by R J Holligan
“I met you in fucking Custody, I’m not here for the wine and roses, I think you’re amazing and want to get to know you for real. As for whatever is going on, I’ve already compromised myself looking on the systems where I’m not supposed to go, she said. Quayle was taken aback. Since she had gone, he had constructed an emotional carapace putting on a public face of ironic, jaded but jovial manner. During his training he’d kept himself at a distance from his training cohort, which had cast him as a ‘lone wolf’ amongst his fellow trainee officers and trainers alike. But the stress of being on shift and the damaged lives of people he came across had left him bereft with nowhere for the emotional overload to dissipate to. It came out now. He cried and was racked with sobs.
“Geez you’re a weird one, first you’re all strong and silent, now you’re a snivelling wreck,” said Colleen laughing. But her words didn’t tally with her actions as she held him closely and strroked his head. “Hey, hey it’s alright, I’m here,” she whispered softly.
The bus wheezed and clanged through the dark streets and in a few minutes he had somewhat regained his composure.
“So, let’s start again,” he said. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.
“Well, it started with Palfreyman. He’s a ghost; somewhere he’s involved with Special Branch. He’s created a legend from a dead child. And he’s not alone, there’s a few more of them. That’s why he got released with No Further Action,” Colleen to it all in. “So that’s what you were doing in the cemetery, not cruising for a piece of ass?” she laughed. Quayle frowned. “I’m bisexual actually, but I was not, there’s a pauper’s burial section. Some poor children who died of German Measles. Lomax and the gang have taken their names and created phoney ID’s.”
Colleen squeezed his hand and stared into his eyes. “Well it is a night for revelations. And I was kind of right,” she laughed. “What?” he asked. “There was a bet with the Custody lot. Sergeant xx had bet a fiver you were gay. I’d bet against it,” she said.
“Fucking Sylvester,” he spat.
“Sylvester?” she asked. “Yeah like the cat… I taught I taw a puddy tat,” he mimicked. ” Yeah, I see it now. Any other names I should I know about?”
Quayle pretended to rack his brain. “Sergeant Smith is Trumpton, he los like he’s made of wood.”
She laughed. “That’s another good one, we just call him ‘Sticky’,” Quayle looked miffed. “Sticky?”
She laughed. “Cos he los like he’s got a stick stuck up his arse,” she replied.
“Yeah that works,” he replied, although to be honest he quite liked Sergeant xx whose affable nature left the tough guy poseurs confused. His air of bong someone into Custody like they were boing them into a luxury country hotel for a break confused them. If the tax paying-public wondered why they never saw a ‘bobby on the beat’ it would be quite likely they were either booking in a prisoner at the fortress like redoubt of the chest high Custody desk or waiting on the cold concrete benches while their charges moaned and whined.
If they weren’t boing in a prisoner or waiting to do so, they were probably waiting for a solicitor or an appropriate adult so the PIC or Person in Custody could be interviewed. This wait could take three or four hours, then the solicitor would advise them to go ‘No Comment’ during a brief interview of ten or twenty minutes Unlike television there were no funky two-way mirrors or such-like. There were just stuffy cramped rooms with a table, chairs, a DVD a recorder and a panic button.
“So what happened in the cemetery?” asked Colleen. “I got jumped by a bum fluff bandit with a knife. He asked for my wallet. When I didn’t play ball, he said he was going to cut me so I broke his wrist with a baton and to his knife off him,” he said.
“You weren’t on duty so why did you have your baton? And if you only hit him, why all the blood?” Quayle decided to play a straight bat. “Err, I was paranoid about all this Lomax stuff, the baton’s a spare one. And I might have cut off part of his ear.
Colleen gasped. “What the fuck?” Quayle put his palms out in contrition.
“I don’t know, I was just so fucking angry,” he said putting his hands in his pockets and sighing.
“Well it’s pretty? out there, I’ve seen quite a few of you lot close to the edge,” she replied. “Yeah, Animal, John and Reaney usually get their revenge in first. So what’s next?” asked Quayle.
“What’s next is you come back to mine and fuck my brains out,” she said hitting the ‘Stop’ button.
The sirens were wailing, and the blue lights blazed out in a fluorescent battle with the orange sodium glow of the streetlights.
“It’s the Looney Twins at it again,” said Bozza pumping the car’s horn to change the pitch of the two tones to a high-pitched wail as they blitzed through a junction. “Control, 435 Tango, regarding Incident 468, show us making,” said Quayle into his radio as he braced against the dashboard.
“Control to 435 Tango, beware that the caller has identified the assailant as being in possession of a knife. Proceed with caution,” came the reply.
“Control, 435 Tango can get a Dog unit on scene or a Taser Unit for backup?” asked Quayle.
“Negative 435 Tango the dog is in the South,” came the reply. Quayle swore under his breath. 545 to 435 Tango, we are tied up at domestic, we have one in custody and won’t be free for at least an hour,” came a reply from the only Taser unit.
Fifteen minutes earlier the shift had paraded just five officers including Quayle and Bozza. The other three had gone out in cars single crewed. “I fucking told the Boss we’re a Tango unit we shouldn’t be dealing this shit,” said Bozza.
A unit with a Tango callsign was a Training Unit and the Student Police Officer shouldn’t be classed as a fully available officer. However back at the Command and Control Centre they seemed to forget this and merely saw a double-crewed unit.
“556 to 435 Tango, I’m at a shoplifting statement follow up, I will break off. Control please show me making,” a voice came over the radio net. The car rocketed off the motorway and slowed as it hit a warren of tightly knit new build houses.
“Have you read the log?” asked Bozza. “Two males with learning difficulties, in supported living. About fifteen calls in the last few months, no action or arrests,” he said “That’s about it, Andy and Dave. They are the best of friends then they have a drink and fall out. We go in, calm them down, and split them up, take Dave home and that’s it. Stick your gloves on Andy’s a biter,” said Bozza killing the sirens and lights.
“A biter, shit,” said Quayle. “He won’t bite you; he bites his hands when he gets stressed. Blood everywhere.” The car pulled up and they got out. Bozza hit the lights panel to ‘At Scene’. Three men were gathered in a gap between two blocks of flats where an ancient caravan was parked.
“He smashed my caravan,” said one of the men, gesticulating with a kitchen knife. Quayle’s hand clicked the cover off his Captor spray.
“There’ll be no need for that Milky Bar Kid. Radio us in as arriving and I’ll have a chat with Andy. You get Dave away and into the back of the car, “said Bozza.
Quayle nodded and moved off a few yards from the group. “Control, 435 Tango show us at scene, the male with the knife is not posing a threat currently, please stand down any requests for the Dog unit or Taser, over,” he said.
“Control, 435 Tango, acknowledged, over,” came the reply. Quayle had been watching his partner throughout, the knife had been taken from David. He approached the two other men, “Evening, can you tell me what’s happened here?”
One man who he presumed was Andy was chewing on his hand like an apple, ignored him. “I’m Wayne, Andy’s caseworker, he called me after they had an argument. Andy is not supposed to be here, but Dave invited him to show him his caravan that he’s doing up. They had a drink and fell out. Andy smashed the door on the caravan and Dave got a knife and threatened him. Neither of them wants to take it any further.”
After taking Wayne’s det
ails, in his notebook, Quayle addressed Andy. “Andy do you want to come with me and have a sit in the car, my colleague’s just got to speak to Dave and then we’ll take you home. You’re not in any trouble. Okay?”
The man stopped his gnawing and dropped his hands to his sides. “Okay then,” he said shuffling towards the car. Quayle opened the door and the man got in. Not wanting to lock himself inside the back of the car, Quayle stood outside.
“He told me to kick the dogs and give him the money,” said Andy. Realising his rookie mistake of not turning his BWV or Body Worn Video device on, Quayle discreetly tapped it on. Andy had resumed biting his hand. Blood dripped from his knuckles. “Andy, I don’t know what you mean …can you tell me from the start?” Taking his hand from his mouth he began to cry. “It’s the song in my head… Everybody Knows I’m Going to Steal That Car, but David said kicking dogs was easier.” Quayle was bemused but made some notes.
“I couldn’t get the song out of my head, so I started kicking people’s dogs,” continued Andy.
“One-minute Dave, I have to speak to my friend,” said Quayle stepping away. “Control, 435 Tango, can you do a search for me on any incidents relating to anyone kicking or attempting to kick dogs? Over.”
There was a pause. “Received, bear with us one minute,” came the reply. “He said I should threaten the people walking them, and say I’d kick their dog if they didn’t pay up,” said Andy. “I got thirty quid but (should be Dave) toit all cos he said it was his idea. He just bought me a bottle of cider,” he added.
Quayle finished scribbling. “So was this what the fight was about?” asked Quayle. “Yeah, he said he was going away in the caravan and I couldn’t come unless I got another hundred quid. I didn’t want to do it anymore… I like dogs… I frightened the old lady, she cried,” said |Andy.
“Control, 435 Tango,” Quayle’s earpiece buzzed. “Control, 435 Tango, go ahead,” said Quayle. “Regarding your query we have a log of four calls from IP’s being threatened in Queen’s Park whilst walking their dogs. One IP had filed a statement for robbery having been threatened and robbed of twenty pounds last week. The assailant was described as a white, slight male. The IP thought he spoke in a peculiar manner. Another caller to 101 logged a complaint and said quote ‘he’d been threatened by a spazzo’ unquote, over.”
Quayle slammed the car’s rear door shut and went for his handcuffs. “Control,435 Tang, thanks for that. I have a suspect here. I will arrest on suspicion of robbery related to what you told me, over,” said Quayle into his radio. He opened the door. “Andy Callcutt, I am arresting you on suspicion of robbery. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?” Andy nodded mutely and put out his hands. Quayle slipped on the handcuff over Andy’s wrists and locked them securely. “Control, 435 Tango, one in Custody on suspicion for robbery. Please show us conveying suspect to Custody. We’re going to need to establish capacity and probably get a caseworker.” said Quayle
“Am I going to prison?” asked Andy. “No, we’re just taking you to the station to ask you a few questions and we’ll get you a drink,” said Quayle.
“Can I have a can of Ce,” asked Andy.
“Yeah for sure,” said Quayle shutting the door.
Five minutes later Bozza had arrested Dave and he was picked up by another officer. Quayle had had no need to consult with his colleague as all officers on a shift shared an open radio channel that allowed them to hear all the comings and goings between individual officers and updates from Control. Quayle had jacked up the passenger seat back onto Andy’s knees and put a seatbelt across him. He sat in the back with Andy, not wearing a seatbelt, in case the prisoner kicked off and had to be retrained. “Welcome to Blue Light Taxis,” said Bozza putting the car in gear and driving off for the short trip to Custody.
As with most things related to contemporary policing the simple ‘collar’ of a robber who had confessed in person to a Police Officer, soon turned into a toxic nightmare that consumed the rest of Bozza and Quayle’s shift. As soon as Quayle saw Sylvester behind the Custody desk, he knew it would go to ratshit. Unbeknownst to most civilians, the powers of arrest and subsequent detention are a minefield governed by the rules of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 or simply ‘PACE’ as it is called by police officers and staff. The Act come from good intentions after a number of high-profile miscarriages of justice including the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four. Prior to this, policing had been very much a Gene Hunt in Life on Mars style policing. Suspects were ‘nicked’ and held in detention for however long it was seen fit. Suspects were interviewed without legal representation and pressure was rampant on detectives to exert suspects to ‘cough’ to a crime. Needless to say, this pressure was then exerted on suspects via harsh interviews, beatings or sleep deprivation.
Convictions were upheld on presentation of a signed confession.
While TV viewers and right-wing armchair lawyers looked on this as the ‘good old days’ it was far from the truth. Suspects especially those who happened to be black, Irish or from a background blighted by poverty and illiteracy found themselves on the wrong end of a rolled-up telephone directory to the genitals, a police dog in their cell and then, after signing a confession, a lengthy jail sentence as they went from police cell to court and prison before they knew what had hit them.
Evidence based policing was anathema and ‘getting a result’ was the key. Most modern-day police officers would rightly cringe at these once prevalent practices, but they would also concur that the pendulum had now swung too far in the criminals’ favour. Crushingly low police numbers meant suspects were not arrested after an offence and were invited to attend ‘voluntary interviews’ at a time of their convenience. Added to which, even if a suspect was arrested for a violent offence, the pressure to keep people out of prison on remand whilst awaiting trial meant they were often ‘released under investigation’ .This was not the ‘police bail’ where strict conditions could be imposed on their movements, but really just a case of letting them go and putting their case in the voluminous ‘Pending Pile’ .
While a Police Constable has pretty tough powers of arrest to detain a suspect, this only lasts till they reach the Custody Desk where the arresting officer ‘presents their prisoner’ to the Custody Sergeant. In Quayle’s case this was Sergeant Sylvester.
“Hello Sergeant, this is Andy Dawson, I arrested him on suspicion of robbery at 18:20 after he confessed to me that he had been involved in a series of attacks on dogwalkers in the Queen’s Park area.” The officer then has to represent the ‘grounds’ for arrest, namely what reasons to justify the suspects ongoing detention. This is the crucial part, and if the Custody Sergeant does not believe there are ‘sufficient grounds’ then authorisation can be denied, the prisoners is ‘de-arrested’ and let go. Not only does the officer end up with proverbial egg on their face, they usually have to drive their former suspect home. The arrest/de-arrest scenario can also be applied by an officer. It’s usually used in public order situations where a drunken person who has stepped over the line is arrested and once they have quietened down via a short stay in the back of a van and come to their senses, are then de-arrested and sent home with a flea in their ear. This is mutually beneficial to the officer and offender, as the former avoids a boatload of paperwork and the latter a night in the cells.
Quayle continued…. “The grounds for arrest are to obtain further evidence by interview, to preserve and protect evidence and to prevent further offences being carried out. Furthermore, the suspect is a vulnerable person who needs medical attention for self-inflicted injuries,” he said.
“That’ll do for me,” Sylvester smiled. “Andy Dawson, I am authorising your detention in relation to the reported offences at 19:00. You will be detained for the purposes of an interview. I will ensure a responsible person is informed of your arr
est and they can sit in on your interview. If you wait with the officer, we’ll get your hands seen to by the nurse. But first we’ll need to search you and book in any property,” he said.
And with that the Custody clock started ticking down. Detention had been authorised. The officers slipped into the well drilled routine. Bozza jumped behind the Custody Desk. Quayle donned a fresh pair of latex gloves and carried out a thorough search. Dawson was relieved of his belt, shoes a mobile phone, a wallet and some loose change. All of which was logged and placed in a tray which then was given a number. Andy was given some plimsolls with no laces. Finally he was walked through the metal detecting arch.
Whilst this all sounds genteel enough, Andy was a ‘compliant’ prisoner or PIC, Person in C custody. Statistically speaking custody was one of the most dangerous areas for police officers. It was usually where the handcuffs were taken off and the detainee left the fugue state about being arrested. Reality kicked in and they kicked off. Which was why the Custody Sergeants stood behind a high desk with computer monitors safely ensconced in a reinforced casing. The floors, walls and benches were bare. Custody itself was reached from the outside via an ‘airlock; a glorified parking garage whose door shut before the other opened. There was then another set of steel doors which did the same. If both Custody Sergeants were busy, then often officers were left there with their charges until they were called through.
