Confessions of a Police Constable (32 page)

Banter. It's part of the job. You can't deal with the things we do day in, day out without having an outlet; black humour, practical jokes, making a bit of fun of each other, and the occasional bit of rough-housing comes with the job. It's part of the fabric that weaves us together as a team. We spend a lot of time wrestling on the floor with smelly criminals, running after scoundrels and dealing with death. A playful punch on the shoulder, a hug or some gentle ribbing here and there is the lubrication that keeps the machine running. Just make sure you don't tell the SMT
⁶⁹
; they'd send us all on How to Be Nice to Each Other courses.

The importance of a strong team spirit is one reason why we felt all the more uneasy in the briefing room that morning. When the joking grinds to a halt, we get caught in a vicious cycle: more tension causes less banter, causes more tension – this shift was off to a truly rotten start.

I was glad when the briefing finally started.

‘Read the briefing in your own time, at your own pace,' the skipper barked, ‘but the summary is this: it's messy out there, and it's going to be rough for a few days.'

The Metropolitan Police intel branch was red-hot with tips received via telephone, found on Internet forums, and pilfered from social-networking sites – they all pointed to all-out riots.

The skipper leaned forward over his little speaker's podium, casting a long look across the room. He looked evil in the red glow from the projector in the darkened briefing room.

‘Ladies and gents, stay very alert: the gang who lost their boss to a police bullet say they want the lives of two Metropolitan Police officers in retaliation for the shooting …' He paused. ‘We're particularly worried about the specificity: normally, threats are non-specific. This time, intel suggests that they are planning a definite hit. I won't lie to you; it's going to be bloody dangerous for a while. However, we've got lots of extra resources on the ground, including extra Trojan
⁷⁰
units.'

He stopped and took a sip from his water bottle. I looked at my colleagues; they were glued to his every word. It was going to be tough to be a police officer in our borough for the foreseeable future.

‘As you know, we're short-staffed,' the skipper said, and then grinned. ‘I hate recruitment, so try to stay in one piece, all right?'

A wave of laughter spread throughout the room and some of the tension dissolved.

Charlie slapped Jay on the shoulder, and got a shrug and a smile in return – an apology accepted.

It's episodes like this that remind me why some of the skippers are promoted ahead of others – sometimes, all it takes to save the day is for someone to just reel the team back in, to put us back on the right track. We were ready, now, to deal with the outside world.

‘No single-crewing tonight, folks. Be extra vigilant, and don't hesitate to call in help if you aren't sure about something. I'd rather have to send two or three cars to a call and have everyone go home at the end of the shift, than be stuck in A&E with one of you for the rest of the night,' the skipper added, scanning the room.

‘Right, get out of my face. Happy hunting,' he finished.

And with that, we were sent out onto the meaner-than-usual streets of London.

In several parts of the borough, there had been stirrings of civil unrest: people had been seen gathering in alleys. Many shops on the high streets had boarded up their windows with plywood.

We were instructed to stay well clear of any problem spots. They were to be left to the Level Ones. The Level Ones were operating on separate channels from us, and it was made clear to us that we'd face disciplinary action if we listened in. ‘Any relevant information will be circulated on working channels,' a sternly worded email from the top brass reminded us.

Public order training comes in three levels – three, two and one:

Level Three
is the basic level of public order skills used for policing large events, such as football games, official state visits, and anywhere where the police have to work as large teams and face large groups of members of the public – it covers all officers.

Level Two
officers are trained to a much higher degree, including shield tactics, dealing with extremely violent people, rapid-entry techniques (including stuff like breaking down doors), search tactics and much, much more. When you think ‘riot police', the people that spring to mind are probably the Level Two guys.

Level One
officers have roughly the same training curriculum as for Level Two, but they have to repeat their training every six weeks or so, and are generally deployed to a ‘support unit' full-time.

Our job that night would be to look after all the ‘normal' police tasks (if anything could be called normal on a day like this).

I was posted with Jay – our ex-firearms officer – as Mike Delta 40. It's an unusual call sign; we don't tend to use 40, but this was an unusual day. There were a huge number of extra resources on duty; a lot of the officers who generally while away their days shuffling bits of paper around had dusted off their uniforms. In some cases, our extra show of force would prove more entertaining than preventative: officers who had gained 30lb since the last time they had worn their stab vests looked anything but dignified as they tried to wrestle their way into a corset-like Kevlar.

The extra manpower also meant that we used a lot of cars we don't normally use: a fleet of hire-cars were brought in to help ferry us around from place to place without standing out like a sore blue-lights-and-sirens-equipped thumb.

Today, Mike Delta 40 was a hideous burgundy Ford Mondeo Q-car, usually used by the robbery squad. At least it had lights and sirens, as opposed to most of the hire cars.

‘I'll drive,' Jay said with a groan, after he'd spotted the car we had been assigned.

I was fine with that. In theory, Jay and I are both advanced drivers, trained to the same high standard. I'd like to think I'm an above-average wheelman, even in the context of the ridiculously well-trained advanced drivers amongst the Metropolitan Police. Realistically, however, I'm probably a distinctly average advanced driver.

Jay, on other hand, used to be the driver on firearms callouts; he has no doubt spent a hell of a lot more time on long blue-light runs than me. There was also something about that shift that was giving me the creeps, and I was more than happy to hand over some responsibility –
any
responsibility. Not having to drive seemed like a good start.

First up, we attended to a couple of simple-to-resolve calls.

My feeling of dread began to dissipate a little.

After about five hours of relatively easy jobs (including – believe it or not – saving a kitten stuck in a tree), we decided to head back to the police station for a quick coffee.

We'd nearly made back, when things got a little bit more interesting …

My radio lurched into action: ‘We've just spotted a group of about twenty youths, some of them carrying backpacks. They all have their faces covered. Most of them are carrying sticks,' it told me. ‘We're in an unmarked car, observing from a safe distance,' the radio continued.

Instead of pulling into the police station, Jay pulled up next to the gates. We stayed in the car to listen to the radio transmission in progress, both trying to figure out who was radioing in; I didn't recognise his voice and he sounded nervous. He also failed to identify himself before transmitting, which was curious. Radio protocol becomes such second nature that it becomes unthinkable to radio up without first going through the recipe of identifying yourself and asking for permission to use the airwaves.

‘Last caller, you are not coming up in my system. Please identify,' the CAD operator shot back. I looked over at Jay, and he shrugged.

‘Oh, eh, sorry,' said the radio, and went quiet again, briefly. ‘They're coming our way. We have to get out of here,' it continued.

‘Last caller, get yourself to safety, then identify immediately. Mike Delta three out,' a familiar voice cut in. Mike Delta 3 is the chief inspector, a person you would
never
hear on the radio unless something truly grievous was going on. Hell, I didn't even know he was
issued
with a radio.

‘Mike Delta receiving one-zero-eight,' a new voice joined in.

‘One-zero-eight, go,' the CAD operator replied.

‘Last transmitting was five-two-two-eight, Smith. He's the special I've got with me. It's his first shift,' the voice continued.

I raised an eyebrow, and glanced over at Jay who met my gaze with an identical eyebrow-raised-expression. We both burst into laughter.

A special constable deciding to take his first shift as a police officer on a night when there are riots going on? Talk about baptism of fire! Having said that, one-zero-eight is Singh, a solid, veteran officer. I couldn't think of a safer pair of hands if I tried.

‘We're on Church Street, moving away as quickly as we can. I think the group spotted our radios lighting up when someone transmitted,' Singh concluded.

The radios: they're a blessing most of the time – they can be the lifeline that keeps us out of a lot of serious trouble. But there's no denying, they're bulky, and have a nasty tendency to ruin any plain-clothes work you're trying to do. The displays and the status light might as well be a bright beacon saying, ‘Hey! We're cops! If you're up to no good, this is a good time to start running!'

‘Okay, is everybody accounted for?' the CAD operator asked.

‘Yes, yes, we're out of harm's way,' Singh replied.

‘Good. All units, please avoid Church Street for now, we'll send the Borough Support Unit to take a closer look,' the CAD operator transmitted.

‘Mike Delta receiving serial bravo-alpha-five-five-five,' a new voice chimed out.

‘Go ahead, BA five-five-five.'

‘I know you wanted BSU on this, but we're a Level One serial here, and we're just around the corner. Shall we head over as well?' the voice continued.

‘Yes, yes, please deploy and keep us posted,' the CAD operator said, and continued to liaise with the Borough Support Unit to get a couple of more carriers over to the group who seemed keen to start their own little riot.

‘It's really going to suck to be them,' Jay laughed drily.

‘Mike Delta four-zero receiving,' another CAD operator interrupted.

‘Go ahead,' I transmitted.

‘Switch to spare, please,' the operator requested.

I reached for my radio and switched to the spare channel, leaving the despatch channel free to organise units for the violent disorder incident.

‘Mike Delta receiving four-zero,' I transmitted on the new channel.

‘Hi, Matt,' the operator said, leaving the formal tone of the main channel behind. Technically, radio protocol is meant to apply on all channels, but it always sounds really weird when people go through the full patter, especially when you know the person on the other end of the radio and there's only half a dozen people listening in.

‘Hey, Samantha. Busy?'

‘You bet. Are you guys dealing with anything?'

‘Nope, just stopped for a cuppa, but we can be free.'

‘Great. You're double-crewed, right?'

‘Yeah, I'm with Jay.'

‘Remind me of his shoulder number?'

‘It's four-eight-three. That's four-eight-three.'

‘Great, noted. We've just had an abandoned call from a phone box. It reported shouting, and what sounded like a man beating up a woman over on the Blankenship Estate, near the playground. We couldn't get any more information, and nobody is picking up the phone at the booth. CCTV has no coverage. Can you zip over and have a peek?'

‘Yeah, of course. On the hurry-up?'

‘Yes, please, on an I-grade. Is your Mobile Data Terminal working?'

‘No, sorry, we're in a Q-car. No MDT. I know where it is, though. What's the CAD number?'

‘CAD seven-two-eight-nine-two of today.'

‘Wicked, we'll take a look'

‘Thanks, sweets; say hi to Jay from me. Out.'

I turned to Jay.

‘Samantha says hi,' I said.

‘Yeah, I heard that. How very nice,' he said, sardonically. Sam and Jay used to date a few years back, but that came to a rather acrimonious end, which – much like Jay's exit from the AFOs – nobody knows much about.

Jay spun the wheel and pulled away from the gates.

‘Next left,' I said a few minutes later.

‘Then it should be the third or fourth right, right?' Jay grunted in reply.

We pulled up outside Blankenship, in a weird little deserted car park. There were walls in front of us and to our left, and on the third side there was a hedge and the playground Sam had mentioned.

The whole area was completely dead.

Jay leaned forward over the wheel and peered up into the council blocks. Blankenship is not one of the roughest estates we have on the borough, but it's on the edge of an area known for a large amount of gang activity. It has more than its fair share of stabbings, and police aren't exactly welcomed with fanfares, scones and tea.

‘I don't like this,' Jay said, sucking his teeth and reaching for his radio.

‘Show Mike Delta four-zero on location of our last assigned,' he stated, adhering to a spot of routine that may well have saved our lives.

‘I don't like this at all,' he repeated, after we'd had confirmation of our transmission.

‘There's the phone,' I said, pointing to the booth. It was just in front of the hedge. All of the windows of the box were smashed, and the rest of it was covered so thoroughly in graffiti that I found myself surprised that the box actually still worked well enough to place a 999 call. There's something to say for the engineering BT puts into its iconic red boxes.