Police, Arrests & Suspects Read online

  “So who called you, then?” enquired the man, cracking his knuckles. “Come on,” he repeated, “who is this mystery caller?”

  We tried to get back to establishing what had been going on, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to tell us anything until his question had been answered: who was to blame for our visit?

  “Come on,” he persisted, “who the fuck was it, then?”

  I saw the woman glance towards her partner, her eyes betraying her fear; trepidation written all over her face as she waited to see how I would respond.

  “A passer-by heard a disturbance and called us,” I lied. “Now, if you can explain what it was all about, we can either leave you to your evening, or take whatever action is needed.” This was another lie: I had no intention of leaving the couple in the same house tonight – not with the agitated body language the woman was displaying.

  “Nothing’s happened,” she stated acerbically. Now that she knew that I wasn’t going to drop her in it, she appeared to get a second wind. “We were enjoying a quiet night in before you ruined it, now fu…” She then proceeded to order us – in undiluted Anglo-Saxon – to leave their abode, adding some personal insults to her foul-mouthed diatribe. It was clear to me that she was terrified her partner would discover her duplicity, although her swearing and aggression made her a convincing actress.

  Despite all our efforts, they remained uncooperative. We had been unable to separate them and neither would explain what had happened prior to our arrival. We were just going round in circles, stonewalled at every junction and I had had enough.

  “How did you get that reddening to the side of your face?” I asked her.

  She shrugged and averted her eyes. I asked her partner the same question.

  “Can you explain how your girlfriend got that red mark on the side of her face?”

  “The kid slapped her? How should I know?” He smirked and sat back down in the armchair. He then resumed watching television.

  “It was the baby,” she volunteered, furtively glancing at her boyfriend, yet her eyes told a very different story. That was enough for us.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” I replied, addressing her, but speaking loudly enough so he could clearly hear. “And you,” I said, walking over to block his view of the TV screen, “are under arrest for assault.”

  Lloyd and I had worked together long enough for him to read my mind and so before the male had time to react my colleague had handcuffed him and was pulling him out of the chair.

  “He’s done nothing!” the woman screamed – the baby’s cries adding to the cacophony of noise. “Let him go, you bastards!” Obviously, she was maintaining her act until he exited stage left.

  “Take me away, Officers,” the male added cockily. “You’ve got nothing on me and I’ll be back in the morning. At least I’ll get some bloody peace and quiet and a decent night’s sleep. I’m sick of the constant crying of that thing!”

  He swaggered to the door, while she broke down in tears.

  “That kid has ruined my life!” he shouted back to her as he reached the door. “All I ever do now is bloody babysit!”

  “If it’s your own child, it’s actually just called ‘staying in’,” I corrected him.

  “Whatever!”

  As he was led out to the van, I informed the woman that we would be back to speak to her as soon as her partner had been booked into custody. It was her cue now to reply with a: “Whatever!” before shouting to her partner that she loved him and would be getting straight on to the inspector to complain.

  “If I weren’t in these cuffs, I’d smash your face right in!” The male began the customary tirade against us as soon as he was placed in the back of my vehicle. “You think you’re big because you’re in uniform, but when I see you when you’re off duty, I’ll fucking do you!”

  The abuse continued non-stop for the entire duration of the journey back to the station, but we had heard it all before and it was water off a duck’s back to us. They are known as ‘handcuff heroes’: those prisoners who are compliant before the cuffs are on, yet full of promises of how they’ll fight you when they are actually handcuffed, and then are compliant again when the cuffs are taken off. It’s easy to be brave when you know there will be no consequences.

  “Hey boys, you couldn’t let me have a quick ciggy before we go into custody, could you? C’mon, I’m gagging for one.”

  That’s another thing that prisoners do: swing from caustic abuse to being your best friend when they want something from you.

  “I didn’t think you had any. You didn’t have any when I searched you before you got in the van.”

  “No, but I thought you boys would have some.”

  “Sorry, neither of us smoke.”

  “You fucking faggots! I hope you and your whole bastard family die of cancer!”

  And there it is again – swinging back to abuse. I didn’t bother to point out to him the irony of his insult.

  When we eventually reached custody, with our prisoner laughing all the way through the process and insisting that we had nothing on him, I informed the sergeant of the circumstances of the arrest. There then followed the obligatory threat of getting us sacked for wrongful arrest.

  As Lloyd took the prisoner’s fingerprints and mug shot, I had a quiet word with the custody sergeant. He was right: we had little more than a cryptic phone call to the police and a reddening of the face; nevertheless, I still had reasonable grounds to suspect that he had assaulted her. Despite the lack of concrete evidence, however, I was aware that there would be little objection raised as long as I could demonstrate that I had taken positive action in a suspected domestic abuse incident. Around ten per cent of all crime per se is domestic related; it’s a figure every police force would like to see reduced.

  Once our suspect was safely ensconced in his cell, I returned to the address to see if I could obtain some better evidence to back up our case… and hoped that I’d get a better reception this time around.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  I gratefully accepted, and we stood in the kitchen while the kettle boiled.

  “I’m sorry about all that language earlier,” she began, taking the milk from the fridge. “I don’t really think your colleague looks like a lanky streak of piss, and I’m sorry for dragging your lovely Cornish accent through the mud.”

  I accepted her apology, and explained that I was actually from Wales; hoping that I didn’t really sound as she had portrayed me. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it isn’t when everything you say at an incident is repeated back to you in a ridiculous mix of Somerset and over-exaggerated Welsh valley patois; actually, imitation is not the best form of flattery if you’re talking to a stutterer, either.

  “It’s just that I wanted my partner out of the house. He’s always like that when he’s been drinking, but I really don’t want him to know that I called you.”

  I informed her that her partner would be in the cells overnight as we had to wait until he was sober before we could interview him. I then tried again to establish what had happened, but she was cagey with her replies. I tried to reassure her by telling her that we were taking the decision to prosecute him out of her hands: I had seen what I believed were injuries, and I suspected he was responsible.

  “We can still prosecute him even if you, as the victim, stay silent, but it would really help if you made a statement.”

  But her response was that she loved him and didn’t want to get him into trouble.

  “He’s not a nasty man, just a bit of a bad boy,” she told me. I must admit that I hadn’t really warmed to him – call me old fashioned, but wishing a deadly disease on me and my family is a bit of a mood killer. As for bad boys, it never ceases to amaze me how many girls say they like them… and how many of those girls eventually end up as single mothers.

  When I asked her about her relationship, she replied that it was complicated which usually means either: it’s none of your
business or I’ve got a story that will last for an hour. Thankfully, at least in this case, she was willing to talk. A third of all assaults recorded by the police are DV related, so any time invested with a victim is time well spent. However, it soon became apparent that her life had been one long series of let-downs and acceptances of being hurt. She told me that she wanted to give him a second chance – again. To me, it seems bizarre that whilst there are so many undeserving people getting that perpetual second chance, there are plenty of others who haven’t even used up their first. Of course relationships need to be worked at, but surely there must come a point when you realise that life is too short to be with someone who sucks all the happiness out of you. One of the hardest decisions you will ever face in life is choosing whether to try harder or walk away.

  Someone once told me that love is a game where you are constantly trying to balance an increasingly unstable structure before it crashes down around you; but, then again, they might just have been explaining the rules of Jenga.

  Actually, now I come to think of it, the person who gave me the Jenga advice chose ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ by U2 as her wedding song, so maybe she was biased. In the end, she had broken up with her husband citing what she termed ‘religious differences’. “I’m Catholic and he’s Satan,” she told me.

  I think the moral of the story is that relationships are complex and need work, but, on the other hand, if you’re giving your all and your all isn’t enough, then perhaps you’re giving it to the wrong person. If you love someone, let them go… and if they come back, then it’s probably because no one else wanted them.

  After an hour with the victim, discussing her fifty shades of regrettable life choices, we were no further forward. She wouldn’t make a statement, refused to have her face photographed and even formally denied that there had been a domestic incident.

  “Nothing will change unless you do something different,” I told her, but she wouldn’t budge. Even after I asked if she thought it was acceptable for her baby to grow up in an environment where she would hear and see emotional and physical abuse, she still wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Maybe I’ll just brush the dog’s teeth with his toothbrush instead,” she sighed. I looked out of the window into the backyard to see something that looked like a cross between a border collie and a pit bull; he looked like he’d rip your arm off and then go for help. Well, I suppose that was one way of getting even…

  Although it was cold comfort to me, at least she was now flagged up on the system and her partner was languishing in the cells. She also knew that support would be available to her now if she asked – she just needed to reach out and accept it. It can be frustrating, but sometimes there is only so much you can do.

  I said my goodbyes and wished her luck before returning to my vehicle where I sat in silence for a minute or two. I knew I’d be back at the address again in the future – I just hoped that it wouldn’t be soon. I also hoped that my victim wouldn’t end up just another sad statistic; that she would realise that she wasn’t trapped and that she could change things.

  It had been a disheartening call, and I couldn’t help feeling that, despite my best efforts, I’d only done half a job. Still, there was no point dwelling on it. Sometimes I wish that I could go back to a time when my only worry consisted of trying to stop the cassette tape before the DJ on Radio 1 started talking while I was recording the Top Ten.

  I was still ruminating over it as I started the ignition, only to be interrupted by the sound of a private call coming through on the police radio. It was Kim in Comms telling me of another 999 call: this time a man reporting that a passing dog had urinated against his front gatepost.

  It’s estimated that of the almost six million 999 calls made to the police each year, about eighty per cent – a staggering four million – are judged to be non-urgent; well, maybe it was an emergency in this case – for the dog, anyway. The problem is that genuine calls that need our immediate attention – like the takeaway curry call – can sometimes be missed; lost amongst the trivial calls concerning weeing dogs, dirty touchscreens, missing McNuggets, confiscated cannabis and disappointing prostitutes. The point is: just because someone rings in on an emergency line it doesn’t automatically qualify as an emergency.

  As the old saying goes, ‘All that glitters is not gold’ – take glitter, for example.

  Chapter 13

  Brad the Impaler

  BANG! The old wooden garage doors went in with one kick, sending splinters and scraps of old paint flying as they smashed against the inside walls. We stood, our batons raised, poised ready to attack, peering into the gloom only to see three shocked faces staring back. Horrified expressions immediately crossed our own faces as we surveyed the scene in front of us… and I was a little bit sick in my mouth.

  An hour before I had been standing in the parade room, listening to the briefing for today’s operation. There had been a spate of thefts from vehicles and, as a result, I had been brought forward and was working with Brad from B shift. We had been in an unmarked police car in the multi-storey car park at about six in the evening, monitoring a group of suspicious looking youths, when the fateful call had come in. A man out walking his dog on the industrial estate had reported hearing screams that not even the deaf could ignore emanating from one of the old disused garages. “It sounded like someone was being brutally murdered in there!” he added, describing the blood-curdling cries to a horrified Comms operator.

  Even before the job had been fully passed over the open airwaves we were revving the engine and accelerating down the ramp of the multi-storey. It can be hard enough to make progress through traffic even when you’ve got your blues and sirens on, but in an unmarked vehicle you’re on a hiding to nothing. Not all unmarked cars have hidden strobes in their grille or a blue light snowglobe that you can just lean out of the window and slap on to the roof at some jaunty angle; without these, you have no authority to break the speed limits, go through red lights or drive the wrong way down one-way streets; and other cars just assume that you’re an impatient driver, therefore try and hinder you as you attempt to get past. Eventually, by beeping our horn and using every short cut and diversion that we could think of, we finally arrived on scene to the sound of sickening screams piercing the still air – and that was before we had even got out of the vehicle. We sprinted to the garage. Brad stopped and stepped back, drawing his right foot up to waist level before kicking out, sending his boot smashing into the door…

  Once the dust had settled, and by the dim glow of a 40-watt light bulb, I was able to make out three figures. I blinked hard, half hoping that when I opened my eyes again the horrific vision in front of me would have disappeared. Unfortunately, it hadn’t.

  Before me were two of the town’s habitual criminals: Drew and Chris Peacock; their presence was usually anticipated when something unlawful was occurring. However, what was unusual about this scenario was that their frail old mother was with them. What was even more peculiar was that Drew was naked from the waist down and bent over a table, his posterior naked and exposed. What was really strange, and frankly quite disturbing, was what Chris and his mum appeared to be doing to Drew’s bottom – the thing that had caused me to do a little sick burp. Chris appeared to be holding his brother’s anus wide open with a pair of dessert spoons, whilst his dear old mum appeared to have her hand inserted deep into the void; delving in as if she was at a fairground bran tub searching for a prize. Upon seeing us, the trio had frozen mid dip. I didn’t really know what to say: should I order them to stop or just tell them to crack on and excuse myself, quietly closing the door behind me as I left?

  My dilemma was solved when Brad broke the awkward silence with an understated: “What the…!”

  Suddenly, it was a free-for-all as they each tried to justify their role in this bizarre threesome; all gabbling at high speed sounding as if they were speaking in tongues. Eventually, Brad called a halt to proceedings, signalling for them all
to stop. He wanted to hear from them one at a time and since Drew appeared to be the centre of attention, it seemed only fair that he should go first.

  A lengthy tale of woe then poured forth from our poor, unfortunate victim as he described, in detail, how he had received a visit from the taxman. According to Drew, someone must have dropped him in it by informing his unwelcome visitor that he had been cultivating an illegal cannabis grow in the lock-up. The taxman had searched the building high and low, but had failed to find any evidence of the plants. He then maintained that the collector, frustrated and angry that there was no tax to collect, had flown into an incandescent rage, grabbing a car’s suspension strut – that just happened to be conveniently lying about – and forcibly ramming it up his anus and violently kicking it into place. The man had then left, slamming the doors shut and leaving him all alone in this awkward pickle.

  At this stage, I think some explanation is in order before you begin panicking that your Self-Assessment form might have got lost in the post. Let me reassure you that HM Revenue & Customs hasn’t resorted to such draconian tactics… at least not yet; rather it appears that the criminal fraternity are also advocates of the monetarist system of economics and, just as the government tax us on our earnings, so some of the bigger crooks tax the smaller villains on theirs – their illegal earnings that is. In this case, the tax collector in question was Big Vince, one of the town’s hard men, who not only has previous convictions for bottom-related activities, but is also not a big fan of paperwork either.

  On discovering that the offending item appeared to be stuck in situ, our distraught victim had ruminated over his predicament for some time before phoning his brother, Chris, whom he insisted had some medical training.

  Once again, I think I ought to clarify a few things before you have visions of Chris Peacock in a black V-neck St John Ambulance jumper, with a first aid satchel slung across his shoulders: Drew’s idea of ‘medical training’ consisted of the fact that his brother used to be ‘pretty good at playing Operation’. You may or may not remember the children’s game, but it basically comprises of the comic likeness of a patient nicknamed ‘Cavity Sam’ who has a number of openings in his body filled with fictional and humorously named ailments made out of plastic. The rules require players to systematically remove these plastic ailments with a pair of tweezers without touching the sides of the cavity in which it has been placed, lest Sam’s nose light up and an annoying buzzer sounds; so, I guess, almost the same training as St John’s.