cold. I turned the corner into the estate just in time to see our target entering a house on the right. I walked by slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground, but making a note of the house number. I radioed the team under my breath: ‘This is Alpha Foot. Suspect has entered house number 47. The only exits are Alpha 2’s current position, and directly opposite. Move one car there and we’ll have him pinned. I’ll maintain current position in case he leaves on foot.’

  ‘Roger that, Alpha Foot,’ came the reply in my earpiece, ‘good work.’

  The rest of the operation went smoothly. We picked him up as he left the estate, now carrying two large sports bags, and followed him to his drop-off point. That deployment yielded a lot of valuable intelligence, especially about house number 47, which turned out to be the hub of a significant local cocaine network.

  It also won me some grudging respect from the DS team, and over my month-long attachment they used me as their foot guy several more times. I was young and fresh-faced enough that no dealer would ever take me for an experienced DS detective. I also had an eye for detail and an ability to blend into my surroundings. I was slowly discovering a talent for surveillance work.

  But what most fascinated me was how the Drugs Squad would use informants to build a picture of how the narco trade operated in a particular area. They would pick someone up on a minor possession charge, then offer to ‘not write it up’ if they became a regular source of usable intelligence. Occasionally they would even throw in a bit of money. It was amazing how quickly they were able to compile and analyse their data in order to map how the supply networks operated.

  This was where I found my place – the same instincts that made me effective in interviewing suspects also helped me in recruiting informants. A lot of these guys were types who were more into music than football, and I was sometimes able to talk to them on more of a level than even the other DS detectives.

  It was a point of pride for the Drugs Squad that they only went after high-level gangsters and organised crime groups – or OCGs as they called them. Each of these guys was a veteran copper, with stories of major busts, gunfights and taking down heavy gangsters.

  Rob, in particular was an amazing guy. Officers are usually limited to five years in any specialist team. The bosses say this is to deal with stress and fatigue, but it has as much to do with preventing corruption. Rob was so talented, however, they’d given him a second tour of duty.

  Soon enough my attachment ended and I was rotated back into regular uniformed police work; it was a major comedown. But a couple of months later, Rob popped in and sat across my desk.

  ‘Listen, Neil, do you fancy coming back and doing some more work with the DS?’

  I tried to contain my excitement. ‘Well yeah, certainly. But it’ll be difficult to square with the bosses. I’ve done an attachment already.’

  ‘All right, look – apply again, but do it through Sergeant Kotchie, not Hanford. I’ll have a word and fix the paperwork so it goes through.’ I didn’t need to be asked twice.

  What I didn’t know was that the DS already had a plan for me. A few days into my new deployment Rob turned and very casually dropped a question that would change the entire course of my life. ‘So, Neil, don’t suppose you fancy trying your hand at doing some buying, do you?’

  Undercover operations were still very new, and rarely employed, in British narcotics enforcement. The Derbyshire DS had only used the tactic once or twice, but had scored a major success the previous year when an officer named Webby had made a splash in the local paper after busting a high-level crack dealer.

  There was increasing political pressure at the time on all forces to stamp down on crack in particular. Not a week went by without some story in the press about the horrors of the drug, often with more than a hint of racial bias. The politicians needed to be seen to be ‘doing something’, and they spun that pressure onto the police.

  For whatever reason, I was the guy they turned to. I agreed without a second thought. My experiences with the Drugs Squad were the best I’d had so far on the force and I wanted in.

  The target was a known local hard-man named Danny Anderson. He had a constant stream of sketchy people coming and going from his house, so we set up an observation point with a video recorder across the street and off I went. That was it. There was no training, or even advice. It was just, ‘All right Neil, here’s twenty quid, go buy some crack… Don’t let on you’re a copper, and find out what you can.’

  Adrenaline makes me calm. It slows everything down. When I walked up to the shabby red-brick house I felt in absolute control. I was also young and stupid, and had no idea how dangerous what I was doing really was. Sometimes ignorance can be a powerful weapon.

  I rang the bell and a young guy answered, wearing torn jeans and a wife-beater vest.

  ‘Uhh hi,’ I began sheepishly, ‘is Danny about?’

  ‘What you want? Who are you?’ the guy snapped aggressively.

  This threw me. I was so unprepared I hadn’t even worked out a cover story. I just froze. For a moment I was in real trouble. The young guy just peered at me curiously. ‘You a student or something?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m a student, yeah.’ I shuffled and looked at the ground self-consciously, relief flooding through me.

  I managed to steal a glance into the house. There was a woman glowering at me from the darkness. She must have been about thirty years old, wearing a stained tracksuit, with a wild-eyed expression and missing half her teeth.

  The young guy looked me up and down once more, then said, ‘Wait here,�
� and slammed the door. I kicked my heels for a few seconds, not really knowing what to do with myself. Then the door swung open again. There was Danny Anderson, a big West Indian guy with long dreadlocks, also wearing a wife-beater. The toothless woman was still hovering in the hallway, glaring out. ‘You dis student, den? You wantin’ a ting, bwah?’ Danny asked in a thick Jamaican patois.

  ‘Yeah… a “ting”, yeah,’ I repeated, almost under my breath.

  He paused and gave me the once-over. ‘Right, come over ’ere den.’

  Danny led me across the street into an alley. Then he turned towards me and opened his hand to reveal eight small paper twists. ‘Go on, den.’

  I took one of the twists, and on instinct began to unwrap it to have a look. ‘Oi there’s nowt wrong wi’ dat,’ Anderson snapped, as if genuinely offended that I would doubt his product. I hurriedly stuffed it in my pocket, handed him the twenty quid and turned to go.

  Following the plan, I walked straight back to the police station to get the evidence to our drugs lab. That’s how naïve and amateurish those early operations were. There is no way an undercover operation should be run from an actual police station – in fact, it’s completely insane. All it takes is the wrong person to walk by and spot you coming or going, and you’re a dead man.

  But on that day, I strolled back quite pleased with myself. Rick ‘Johnno’ Johnson, who had been manning the observation point, was out of breath, having sprinted to get back before me to show off the video. Seeing how nonchalant I was, Johnno gave me a slap on the back. ‘Look at this guy – it’s like he’s just been out to get the fucking papers.’ The entire squad crowded around to congratulate me. It was a big moment.

  The next time out though, things got a little more complicated…

  The door swung open to reveal the woman with the missing teeth. She glared out at me with a twitchy, wired expression in her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Is Danny about?’ I muttered, trying not to stare at her gums as she slobbered and gurned.