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  Instead of calling the police and leaving us to deal with the situation, the victim’s partner had led a spirited counter-attack, accompanied by their teenage son, a pickaxe handle and a large kitchen knife.

  Making a tactical withdrawal up the stairs, Donna had been joined by reinforcements in the form of her partner and another neighbour who didn’t really know what was going on, but didn’t want to miss out on any of the action. Complete bedlam had then followed.

  However, despite her full and frank confession, Donna was unrepentant. She remained adamant that the level of violence used was totally justified in light of the initial offence.

  “It’s disgusting! Dog shit in public areas should be stamped out!”

  A noble sentiment; if not without a messy outcome.

  I gathered together my interview notes, the statements from my colleagues, the list of exhibits and details of the weapons seized and then spent the next hour or so compiling them all into some kind of coherent report for the Crown Prosecution Service.

  A short while later and I was back in the custody suite. As I called her back to the desk, Donna seemed genuinely surprised to learn that I was charging her and the rest of the residents with violent disorder.

  “I’LL SEE YOU IN COURT!” she shouted after me as I left. Judging by her tone, I don’t think we are friends anymore.

  I’m not entirely sure why, but criminals seem to think that this is some sort of threat to us. In reality, a visit to a magistrates’ court is like a school reunion for most police officers, as well as being a morning away from the usual routine. To be honest, I was also quite looking forward to hearing what the judge’s reaction to ‘Poo juice-gate’ would be.

  I had dog overload, and decided to clear my head with a quick drive around Sandford in the company of Gwen before I began putting together my court file. No sooner had we reached the town than Comms were on the radio again, informing us that a passer-by had reported an extremely drunk man staggering along the road. We were tasked with making sure that he was safe, and hadn’t become another road traffic statistic. We looked at our watches: it seemed a bit late for a night-time reveller – the clubs would have closed a long time ago.

  We eventually located our straggler in the old part of town, taking two steps back for every three steps forward – and one step sideways. He was zigzagging all over the place, but was just about managing to remain upright by using the occasional lamp post for assistance; hanging onto it for dear life before swinging round it, each time propelling himself off in a completely new direction. We kept our distance, just checking that he made his way back home safely, and that no one saw him as easy pickings and tried to separate him from his wallet. Things were going pretty much to plan until he staggered up to the front porch of a house where he proceeded to rifle about for something. He had obviously found what he was looking for when he fished out his tackle and began urinating all over the front door.

  “That is just disgusting!” exclaimed Gwen. “Isn’t that where the Crawfords live?”

  “You’re right,” I replied. “They’re not going to be happy!”

  Gwen unclipped her seat belt and started to get out of the vehicle.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I queried.

  “To arrest him for urinating over a stranger’s front door.”

  “Just give it a minute,” I urged her. I spoke from bitter experience: I’d gone to arrest a drunken male for urinating in the street and had tapped him on the shoulder only for him to turn around mid-flow and pee all over my boots. An extra sixty seconds wouldn’t do any harm. We’d let him remove his privates from public view before moving in. However, our plans went up in smoke when the gentleman concerned fumbled in his pocket, fished out his keys and let himself in to the house.

  “It’s Geoffrey Crawford!” we both exclaimed in unison. “He’s been pissing on his own front door!” That would certainly give Eileen something to complain about!

  “He’s a recovering academic,” my colleague mused. “Maybe I’ll pop round tomorrow and have a word when his head’s a bit clearer. We don’t want to disturb Eileen at this hour, either.”

  I was forced to agree. I thought it best not to wake Mrs Crawford at this time in the morning and risk setting her off.

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” I muttered.

  “That’s a bit harsh,” commented Gwen.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that…” but it was too late. It had already been said.

  Gwen started the engine and began turning the car around to head back to the station.

  “After all we’ve been through during this shift,” my colleague informed me, and thankfully changing the subject, “I’m going to have a large glass of wine when I eventually get home.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “I thought you told me you were having a dry month?”

  “I am,” she replied. “I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge.”

  Chapter 12

  All That Glitters…

  “You called 999 for this?” I wasn’t annoyed, rather just incredulous.

  I was standing in a pleasant house in a quiet residential street in Sandford, where a woman, sprawled out on the sofa, had just informed me that her husband had accidentally taken the TV remote control to the pub with him. I made her repeat the tale just to make sure that I had understood it correctly: there was no theft; no domestic violence; no malice – he had just accidentally gone out with the remote in his coat pocket. Consequently, the woman had been left with what I would classify as a mild inconvenience: having to get up and walk to the television set when she wanted to change the channel.

  “And you called the police on the emergency 999 line?” I asked again, still stunned that I had blue-lighted across town for this!

  “Well, I tried to ring the 0845 number, but I couldn’t get through,” she responded defensively.

  “The 0845 number?”

  This was certainly new to me. To my knowledge, it was 999 for emergencies or the continental 112 that can also be used in the UK to request fire, police and ambulance services. There is also the 101 for non-urgent police incidents, but I had never heard of an 0845 number.

  “Where did you get that from?” I asked, seeking clarification.

  “Emblazoned on the door of your police station!” she replied emphatically. “It clearly says 0845-1730.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds before the penny dropped.

  “I think you’ll find that’s the opening hours for the front office, madam.”

  “Oh.”

  Undeterred, she asked me what I was going to do about her missing remote.

  I was a little confused by her question. This was by no means a police matter, but I then made the fatal mistake of opening up this whole debate by asking what she actually expected me to do.

  “I want you to go round the pub,” she stated, speaking slowly and spelling it out for me as if I were stupid, “tell him what he’s done, get it off him and then bring it back to me.”

  In my defence, I think I was still partially astounded by the whole incident and so instead of walking out, I asked her why she didn’t just phone him.

  “D’errh!” she replied. “If I ring, he’ll just tell me to wait until he gets back. If you go, he’ll have to do as he’s told!” She shook her head in exasperation.

  “Look, madam, I’m going to stop you there. This is not a police matter in any way, shape or form, and I will not be collecting the remote control for you or indulging in any further conversation with you about it. The matter is now closed. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “So I’m going to have to get up and change channels like some sort of animal?”

  I managed not to reply with a: ‘Yes, like a barbarian!’ I toyed with telling her that perhaps in future she should ask her husband to do the ‘Macarena’ before leaving the house, so she could check if he had the remote as well as his keys to get back in. Ultimately, I decided ag
ainst it. I also decided not to dignify her question with an answer. I put my notebook away and prepared to leave.

  “Whilst you’re up,” she shouted desperately as I reached the door, “put BBC1 on, will you? EastEnders is on in a second!”

  I politely declined. As I walked out, I heard her scream something about how she paid my (expletive deleted) wages, knew my (expletive deleted) superintendent and would get me (expletive deleted) sacked. I quietly clicked the door shut behind me and headed back to normality.

  Sadly, nowadays calls like this tend to disappoint rather than shock me.

  Operator: “You’re through to the police. How can we help?”

  Caller: “I’m at the beach, there’s a couple shouting. They’re fighting now. Oh my God, he’s hitting her over the head now… with a cricket bat!” The man was breathless, urgently relaying events as they unfolded; hardly pausing for breath. “A policeman has just arrived. He’s taken the bat off the man. He’s started hitting the man with his baton – no, the man’s got the baton off him and is using it to hit the officer now! Jesus! A crocodile has just come along and stolen a string of sausages… ”

  He suddenly stopped speaking and there was an awkward silence before the operator finally spoke in a calm and controlled manner: “You’re at the seaside watching a Punch & Judy show, aren’t you, sir?”

  Caller: “That’s the way to do it!” and with that he put the phone down.

  I’m from a generation where calling 999 was something sacred: only to be done in a real emergency! However, it now seems that some people ring 999 at the drop of a hat.

  Operator: “Police emergency, can I help you?”

  Caller: “Someone’s stolen my… oh, hang on, there it is…” Click. Brrrrr.

  The number of 999 calls has increased substantially over the years, largely due to the use of mobile phones.

  Operator: “Police emergency, can I help?”

  Caller: “Oh, don’t mind me. I was just wiping cake crumbs off my touchscreen.”

  Often, for some people it’s just too easy to call the police if things aren’t going their way.

  Caller: “This is an emergency!”

  Operator: “You’re through to the police, how can we help?”

  Caller: “They’ve run out of McNuggets!”

  Apparently, the caller was upset because she had already ordered her McNuggets before she was told they were sold out, and now the devils were asking if she wanted something else from the menu instead; but if she had wanted something else she would have ordered it in the first place! My heart went out to her – as did my colleagues’ – when we charged her with wasting police time.

  Operator: “Police emergency, can I help you?”

  Caller: “You recently arrested my son for possession of cannabis. Well, it was actually my cannabis. I grew it and I want it back.”

  Operator: “Just give me your address, madam, and we’ll send somebody round straight away.”

  She promptly received a home visit from the authorities where they also discovered a small grow of five cannabis plants, which we removed as well.

  Operator: “What’s your emergency?”

  Caller: “I’m masturbating too much.”

  Operator: “Sir, that’s not really a problem.”

  Caller: “Just one second,” places hand over the receiver. “DID YOU HEAR THAT, MUM? NOW GET OFF MY CASE!”

  And in a similar vein:

  Operator: “You’re through to the police.”

  Caller: “I want to complain about a prostitute I booked.”

  Operator: “About a prostitute you booked? Have I got that right, sir?”

  Caller: “Yes! I want her done for fraud! She said she was in her thirties and had massive boobs.”

  Operator: “Sir, I don’t think this call is appropriate…”

  Caller: “Well, she was late-forties at best… and a saggy-titted monster!”

  Everyone is different: some are cup half full, while others are cup half empty people; usually it doesn’t matter – except that is when it comes to bra cups… well, this gentleman seemed to think so anyway. He was politely informed that the aesthetic qualities of a professional escort would not be something we would comment on.

  Operator: “You’re through to the police, how can I help?”

  Caller: “Have you thought about buying a new boiler? We can supply and fit one cheaper than British Gas or any of the other leading suppliers!”

  Operator: “You do know this is an emergency line?”

  Caller: “But this is an emergency – the offer ends this Saturday!”

  Regrettably, this wasn’t an isolated incident: it’s surprising how many sales calls actually come through on the 999 system. In businesses where salespeople are judged on how many prospects they actually connect and talk to, the emergency line is an easy target, and provides them with a tick in the box.

  Other bizarre and inappropriate 999 calls have come in from people complaining about noisy seagulls; a daughter reported her parents for having loud sex in the next room; someone else rang in irate because they couldn’t get a hot-dog tin open; another who woke up with the duvet over her head and panicked; and perhaps the most tragic case of all; the individual who was having trouble logging on to Facebook!

  It must take a lot of patience to work in Comms and not just because of some of the idiots who ring in and abuse the system. The 999 operators frequently deal with people who are at their most vulnerable or are panic-stricken or in utter despair. Your worst day is their everyday.

  For a number of reasons, whenever I have the opportunity, I’m always at pains to tell the Comms staff that I admire what they do. Not only are they the first point of contact for potentially hysterical and scared members of the public, which they consistently handle incredibly well, but, moreover, it’s worth staying on the right side of the control room staff otherwise they can send you to some really rubbish jobs. Tonight, however, and despite my charm offensive towards them, I must have slipped up somewhere and upset someone, as I was contacted shortly after leaving the last job and told to attend an address where a woman had recently called the police asking for a curry.

  Operator: “You realise that you’re through to the police, madam?”

  Caller: “Yes, I’d like a curry, please. Can you deliver it to 263 Odin Place on the Black Estate.”

  Operator: “This is an emergency line, not a takeaway, madam.”

  Caller: “Can you make it quick?”

  Operator: “Madam, I really think that you should…”

  Caller: “The sooner you can come round the better. I need it straight away!”

  It was at this point that the operator began to realise that maybe this wasn’t just another caller misusing the system, and perhaps there was more to it. Police receive a call about a domestic incident every thirty seconds, so operators are always alert to the possibility that amongst the spurious calls there may well be a genuine cry for help.

  Operator: “Madam, just answer yes or no. Do you need police assistance?”

  Caller: “Yes.”

  Operator: “Are you unable to talk freely because there is someone with you?”

  Caller: “Yes.”

  Operator: “We’ll get an officer there as soon as we can.”

  Caller: “Can you make that two naan breads? My partner is very hungry.”

  Operator: “Understood. We’ll send a couple of officers out to you. I’m passing the information to my colleagues now; officers are already travelling to your location. If you stay on the line…”

  A shout was heard in the background of the woman’s address and the caller hastily put down the receiver.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of town, I was instantly updated about the job and notified that Lloyd was also travelling to the address. I lit up the blues but kept the sirens off: I didn’t want to alert whoever was in the house that we had been called until the very last second. Arriving in the street at the same time, Lloyd and I got
out of our cars and jogged towards the address. A lack of house numbers on the doors of the properties made it difficult to identify where we were supposed to be: Odin Place is a maze of terraces. Eventually, I noticed a woman frantically waving us over from inside one of the houses.

  As we ran up the path we could see into the front lounge: EastEnders was playing on the large TV screen that dominated the room and illuminating the figure of a male slouched in an armchair, swigging from a can of Carlsberg. The woman pointed discreetly towards the front door before picking up a baby and making her way towards the male. The door was unlocked so we let ourselves in and headed for the lounge, announcing our presence as we entered the room.

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN OUR HOUSE!” the woman yelled back at us, startling me. This wasn’t the reception that I usually received when the cavalry arrived. “Fuck off! You’re not welcome here!” She cradled the baby closer to her chest, whilst taking a couple of small steps backwards.

  Alerted by her screams, the male had jumped up out of his chair and was now on his feet. He turned to face us: he looked to be in his mid-twenties, of average height, although his build was scrawny; his greasy dark hair lay limp across his forehead, seeming to accentuate his close-set eyes. He hopped from leg to leg as if he was in a boxing match, pushing his shoulders back and jutting his head forward before he began demanding to know why we had just walked into his home.

  “If you ain’t got a warrant, then fuck off back where you came from!”

  “Go on, get out!” The woman complemented his comments with contemptuous sneers. “Bastards! We fucking hate coppers!”

  I looked over at the woman. Despite the vitriol of her verbal attack I could see she was frightened; her hands trembling as she held onto the baby tightly swaddled in a pink blanket. Her long black hair was matted, her make-up smudged, and it looked as if she had been crying. The left side of her face appeared red, too; consistent with a recent slap or punch.

  Whilst Lloyd informed the male that we didn’t need a warrant if we believed that a breach of the peace was occurring, I attempted to get the woman into a different room; away from her partner. She wasn’t playing ball though and refused to budge; holding onto her boyfriend’s arm and moving just slightly behind him.