by Glenn Wood
I quickly leapt at the car door and wrenched it open emitting a self-congratulatory 'Gotcha' and scaring the shit out of them as I did so.
As the smoke cleared I saw I’d caught two young, gorgeous female students in mid puff. I’m proud to say their radiant beauty did not distract me from my duty and I hauled their sorry asses off to the station.
One of the reasons I was able to shrug off their sobbing apologies was because of my recent painful loss at the hands of beauty (‘this hat is the property of Constable Wood’).
Back at the station things didn’t go as planned. My new sergeant turned out to be nowhere near the hard bastard I thought he was. In fact he was quite charitable. A quick search of the girls’ car revealed one half smoked joint in the ash tray but nothing more. Taking this, and their tearful contrition into account, the sergeant decided to let them off with a warning.
This was probably the right decision as they weren’t really doing any harm but I was annoyed because I had lost my first drug bust. I also suspected that Sergeant Nelson’s decision had been influenced by their sex. I wonder if he’d have been so lenient if they’d been a couple of young guys. It was hard to tell because, in my opinion, Sergeant Nelson was erratic with his prosecution decisions. On some occasions he let comparatively minor offenders feel the full force of the law while letting others off with a slap on the wrist. I could never figure out which way he would use his discretionary powers. Fair enough, he had many years' front-line policing experience and more instinct in his little finger than I had in my whole body. But it made it tricky for me to work out which way he was going to jump.
In this instance he did make a point of telling me I’d done a good job, even if I had been a touch over-zealous. Still, it was a compliment of sorts and I was taking all the praise I could get.
I realise this particular tale is a small event, in the realm of exciting policing stories but it has relevance in the continuing story of Constable Wood, drug buster extraordinaire.
The next day I received a call to a burglary in a central-city house and what started off as a straightforward missing property report turned into an information goldmine. The woman complainant and I got on well and she decided I was a nice young policeman and she’d like to help my career along. God knows, it needed it, so I sat back and let her chat. It turned out she had been into drugs for a few years and knew some of the key characters in the Palmerston North dope scene. Amazingly enough she was happy to tell me who they were and what they were dealing in. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d stumbled across my first informant.
An hour later I had a notebook full of juicy information about people with names like Spoon, Bong, Horse and Mr Asia. Obviously it wasn’t the Mr Asia, more of a ‘Mr Owns A Small T-Shirt Business At Kuta Beach’, but you’ve got to start somewhere. I thanked my newfound supergrass and rushed back to the station to tell Sergeant Nelson the good news. He was impressed and told me he’d submit a report to the drug squad based on my information. This was cool: the drug squad was full of plain-clothes detectives and they were like gods to me. I thought detectives did the really important police work (boy was I wrong) and they got to wear stylish threads as well. Actually, thinking back, stylish threads is stretching it. In fact most of them had the fashion sense of a Norwegian pop band.
My information caused quite a stir in the drug squad offices. The material led to a number of arrests and combined with my recent car dope bust, meant I very briefly became a star. Later that week a senior sergeant passed me in the corridor and instead of glaring at me with his usual disdain, he actually deigned to speak to me.
'I hear you’ll be joining the drug squad soon, Constable Wood.' he joked. I blushed, giggled inanely and walked into a door frame.
Things had also improved on the home front. I was relishing my new found freedom and was no longer spending every waking moment with Carey. I’d successfully completed a few of my police units and wasn’t studying as hard. This gave me more time for the truly important things in life like drinking beer with my mates and playing space invaders. This didn’t thrill Carey but as I still spent plenty of time at her house (meal times) and professed my undying love for her, she put up with it.
The flat was going well too and for the first time in my life I had enough money. As a baker Sheep also made plenty of dough (sorry, couldn’t resist it) and Michelle the absentee flat mate always paid rent in advance so we became used to a relatively lavish lifestyle. There was always a cold beer in the fridge and we ate well on the rare occasions we were at home. The way Sheep and I lived seemed extravagant to our respective partners and friends, most of whom were impoverished students. Quentin in particular never had any money - though he didn’t really need any, he had me. Whenever we went anywhere he’d leave it till the last moment then look embarrassed and mutter about being temporarily short of funds. I quickly realised that his idea of ‘temporarily’ was the entire time he was at university.
Even though I had plenty of friends in Palmerston North I did miss the camaraderie I’d experienced during my training. I had made some very good friends during my cadet apprenticeship and it was hard being suddenly cut off from them. I kept in touch with a few close mates via the police’s internal computer mail system but corresponding was difficult due to our shift variations and workloads.
One weekend I decided to do something about it. I loaded up my faithful Cortina and headed for Wellington. Most of my friends were billeted at Wellington Central station where they also worked. Perfect. I’d be able to see all my pals again and mooch free accommodation at the police barracks.
Wellington was a two hour drive away and I set off after lunch so I’d arrive at shift change. This would ensure the station was busy and there was a good chance my friends were either just finishing their shift or starting a new one.
I arrived to heavy traffic and as I was unfamiliar with Wellington, I had a hell of a job working out the stupid one-way system. After about half an hour of swearing, steering wheel thumping and one-handed map reading I finally spotted the entrance to the police barracks coming up on my right. I quickly indicated and braked hard as I was nearly past the driveway. It seems I braked a bit too hard because the next thing I knew I was being thrown forward as the vehicle behind me ploughed into the rear of my car. That smash was immediately followed by several more bangs as a row of cars collided with the drivers in front of them.
Excellent, I’d caused a four-car pile-up right outside Wellington Central police station just as the shifts were changing. As I hopped out of my car to examine the damage, I heard a cheer from the side of the road. About a dozen cadets from my wing had seen the collision and when they realised I was the driver of the first car, they fell about hooting with laughter.
“Oh look! Gonzo’s arrived.” cried one of them as he fell backwards off a wall. I tried to point out that I wasn’t technically at fault but the Gonzo legend was too strong and I was teased unmercifully for the entire weekend. Still, it was good to catch up with them, even though they found it hard to believe I was being hailed throughout the district as a super-cop drug-buster. I might have exaggerated a bit.
Surprisingly, my shameless bragging was based on a grain of truth. Back at work I was hot property. In their haste to believe I could be a good policeman, the powers that be decided I should be placed on undercover duty for the upcoming visit of Prince Charles. It is frightening to think that a couple of fluke drug busts could put me in line to protect the future King of England. But there you are.
It didn’t take me long to blot my copybook. It started with a simple question. My sergeant asked me what I thought of the royal family. Not knowing the meaning of the word diplomacy (n., tact, skill, or cunning in dealing with people [from French diplomatie,]) I blurted out that I believed the Queen should be put to work as a tea lady at Butlins Holiday Camp and her estate should be shared amongst the poor (Mr Edgely’s teachings get me in trouble once more). This was the wrong answer. I discovered later that my l
ight hearted reply had been taken seriously and the words 'has communist leanings' were added to my permanent report. I kid you not.
Fortunately I was able to slam the runaway truck that was my police career into reverse and hurriedly explained that no matter what my personal feelings were, I still knew my duty and would protect his royal highness with every fibre of my being.
This was true. I saw this assignment as an opportunity to prove my worth and I was determined to do a good job. Unfortunately, the obstacles ahead of me were enormous. I had nothing to wear.
Dress was smart casual, which was tricky for me. I could do ‘casual’ easily, but ‘smart’ was causing problems. The only formal thing I owned was my police uniform but wearing that would have defeated the purpose of being undercover. I was faced with two options. I could either spend money on a new suit jacket or I could borrow one from Dad. Carey suggested I should opt for the former but spending my hard earned money on clothing went against the grain. Especially since there were so many other cool things to buy. Sheep and I had recently seen a giant bottle of Galliano that we desperately needed to make Golden Dream cocktails with, and of course I had Quentin to support. It looked like a trip to New Plymouth was in order.
Dad was happy to lend me a jacket. He was chuffed at the thought of his suit protecting a member of the royal family. But it was not to be. I had bulked up during training and Dad’s clothes no longer fit. Bummer.
My grandfather was a bit bigger, and Mum suggested I pop around and see if he had anything suitable. I was dubious about this. Pop Goodwin was not exactly a fashion doyenne. Still, it was worth a look and much to my surprise my grandfather had an old tweed sports coat that he never wore. I loved it. Pop Goodwin was English and so was the coat. I think it pre-dated the Second World War. This made it extremely cool and just the sort of thing I believed an undercover cop would wear.
My first hurdle was successfully conquered now all I had to do was hope not to be struck by a sudden attack of Gonzoness during the assignment.
Prince Charles wasn’t actually coming to Palmerston North. Couldn’t say I blamed him. Instead he’d be travelling in a motorcade through Wellington. Our job would be to check the route before he arrived. After that we would discreetly cover the Prince’s car as he went past, keeping our eyes peeled for potential assassins. This was more like it. I’d recently seen a documentary on ‘Carlos the Jackal’ and considered myself well versed in the modus operandi of hit men.
It’d be a brave man who tried to take out Prince Charles while Constable Wood was on protection detail, I can tell you.
It seemed Charlie didn’t share my optimism and had brought a squad of his own bodyguards with him. Bloody cheek. I’d hoped to be part of his personal guard and had half a mind to let him get assassinated for spite, but I was a bigger man than that and would carry out my duty despite this affront.
The Palmerston North squad consisted of six men. The top six I like to think. We were all dressed in our best slacks and sports coats. Mine was considerably more English and therefore much cooler than the others and I was sure I detected a hint of envy from the other officers.
We arrived in Wellington three hours before the drive-through and were given a thorough briefing as to our role in the proceedings before being taken to our section of the route.
Upon arrival a most excellent thing occurred. I was given a big gun. And bullets - real ones. I also received an underarm holster. Hooray, I was packing! Constable Wood had arrived and he was one mean mother. The brass gave us a big lecture, along with the gun, but I switched off after hearing them telling us for about the millionth time to keep a low profile.
Blah, blah, blah, discreet presence, blah, blah, mustn’t panic the public, blah, blah, blah, stay in the background, blah, blah, don’t shoot anyone, blah, blah. Yeah, whatever.
I didn’t need to hear this stuff: I had already assumed the identity of ‘the chameleon’. I was ready to blend into the background until it became time to strike, then without warning ‘Blam, Blam, Blam!’ When the smoke cleared the assassin lay bleeding on the ground, cocked sniper rifle lying beside his sprawled body like an abandoned lover.
'A Victoria Cross, for me? No, I couldn’t possibly accept it. Oh all right then, if you insist.'
I’d have been better off just wishing to get through the assignment without making a complete dick of myself. But no, I was in gung ho mode and threw myself into clearing the route for Prince Charles with considerable vigour.
After going over two side streets with the finest of fine-tooth combs, I turned my attention to the car parks in the surrounding area.
One of the other Palmerston North detectives was with me but he was taking a much more relaxed approach to Charles’s safety. He seemed happy to let me do most of the checking, which was fine by me. But I was worried. No-one had told me what I was supposed to be looking for. Or if they had, I hadn’t been listening.
I assumed any form of explosive device would be bad and should be reported immediately. I hoped I wouldn’t be expected to diffuse anything as I'd been away that day. So far my car searching had uncovered nothing nastier than a couple of nodding dogs and a stick-on Garfield.
Then I came across the mini.
It was parked in a shopping complex with a lot of other vehicles and didn’t immediately look suspicious. But on closer inspection I saw a gun case poking out from under a blanket.
I grabbed the door handle and tried to wrench it open for closer inspection. All hell broke loose as a loud siren began wailing from within the car. I stood there wondering what on earth was going on.
Remember this is the early eighties and car alarms were few and far between, especially in minis.
To be honest it scared the shit out of me.
This was nothing, however, to the fear I experienced when the door of a nearby butcher’s shop flew open and a large heavily tattooed man came running out. Not only was he big and angry and running towards me, but he was also carrying a huge blood splattered machete.
I did what any self-respecting, low-profile, undercover agent would have done in this situation. I pulled my gun on him.
The surprise he’d given me was easily surpassed by the shock he received at seeing a loaded pistol in the hands of what he still thought was a car thief. He stopped dead in his tracks, which was good because I really didn’t want to shoot him. The paperwork would have been horrendous.
I told him I was an undercover cop and asked him, ever so nicely, to drop his machete. He complied and I put my gun away. I’d noticed that my partner had gone a funny colour and was breathing irregularly. This improved after I'd holstered my pistol.
The large butcher got his voice back at about the same time as my partner began breathing again and he politely inquired what the hell was happening.
I took him to his still wailing car and got him to turn off the alarm. Then I asked him to explain why he had a gun in the back seat.
It turned out he was an avid hunter (not surprising given his profession) and had planned to go pig hunting after work. His gun license checked out, as did his story. We gave him a lecture about taking the law into his own, machete-wielding, hands and let him off with a warning.
At least we did once he promised not to say anything about me nearly shooting him. We convinced him that there had been a threat on Prince Charles’s life and we were in a heightened state of alert. He hadn’t even realised Charlie was in town and accepted our story in good grace. We all decided we’d have a jolly good laugh about it later.
As we walked from the scene my partner took me aside for a wee chat. He wasn’t happy about me pulling a gun on an innocent member of the public. I reminded him that the innocent member of the public was running at me with a machete at the time. He conceded I had a point and agreed that the incident should remain our little secret.
If I’d done the sensible thing and kept my head down for the rest of Charlie’s visit I would have come out of the whole affair with only minimal d
amage to my reputation. But I wasn't finished yet. Not by a long chalk.
Instead of dampening my enthusiasm, my run-in with the machete wielding butcher served only to strengthen my resolve. After all, I had found a rifle. Sure, it turned out to have nothing to do with the Prince’s visit, but where there was one…
I renewed my search for potential assassins with an eagerness bordering on fanaticism. I picked through every rubbish bin, looked under every car, and examined every nook and cranny of all the buildings on my sector.
My conscientiousness was too much for my partner, who decided to leave me to it and retired to the other end of the street. I took this as a good sign. He obviously had faith I could handle the assignment on my own. In reality I think he had decided I’d completely lost my mind and didn’t want anything more to do with me.
I made sure my area was bomb and assassin free and then waited for the Prince’s procession to pass by. I reasoned this would be the time when I’d need to be most vigilant so I looked for the best vantage point to oversee my domain.
The royal procession would travel along a typical suburban Wellington street. Both sides of the road were flanked with single and double-storey shops with narrow footpaths in front of them. It was not the easiest territory to negotiate and most of the undercover squad had elected to blend in with the crowds. Not me. I wanted a better perspective of the parade.
I went to the rear of the shops on my side of the street and scrambled up onto a roof. I was on a two-storey building and climbing up was tricky, but I wasn’t deterred, and soon sat, gasping for breath, on the top of the building. This was more like it. By peeping over the edge of a low concrete parapet I could clearly see the road below and was able to keep watch on the large crowd that waited patiently for the Prince to pass.
