Confessions of a Police Constable (17 page)

‘Jimmy,' she said.

‘Hi, Jimmy,' Syd said to the baby, who was fast asleep in his mother's arms.

As the man drove off and the woman made her way across the road to the café, we got back in our car.

‘How did I do?' Syd said.

‘That was really impressive,' I said. ‘I think you're going to do well in this job. You made one mistake, though …'

‘Should I have given them a ticket? I'm not sure I have the right form on me,' he said.

‘No,' I laughed, ‘that's up to you; if you'd wanted to we could have held them here until someone brought us the right ticket. Besides, I always carry some in my bag in the boot of the car. Anyway, I think you showed some good discretion there: I think your little speech is going to be more effective than a ticket for them. How did you know all that stuff?'

‘It's basic physics,' he said. ‘And my driving teacher explained it all to me exactly like that. It kind of stuck with me, you know. What was my mistake?'

‘You threatened to ticket the man and give him points, but a seatbelt offence only carries a sixty-pound fine. No points.'

‘Seriously? But you get points for talking on your mobile? I'd have thought it should have been the other way around.'

‘Yeah, I agree,' I said. ‘The only other thing is – I think you dealt with the situation very well – but you should have checked his details. We checked the car and its insurance status, but we don't even know the name of the guy; it may not have been Mr Paulsen at all, and for all you know, the car may have been stolen.'

‘Oh shit, do you think so?' he said. ‘Why did you let me let them get away then?'

‘When you were talking to them, I radioed in and did another check on him via the support channel. Because he has been arrested, they keep things like distinguishing marks on file about him. Did you see anything that might have qualified?'

‘He had an Everton tattoo on his forearm?' Syd asked.

‘Well spotted. When I did a name-check on Mr Paulsen, they said he had that tattoo. Also, his age looked like it might be okay, and his vague description of “five minutes that way” is roughly where his car is registered. It's not foolproof, of course, but given the circumstances, I was happy that we had the right person and so I didn't want to knock you off your stride. It's worth keeping in mind, though: never assume anything.'

‘Never assume anything,' Syd echoed, and looked out of the window.

A call came in over the radio, and we looked at each other.

‘A shoplifter,' I said. ‘Let's go get you that first arrest.'

He beamed, and pressed the transmit button on his personal radio.

‘Show …' A long pause followed. I glanced over at Syd and saw his mind racing. He had forgotten what our call sign was. And, given that he was holding his radio with his right hand, he finally understood my earlier remark that he should have written down our call sign on his other hand. He stopped transmitting, lifted the radio away from his face and flipped it upside down so he could see the back of his right hand. He read our call sign, before returning the radio back to his face, and transmitting again.

‘Show two-six,' he said.

As he finished his transmission, he produced a pen, and wrote ‘2-6' on the back of his left hand.

‘Never assume anything,' Syd said, echoing my sentiment from seconds before.

Syd was a great example of what I would describe as a ‘good special constable'. At the time of this story, he was about my age (so, mid-30s, but obviously not looking a day over 27, and dastardly handsome, if I may say so myself) and stood about six foot above sea level. He didn't seem particularly strong or fast, but he seemed to have a well-developed sense of risk aversion. In my car, I like that in an operator. In spite of the odd story of heroics, I have to admit that I prefer to get home in one piece every day. As a police officer, I spend enough time in A&E as it is – usually with prisoners who claim to suffer from ‘chest pain', or who experience weird side effects to the drugs they swallowed so that we wouldn't find them. I make a point of wasting as little of my own time in A&E, no matter how cute the doctor might be.

Syd and I had just finished the successful traffic stop described on the previous pages.

The kid had proved he had brains, and showed potential. The one thing he hadn't done so far as a special constable was to complete an arrest. At the beginning of the shift, I had promised to get him his first one if a suitable call came in. Lo and behold, once we had finished our traffic stop, our radios beeped to life: a shoplifter had been detained by staff at a local supermarket.

‘Show two-six,' Syd transmitted. We were on our way to his very first arrest …

‘Do you remember what you need to do?' I checked.

‘I think so,' he said, ‘but is there a signal I can send you if there's something I'm unsure about? I could pull my ear or something?'

‘That could work, if you want to look beyond ridiculous,' I laughed. ‘I don't believe in ambiguity, to be honest. How about you just say, “Hey, Delito, what do I do next?” I find that does the trick very well.'

‘Won't that look unprofessional?'

‘Who cares? I would say that looking unprofessional is far preferable to getting something wrong, so ask away. If things go pear-shaped, I promise to rescue you. Do you want this arrest, or n—?'

‘Yes!' Syd said, before I could complete my sentence.

‘Yeah, thought so!' I laughed, encouraged by his enthusiasm. ‘That's the spirit.'

We parked up directly outside the supermarket, and I turned the rear strobes on; I was parked on a double yellow line, but I really dislike straying too far away from the car.

‘Show two-six on location,' Syd transmitted as we climbed out of the Focus. Walking through the front door we were met by a shop detective.

‘Hey,' he said, ‘I'm Nick Andersen; I'm shop security. Glad you boys could make it. We've got the guy in the break room. He seemed a bit out of it – not really sure what's going on with him.'

‘What did he nick?' Syd asked.

‘That's the weird thing; I had him on CCTV, and I thought he was acting weird, so I kept an eye on him. Then, at the end of the shop, he went to the cashiers and tried to pay for the goods in his basket, but his card was declined when he got the PIN wrong several times,' Nick said. ‘Then, he started shouting abuse at the check-out girl, and loaded cans of lager into the pockets of his coat before trying to leave the shop.'

‘So, he tried to pay for stuff, then his card was declined, and he took – how many cans of beer?'

‘Four in his pockets,' Nick said, ‘and one in his hand. He was about to open it as he was leaving the shop, but I walked up and challenged him. I thought I only had to talk to him about his abusive behaviour, to be honest, but then I saw the beers.'

‘Hmm. What was the value of the goods?' Syd asked.

‘I did a receipt for you,' Nick said, and gave Syd the receipt he'd been holding throughout their conversation.

Syd looked down at the receipt. ‘So, five pounds eighty for five cans of beer? How does that work? One quid sixteen per can seems like a weird price.'

I looked at Syd, and so did the store security manager.

‘Wait …' I said. ‘Did you just do that in your head?'

‘Yeah,' Syd said, looking slightly surprised. ‘It's easy – five goes into five once, so that's a pound, and eighty divided by five is … sixteen, isn't it?'

It turned out that the cans of lager had been on a 4-for-£4 deal, and that the fifth can had cost £1.80, bringing the total to £5.80. It took us a minute to work out what the till had done, but we got there in the end. I made a mental note to test Syd's maths skills in more depth.

‘I guess even shoplifters get special offers,' Syd quipped. ‘So … if you steal two things, and they are on a two-for-one deal, do you get charged with one theft, or two?'

I was stumped for the second time in as many minutes.

‘Mate, it really doesn't matter if you steal for one pound or sixty pounds or six hundred pounds. The law doesn't say that theft is “the dishonest appropriation of property worth over ten pounds”. Do you remember what it says?' I asked him, mostly just to change the topic.

‘Yeah. It's, er, the dishonest appropriation of property belonging to another, with the intention of permanently depriving the other of it,' he said, and thought for a moment. ‘Or something like that.'

‘Something very much like that,' I smiled. ‘Shouldn't we be doing some actual arresting? Are you stalling?'

Syd laughed, nervously.

‘Seriously, mate, don't worry about it,' I said.

‘First arrest, huh?' Nick asked.

‘Yes,' Syd confessed.

‘Good luck, son,' Nick said, and grabbed the door handle to the break room, pushing it open. The door swung open with a creak. Inside we were met by a defiant-looking young man. He was sitting on a chair behind a table, sipping a can of beer.

‘What the hell?' Nick exclaimed, looking at one of the other people in the room. ‘Why is he drinking that?'

‘Well, he said he had stolen it and was about to get arrested for it, so he might as well enjoy it,' the security guard sitting next to the shoplifter explained.

The absurdity of the situation struck me suddenly, and I couldn't help letting out a laugh. To be fair to the shoplifter, there was a certain logic to it.

‘Right,' Syd said. ‘Put down that beer.'

The man did as he was told. Syd picked up the can, and poured the rest out into the sink in the corner of the room.

‘I'm going to need you to listen to what I am asking this man,' Syd said to the shoplifter, pointing at Nick the shop detective. ‘What we are saying concerns you.'

Syd repeated his earlier questions to Nick, who replied exactly as he had before, explaining the course of events.

‘Did you hear all of that?' Syd asked. The man sitting at the table nodded.

‘Good. Based on what I have been told, I am arresting you for shoplifting, and … and …' Syd looked over at me, panic-stricken. I nodded encouragingly, but he wasn't able to continue. He looked particularly desperate as he was opening and closing his mouth, trying to find the next words to say.

‘What's wrong?' I asked.

‘Shoplifting is not a crime!' he said.

‘What do you mean?' I said.

‘Well, it's been nice knowing you guys,' the shoplifter said to the store staff, and began to rise from chair. ‘This fine officer here just said that wot I did ain't a crime, so I'll be on my way, then. Thanks for the beer.'

‘You're going nowhere,' Syd barked and the man froze. ‘Can I arrest him for shoplifting? What's the crime?' he asked me.

Finally I twigged what he was talking about.

‘Ah. Yes. Technically, there is no crime
called
shoplifting, but there's nothing wrong with arresting him for that; everybody knows what you mean. Later on, he'll be charged with making off without payment, under …' My brain froze. Balls! Although technically I don't really have to, I take great pride in knowing my wordings, sections, acts and years.

‘Er …' I said, and after a pause that felt like it had lasted several minutes, I suddenly remembered. ‘Section three of the Theft Act of nineteen seventy-eight.'

Crikey, that had been lodged deep in some dark recess of what masquerades as my brain. Embarrassing, considering that this is one of the most common crimes we run into.

‘Either way, that's irrelevant for now. He's got to be nicked first,' I concluded.

‘What the hell is this?' the shoplifter roared. ‘Some kind of ridiculous fucking joke? Where are the hidden cameras, you fucking clowns?'

‘Shut it and listen to this officer,' I told him. The man glowered, shifting his eyes between Syd and myself a few times.

‘Whatevz,' he said, sinking back into his chair.

‘So, I'm arresting you for theft. The arrest is necessary to effect a prompt and effective investigation of the matter,' Syd said, ticking the boxes on one of his forms for grounds (the offence of theft) and necessity (prompt and effective investigation) for the arrest.

‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something you later rely on in court,' he continued with the caution. ‘Do you understand?'

‘You can both fuck off,' the shoplifter said.

Syd nodded in great seriousness, and leaned over his pocket book, speaking as he was writing. ‘You – can – both – fuck – off.'

Syd looked up at me, and I tapped my wrist. He nodded, and mouthed an inaudible ‘thanks' back to me.

‘Time of arrest …' Syd said, fishing his phone out of his pocket, ‘is fourteen thirty-nine.' He scribbled the time down in his pocket book, as well.

‘I'm afraid I'm going to have to search you now,' Syd said, as he straightened up, ready for the section 18 search of the shoplifter. ‘Stand up and please empty your pockets on to the table.'

I bit my tongue, not sure that that was such a good idea: there was still a table between us and our prisoner, and I didn't really like the idea of what might be in our shoplifter's pockets. In the end, I decided to speak up.

‘Actually, don't do that,' I said. ‘Come over here, and stand with your arms spread to the sides, please; we'll do a proper search.'

Syd shrugged, and approached the shoplifter.

‘Do you have anything on you that you shouldn't have?' he asked.

‘Nah.'

‘Do you have anything on you that might hurt me or my colleague?'

‘Nope.'

Syd produced a pair of gloves, and started searching the man, whilst I kept a close watch on them both. He found a wallet in the man's pocket, and handed it to me. I took a look inside, but there was no ID.