Prisoners, Property and Prostitutes (10 page)

Newport had something of a name for scandal within the Force – it was seen from the outside as a ‘sin bin’ where anyone who had misbehaved was sent, but in my experience they were generally a good bunch. Granted there was the odd incident – a couple of months before my arrival, so the story goes, a Sergeant had become frustrated by complaints from locals about a gypsy camp, and the gypsies refused all his suggestions to move on. They were happy where they were. But not for long. One night the Sergeant took matters into his own hands. With a rifle from the gun safe and some ammunition from the relevant store he drove to the camp and shot the windscreens out of a number of the gypsies’ trucks, as well as killing a couple of their dogs. By the morning the site was deserted, just a few piles of rubbish and some broken glass showing where the residents had been. Unfortunately the gunshots had woken a nearby resident who in a fit of public-spiritedness had taken the registration number of the ‘getaway’ car and reported it by 999 call to headquarters.

It was the Sergeant’s own private car.

In the absence of any complainants, the Discipline
Department scoured the country to locate the gypsies, and eventually secured the statements they were after.

The Sergeant was convicted of a number of offences at Court, and threatened with loss of pension as well as his suspended sentence, a cruel blow to a man with 31 years’ service.

Rumour had it that he eventually brokered a deal, being allowed to keep his pension and retire on ill-health in return for not going to the papers with all the personal secrets he held concerning a large number of senior officers.

To the east of the town centre was the large, fairly new council estate with its different groups of roads named after different towns around the country. West and south of the town other, older more solid council estates housed the older more solid criminals, though with a fair proportion of very decent people too. The town still had a core of residents who predated the more recent expansion, who retained some pride in their community. One such was Mrs. Ellis, who lived with her husband only a few hundred yards from the station. She had given lodgings to many a new officer when they were first posted to the town, and over the years her house had become a favourite ‘brew spot’, especially for those with overdue paperwork who wanted a break but didn’t want to go back to the station. She also had a contract to supply cooked breakfasts for the prisoners in the station’s eight cells, so on early turn someone would be allocated to go and collect the relevant number of plastic plates to give to the previous night’s ‘guests’.

The breakfasts she provided were colossal – a proper
helping of egg, bacon, beans, tomato, fried bread, sausage and black pudding. Far too good, many thought, for the ungrateful creatures for whom she prepared them. But Mrs. Ellis took a pride in her work, and the idea of providing a sub-standard service for anyone was not in her nature. Unfortunately for the prisoners, the food was so tempting that by the time it actually arrived at the cells the tastier bits had often disappeared into the stomach of the man delivering them – probably best viewed as a sort of tithe or delivery charge.

One of the best things about being in Newport was that I was no longer a ‘Probie’. I had the small amount of security provided by being (at least technically) a fully fledged copper and it felt very reassuring, a real confidence-booster. Having said that I was still young in service, so was often landed with the more menial tasks such as prisoner escorts, front desk cover and school crossing patrols. These last were normally done by some dedicated individuals who were paid a pittance to stand at the side of the road for an hour or so every weekday morning and afternoon and help children on their way to or from school. When one of the patrols fell ill, which happened quite regularly as most were pensioners earning a bit of pin money, one of us had to do the duty instead.

One day not long after I arrived I was being driven round by Colin when I was called to do a crossing at very short notice. I still didn’t know my way round, and to make matters worse this particular morning it was incredibly foggy. I was dropped off at the crossing and stood freezing gently and barely able to make out the flashing Belisha beacon on the far side of the road. There was almost no traffic, and more annoyingly not a single
child used the crossing, so my presence was quite unnecessary. I passed the time wondering why I couldn’t have spent an undisturbed hour doing paperwork and drinking tea instead, but such was the benefit of hindsight.

When my time at the crossing point was up I called the station on my radio and asked if someone could collect me, but was told to walk back to the station. I explained I had no idea where to walk, I wasn’t sure where I was and any possibility of orientation was rendered utterly impossible by the fog. It was a good half hour before Colin reappeared and I got in the car. He drove about 70 yards down the road and stopped. Right outside the Police Station.

I realised it was time to put a bit more effort into improving my local knowledge.

I soon encountered another drawback of being relatively young in service. If there was anything involving some form of public relations, you were likely to be the one who was ‘volunteered’ for it. A local initiative wanted to highlight the links between Police and schools, and it was decided that a press release and photo would do the trick. The photo was to show a couple of smiling Police Officers with two charming schoolchildren. Needless to say I was picked along with Jill Sanderson, my Sergeant at the time. She was ‘acting’, hoping for a permanent promotion, so she needed to score as many points as possible during this time to help her career. Wearing best full uniform we went to a local school and were introduced to a small girl and a smaller boy, and at the photographer’s direction stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling sheet, to give a white background. Jill
held the girl’s hand for the photo while I had to pick the lad up in the role of guardian or rescuer. It seemed a bit ‘twee’, but after a few minutes I began to feel a warm sense of satisfaction. This was the ‘difference’ I had wanted to make when I applied to the job. Being in the community, being visible, approachable and useful.

Shortly afterwards the warm feeling became a little too realistic, and I realised the boy I was holding had sprung a leak.

‘Have we had an accident?’ simpered the teacher.

‘I don’t know about ‘we’, but he certainly has,’ I said, putting the child back on the floor and removing my immaculate tunic, which had a dark stain on its already dark material.

‘Oh he often does that if he gets excited or nervous.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

I gave up on the idea of community policing and rekindled my dreams of traffic instead. I was to have contact with many bodily fluids over the years, but few as unwelcome as my only attempt at bringing my compassionate nature into the classroom.

As at my first posting, the availability of alcohol played a part in the social life of the block, but some took it a bit more seriously than others, and it was not just the CID who had a penchant for drink – the shift pattern allowed you to finish a late shift and grab an hour in the pub, as indeed did the early shift. Some drink driving took place off duty, but it was never widespread even though there was no great prospect of prosecution as long as you didn’t hit another car, or weren’t stopped by one of the Traffic lads. If you did, you were rightly on your own. A couple of years
after my arrival my station Sergeant was disqualified for drink driving, but instead of the inevitable dismissal that would occur today, he simply made arrangements to be picked up and dropped off by a panda car at the start and finish of each shift. His tour of duty involved sitting in the station checking files and other paperwork submissions, and supervising the radio room and front desk, so lack of a licence didn’t affect the work he actually did. Unfortunately it also meant that he didn’t have to worry about driving, so the drinking continued unabated.

One evening it was my turn to collect him. I went to his house and rang the doorbell, but got no reply. After a couple more rings I went to look through the open curtains and saw the Sergeant in full uniform in his lounge. In the lounge was a wood framed, glass-topped coffee table. In the centre of the coffee table where he had recently fallen was the Sergeant, flailing like a uniformed tortoise in the broken glass as he tried to arise from the chaos.

Realising that to knock on the window would be counterproductive and embarrassing for both of us I returned to the front door, where after a few minutes he appeared, straightened his hat, bade me good evening and got into the waiting car. The matter remained a secret for several minutes – such a sight was too unusual to keep quiet about to the rest of the block – but the Sergeant was much-liked and I don’t think he ever learned what his open curtains had revealed to the shift.

Newport also had a small collection of tramps, most of whom kept a low profile, apart from one who would buttonhole you at inconvenient moments and talk loudly about very little,
perhaps thinking that by befriending you he would be less liable to arrest next time he was badly drunk. He once gave me a lecture on the evils of drink (a bit rich coming from him) but he explained that I would do well to avoid whisky and rum as they were ‘dark drink’, and it was ‘the dark stuff that does the damage.’

That, he explained, was why he drank ‘clear’ alcohol, as it wouldn’t hurt you at all.

‘Look, this is the best stuff of all, no harm to me from this,’ he enthused, and to my amazement he pulled a bottle of surgical spirit from inside his coat, took a hefty swig from it and staggered on his way.

I stuck with beer, and then only in moderation.

Part of my University degree had involved the study of dialectology, and the block at Newport was a wonderful mixture in this respect. We had people from all over the United Kingdom, which was to cause bewilderment to a member of the public one day when he asked a foot patrol at the far end of the town for directions to the Police Station. The Officer replied in a strong Glaswegian accent, pointing him in the right direction. Becoming disorientated a few minutes later he approached a second foot patrol who replied to him in a rich Lancashire voice. On arrival at the Police Station he received a cheery ‘Wotcha Guv’nor’ from Paul Lenehan, our resident cockney. The gent felt he had done the length of the country rather than just the town.

Paul was a very lively, outgoing ex-army man, and was often given the job of front desk cover. He would deal politely and
tolerantly with the numerous people who came in each day. The enquiries would cover the usual wide range from reporting property lost or found, to giving advice on domestic disputes, crime prevention and routine document productions. It was difficult to fall out with Paul, the only problem being that he was naturally prone to talking quite fast, and when he got excited he spoke so quickly that with his strong ‘sarf east’ accent he became almost impossible to understand.

He very rarely lost his temper with anyone, but a busy day at the front desk could try anyone’s patience, and Paul reached breaking point with a youth who marched in one day and demanded to visit his brother in the cells. Paul had several other people in the queue to deal with so politely directed the lad to take a seat and wait his turn. This advice needed to be repeated progressively more firmly as the youth continued to demand to be dealt with, and eventually became quite threatening, which is really not a sensible thing to do in a Police station. As Paul finished dealing with one member of the public, the lad shoved his face in front of Paul’s and shouted, ‘Am I going to see my brother now or what?!’

Paul reached out and grabbed the youth by his clothing, and face to face replied to him,‘Yeah – right now!’ before hoisting him clean over the counter to deposit him in a heap on his own side. He handcuffed the now ranting, swearing youth as he properly cautioned him and told him he was under arrest for disorderly conduct in a Police station. He dragged his new prisoner down to the cell passage, and returned a couple of minutes later, addressing the remaining people with a cheery, ‘Right. Who’s next?’

Needless to say they were a bit hesitant at approaching the counter, and when they did they were very polite.

As my career started to blossom a little I was able to start drawing on previous experience and advice, to gain in confidence and competence, but still every day brought new and different situations. Most of the time there was very little drama, the usual run of drunks at a weekend, shoplifters (often from charity shops, surprisingly!) and minor road accidents, each one different, but never anything of a sort that would make good viewing on a half-hour television programme. What did surprise me however was the sheer variety of people in the town, and the conditions in which some of them lived.

A domestic argument took me to a house where the mother of five turned out to be on her way to her third divorce, a situation not helped by the pressures of raising so many young children. Maybe not an unusual occurrence, but the lady in question had only recently celebrated her 21st birthday.

Many of the ‘pond life’ lived in houses which were quite pleasant to look at from the outside, but were so neglected by the inhabitants you wondered how they tolerated the conditions which were, after all, of their own making. Colin and I walked up a garden path to a terraced house in the old part of town, the path half overgrown by the lawn. Obviously a lawn mower was not in the family’s list of possessions, but a dog was. I realised this as my boot slipped gently on what was termed a ‘dog’s egg’ left on the path. This happened just as Colin had knocked at the door. ‘I can’t come in,’ I muttered to him, ‘I’ve just trodden in a big pile of dog shit.’

At this point the door opened, and the lady of the house ushered us politely in. Despite what he had been told about the state of my footwear, Colin stood back and said, ‘After you.’

I thought he was trying to embarrass me, but as I looked into the hallway I saw that it was a way of reassuring me. The hall was littered with ‘dogs’ eggs’ as liberally as the garden, and the smell was horrendous. It was Colin’s way of letting me know not to waste my time apologising or staying outside as it made no difference what I had trodden in – it wouldn’t show. But how these people lived what they considered to be normal lives in this filth, and with such a blatantly low standard of hygiene still surprises me.