Prisoners, Property and Prostitutes

by Tom Ratcliffe

  Strangely this reaction was quite common. No one ever said, ‘You became an accountant, how odd’, or, ‘Imagine you, a sales rep.’ But join a job that often requires little more than honesty and hard work and everyone expresses surprise. Maybe it is indicative of the view that you are no longer in their ‘world’, but slightly apart, a different creature of some sort, the other side of ‘the line.’

  Anyway, after a few minutes’ conversation about this and that, John’s teacher made an odd request.

  ‘Can I knock your hat off?’

  ‘No,’ came the obvious reply.

  ‘Oh go on, I’ve always wanted to knock a policeman’s hat off. What would you do if I did?’

  ‘I’d lock you up.’

  ‘Never!’

  John’s patience was wearing thin by this point. What had started as a pleasant encounter had become silly and irritating.

  ‘Look’ he said, ‘it’s the middle of the high street on a busy afternoon. You can’t seriously expect someone to knock a policeman’s hat off and him do nothing about it. So don’t try it, because I am quite serious, I’d arrest you.’

  Slightly disappointed, the teacher agreed with John’s point of view, and shortly afterwards said goodbye. He was soon apparently lost in the crowd.

  A few moments later however, John heard footsteps approaching at a run from behind him. It could be only one thing – the teacher had decided he wasn’t serious, and had decided to do a quick ‘knock and run’ to satisfy his strange wish.

  There was only one thing for it. He would have to arrest him, make him learn the hard way.

  As the footsteps were upon him, John swung round and delivered a punch to the man.

  To his horror he watched as a teenage boy fell to the floor, hands to his face and blood pouring from his nose. Across the road was the hire car containing the lad’s rather surprised parents. They were looking for their hotel, and had told their son to ‘go ask the nice policeman for directions’. Their admiration for law enforcement was dashed as the officer had whipped round and pole axed their innocent child in front of hundreds of shoppers.

  John’s job, pension and freedom flashed before his eyes.

  But he was nothing if not quick-thinking.

  He helped the boy back to his feet, dusted him down and walked him back to the car, his mind in overdrive as he tried to work out what to say. It didn’t take long to ascertain that the family were American, and this was the key to his salvation as he returned the injured youth to his parents.

  ‘Sorry about that – you obviously don’t understand. We don’t carry guns as you may know, and because of this we are highly trained in self defence. NEVER approach a British Policeman from behind. Your son could have been killed.’

  By the time they drove off John had a full apology and the boy had been told off by his parents for his reckless faux pas.

  This was typical of John’s charmed life. I often wondered how successful he could have been if he had put as much effort into tackling his work as he did into avoiding it. He had previously been on Traffic for several years, which was an ideal place for indulging his favourite hobby – womanising. Any female was a challenge, and one of his most bizarre liaisons occurred when he went for a night time coffee at a favoured ‘brew spot’, a ramshackle filling station a couple of miles out of town. On this particular evening one thing had led to another, the attendant rose to the challenge and John found himself and the young lady standing up, wedged between the cigarette display and the till, going at it hammer and tongs.

  The attendant was described as ‘generously proportioned’ to say the least, and the space in which they were enjoying each other’s ‘company’ was cramped. The shop lights were on, but outside was pitch dark for miles around. This fact preyed on John’s mind, and the relationship ended several minutes earlier than John would have liked when he pondered out loud. The comment ‘If anyone pulls up outside we won’t see them but they’ll think I’ve set off an inflatable life raft’ resulted in an instant and total loss of passion by the unfortunate woman, and the deletion of the filling station from John’s list of refreshment points.

  Those who (unlike John) had not been thrown off Traffic, worked as a Unit separate to us on ‘section’, but every so often they would ask for an observer if they had a space in the passenger seat of one of the patrol cars. To me this was a dream come true – I had no wish to go on CID. Their culture at the time meant that neither my wallet nor my liver could stand their pace of life. On nights I would do my foot patrolling with a breath test kit in my pocket. This wasn’t strictly allowed as foot patrols didn’t get routinely issued with breath kits, but if there was a spare I would take it with me, and add a breath test to any stop-check if I thought the driver had had any alcohol. I managed to produce quite a good tally of arrests by this method, and built up a reasonable knowledge of traffic law as a consequence.

  Around 1 o’clock one morning I was ambling along when a car pulled up on the far side of the road, stopping in an area which was clearly marked as ‘no parking allowed’. Thoughts of a parking ticket turned more ambitious as the driver got out, staggered backwards into the road, then lurched up to the offside rear door and opened it. This revealed a second firmly intoxicated individual, smiling happily to the world in general. The open door also afforded a view across to the front seat passenger who was giggling helplessly. Now it was looking less favourable – a drink driver I could cope with, but three drunks against one policeman could prove tricky. As I wondered how to deal with the situation, the driver turned round towards me, pointed behind him in the general direction of the rear occupant, and shouted,‘Officer! Arrest this man. He’s pissed!’

  All three men then collapsed in fits of uncontrolled laughter. In my experience drink drivers did their best to disguise their inebriation, not advertise it, so this was a strange development for me. The other two occupants of the car then got out, and as they did so I suddenly recognised the driver and front passenger – they were the night cover CID Sergeant and Constable. The identity of the third man was easily guessed as he helped the others to the front door of an adjacent pub, unlocked it and the three of them disappeared inside.

  My status as new probationer was far too lowly to do anything about this – the whole organisation revolved around the CID, and an inexperienced ‘flatfoot’ arresting any member for a road-traffic related offence would have resulted in a swift report saying I was ‘not likely to become a fit and proper Constable’ and seeking the dispensing of my services. To my annoyance discretion had to prove the better part of valour on that occasion.

  Despite this minor setback, my enthusiasm for traffic-related work increased. Not that I had anything against crime work, it still formed the bulk of my workload, but given a choice between a road accident and a shoplifter I would go for the road accident every time. It was interesting to see the way the different departments functioned – CID very ‘rugby club’, lots of drinking, late nights, with a gung-ho mentality. Traffic was more laid-back, quiet and measured. But both shared the same approach that I was finding ran through the rest of the service – a belief in the ability to solve problems, to sort things out and make a change. This had been a major appeal of the job in the first place and it was proving to remain so. People would ring for 24 hour a day help, and in the vast majority of instances we would attend, advise, and most of all make that difference.

  Take for example a burglary – we would get a phone call from someone whose world had been turned upside down by a wicked intrusion into their private lives. Along comes a policeman who:

  a) tells them to put the kettle on and make everyone a cup of tea.

  b) calls the scenes of crime officer to find any forensic clues.

  c) gets the victim to make a list of any missing property

  d) calls a repairer of the homeowner’s choice

  e) advises them how to contact their house insurers and make a claim

  f) rings them in a day or two with
a crime number and a reassurance that we are working on the case, and so on.

  These simple and very obvious steps leave the impression that all is not lost, normality can be restored and we care and sympathise. The officers also develop a belief in their ability to solve problems, which is necessary to do the job properly and to present a confident manner, even when you are doing what was often referred to as a ‘duck impression’ – calm as anything on the surface, but out of sight paddling like mad to stay afloat.

  Five

  While a confidence in your own ability is generally an asset, it did give rise to some odd situations when someone would think they had a better plan than anyone else and stick doggedly to it, and not knowing what to do when they were wrong.

  One night shift I was put with Len, a very steady and reliable man who never hurried anything and never lost his cool. He could arrive at a domestic with people shouting and screaming at each other, but with some opening words along the lines of ‘Can we all just calm down so I can get a bit of hush now’ it was as if a blanket of tranquility had settled on everyone, there would be no more raised voices and he would deal quietly with the whole affair step by step.

  This particular night we heard a chase coming in over the radio from another force. Two men in a stolen pickup truck had been followed at high speed by two traffic cars for over 30 miles, so their determination to keep going was evident. The amount of advance warning and the fact it was a quiet night meant that by the time the pickup came onto us there were two of our traffic cars and about nine pandas waiting for it. Len waited at the first roundabout it would come to, at the opposite end of a mile-long piece of road to where all the other patrols were waiting. Len was convinced that at the speed it was travelling the pickup would overturn at the roundabout. But it didn’t. Instead it took the first exit and headed over a bridge into town. Len put the car into gear to give chase, but had to wait as 12 other cars went past to end up ahead of us in a flurry of tyre smoke and screaming engines, like a scene from a cops and robbers film.

  Our humble panda car wheezed into 13th place at the rear of the convoy, and by the time we arrived at the far side of the bridge we were so far behind I felt tangible disappointment. I could hear on the radio where the chase was, hurtling around the town centre. Everyone in the thick of it but us.

  Then Len had an idea. ‘I know where he’s heading – I know exactly where. Come on – we’ll go round the ring road and cut them off. You’ll like this.’

  Excitement returned. Len’s experience (he had worked in the town since shortly after the Romans left) would ensure we outwitted the thieves and were in at the kill. How lucky I was to be with a man whose brain would win the day over the reckless chasing by the rest of the shift. We drove along the town’s inner ring road, skirting the area where the others were still chasing round fruitlessly, them being denied Len’s perceptive powers. About half a mile up the ring road it reached an elevated section on a bend, with another half mile before a roundabout. As we entered the bend, I saw blue lights in the darkness ahead. A few moments later a blaze of headlights came towards us. It was the pickup! We had done it! We were ahead of the chase. Unfortunately we were also on the wrong side of the dual carriageway, so I watched in despair once again as the whole convoy, still without us, hurtled past in the opposite direction.

  There was a silence in the car which ached for some explanation. It was broken a few moments later by Len’s quiet drawl – ‘Now I didn’t expect that,’ he mumbled.

  Despite the occasional chase, successful or otherwise, my main work as a Probationer was crime-based – shoplifters by day, damages and assaults by night, as a general rule.

  In training we had had to absorb a considerable amount of law, learning definitions word for word, as the definitions contained the ‘points to prove’ necessary for any conviction or indeed for the recording of the correct offence if it was for the time being (or indeed for all time) remaining undetected.

  All crimes were recorded in the Divisional Crime Book, a large ledger which was kept in the CID office and guarded by a fierce Detective Sergeant who would quiz you carefully about any offence you wanted to put in the book. Technically his job was to ensure that all crimes were correctly recorded. In reality he was there to try to keep as many undetected crimes as possible out of the book, as undetected crimes made his figures look bad and more crimes of any hue meant a bigger workload for the CID. In reality it was self-defeating, because as long as figures showed little increase there was no argument to put forward for more staff, but there was no Detective Inspector on earth who would risk the consequences of a massive rise in crime under his supervision. To tell the Detective Chief Super that a 25 per cent rise in crime was simply a readjustment to compensate for fiddled figures in the past would not work, as there would then be an enquiry into who was doing the figure-fiddling, and the whole thing would descend into a maelstrom of self-righteous finger-pointing and discipline enquiries, with all parties feigning ignorance of the established practice. Silly really, but the rot was so deep-set that it was impossible to change the status quo.

  I had an interesting lesson in the complexities of crime recording when I was called to deal with a burglary. The full definition of burglary can become quite complex with numerous permutations, but the relevant part for me that day was that a burglary is committed when a person ‘enters a premises or (significantly) part of a premises as a trespasser with intent to steal therein’, or words to that effect. So someone who enters a shop and steals commits only theft, because obviously they are not a trespasser, they have an implied invitation to be in the shop. Someone who enters a shop as a customer but goes into the staff changing rooms to steal is a trespasser because they have entered a part of the premises where they are not allowed and are thus a burglar.

  Easy.

  I went to a building which was a former hotel, and was being used as rooms for the staff at another hotel in the town centre. Each member of staff had their own room with its own key to safeguard their own possessions.

  Some miscreant had gone into the building and kicked open four of the different rooms before helping themselves to the usual run of cash, bank cards and easily-pocketed electrical goods and smaller items before leaving.

  Faced with four residents who were all victims of crime, I applied my legal knowledge. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that while the miscreant may well not have entered the main building and its corridors as a trespasser (after all it could be a fellow occupant of the place who was responsible) it was a fair bet that only a trespasser would kick a door open, someone with legitimate access usually has a key.

  Four separate rooms, four separate victims, and hey presto four burglaries.

  As taught by George I carefully completed four separate crime reports, listing the missing possessions carefully. The crime report forms were self-carbonating and in quadruplicate, each page a different colour – lurid pink, yellow, blue and green – and each colour having its own ultimate destination.

  Back at the Police Station I went to the CID office to hand in the paperwork. All domestic burglaries were normally handed to a Detective to deal with as there was some glory in nicking a burglar, should it come to an arrest.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked the Detective Sergeant, eyeing the thick bundle of multi-coloured papers. Any uniform wearer with a wedge of such distinctive paperwork was even less welcome than an empty-handed one.

  ‘I’ve just been to the breaks at the Park Hotel staff quarters and these are the crime reports Sarge.’

  ‘Why so many – when they gave it out on the radio it said a burglary, not…how many?’

  ‘Four,’ I said.

  The DS stiffened slightly. ‘How do you work that one out?’

  I explained the simple application of the definition of burglary, how four separate rooms equals four separate victims equals four separate crimes.

  Unfamiliar muscles creaked into action as the DS raised the closes
t thing to a benign smile of which he was capable.

  ‘No lad, just put the one crime in. It’s only one burglary, one address see?’

  ‘No Sarge, it’s four separate premises, four victims. Anyway each one has had different stuff taken so it has to be four crimes,’ I explained innocently.

  The ‘smile’ vanished.

  ‘If you think you’re putting four undetected crimes in to me like that you can forget it. It is one crime and you will put one occupant down as the victim and the other three on the back of the form as witnesses to the original offence. Got it?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But what if you arrest someone for it? Would you just have a single burglary charge then?’

  ‘Oh no – I’d put the other three in the book and we’d charge all four. Four burglaries are fine if they’re detected, but I’m not having four outstanding undetected. That’s how it works see?’

  And the same rules applied to houses too – a night-time spate of house burglaries where four houses in the same road had had break-ins would go in as a single ‘break’, but with all bar one of the householders listed as ‘witnesses’ to the single ‘victim’. The more ambitious would even adopt a rule that if there were similarities in the M.O., the Modus Operandi, they would be grouped together. So three houses each half a mile apart which had all had a screwdriver put to the rear window were all termed a ‘continuing offence’, an official-sounding but legally non-existent term.

  And that was how it worked – detected crimes you could put in as many as you like. Undetected crimes were fiddled, massaged, call it what you will, (I think the commercial term is ‘creative accounting’) so if they couldn’t be easily ‘lost’ by one means or another then they were downgraded – an assault reduced to a public order offence, a burglary reduced to a theft. The ultimate downgrade was what was called a ‘Minor Damage’ report. This was used for any instance of damage where the value was less than twenty pounds, recently raised from the five pound ceiling which had stood unchanged since the time five pounds was a reasonable sum. It was meant to cover acts of petty vandalism, but its scope was widened with time and now also covered burglaries with a low chance of detection where no entry had been gained. A damaged window frame was minor damage, not an attempted burglary. How anyone could realistically think that a stranger would go quietly to the rear of a house and use some metal implement to chew a small hole in the woodwork for the sheer joy of it before tiptoeing away was impossible, but ‘minor damage’ it was whether you liked it or not.