Police, Arrests & Suspects Read online

  “Here’s Johnny!” I quipped feebly.

  “Neither the time nor the place,” rebuked my colleague sternly.

  All of a sudden and quite unexpectedly, Ron marched into the room, pulled out his irritant spray and directed a stream of pepper into Johnny’s eyes, sending him reeling backwards. He turned to us in triumph and blew on the top of the canister like a Wild West gunslinger. “I think my job here is done,” he said and then began making his way back out the door.

  Just then, there was an almighty crash. We all turned and looked back in time to see a shovel being smashed into the window and raked around the four edges to clear the glass from the pane. Johnny then started climbing through the gap like a rampaging silverback, seemingly oblivious that he was getting cut and bloodied in the process.

  “You’ve gone and poked the wasps’ nest now,” I announced, my voice rising by a few octaves. “He’s bloody crazy!”

  “I’ll radio for backup,” added Lloyd.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ron calmly. “We can take him.” And with that he racked his baton. Lloyd and I followed suit. Seconds later we were forced to jump back as Johnny swung his spade in an arc in front of him – missing us, but managing to embed it in his 52” plasma. As he struggled to wrench it free, I grabbed hold of the end to try and wrestle it from him but he managed to pull it out, propelling me into Lloyd in the process. Ron used the opportunity to deliver a leg strike with his baton in the hope of getting our man to the ground.

  Our attacker let go of the spade, sending Lloyd and I staggering backwards. He now turned his attention to Ron, giving him a right hook which sent him sprawling to the floor. I dived at his legs to try and topple him – if we could get him to the floor, we had a better chance of controlling him – but he just bent down and punched me between the shoulder blades, causing me to splay my arms out and release him. It was Lloyd’s turn now and he grabbed him from behind, but the guy just ran backwards into the wall, crushing our colleague and forcing him to release his hold. Ron and I were back on our feet, raining blows upon him, but they didn’t seem to make one iota of difference. Lloyd began delivering knee strikes, but they also seemed ineffectual. We now kept contact close as we continued to battle with him; none of us wanting to give him enough reach to punch out, but I was already becoming exhausted. It doesn’t take much fighting to tire you out. As I was hurled to the floor yet again I heard a warble, signalling that someone had finally pushed their emergency button. I got back up and dived in again, praying that the cavalry would arrive soon.

  In a fight like this nothing is choreographed. If everyone was coordinated, we’d get a better result, but, in the melee, as one person is trying to get the suspect over in one direction, someone else is trying to get him down the other way; someone is pushing him to the right, someone else pushing him to the left, cancelling it out. Invariably, it becomes a free-for-all, and the structured tactics in training school simply go out the window.

  Andy and Geezer burst through the door and immediately tried to assist, but it’s difficult to distinguish who is who in the heat of battle, and there isn’t always room to get in and grab the assailant, and with everyone spinning around… I felt a blow to my face and could taste the blood in my mouth. In a bizarre way, I hoped it was from our suspect and not a stray elbow from one of my colleagues.

  It was Charles Harper Webb, the American professor, psychotherapist and poet who once said: ‘There is no “nice way” to arrest a potentially dangerous, combative suspect. The police are our bodyguards; our hired fists, batons and guns. We pay them to do the dirty work of protecting us. The work we’re too afraid, too unskilled, or too civilised to do ourselves. We expect them to keep the bad guys out of our businesses, out of our cars, out of our houses, and out of our faces. We just don’t want to see how it’s done’.

  It was just as well that there wasn’t anyone to see how it was being done now because it wasn’t a pretty sight, and by no means civilised. One minute the maniac had been on the floor with five officers on top of him, the next he had thrown us all off and was punching the hell out of us. Eventually, however, slowly but surely and little by little, we gained control and our prisoner was finally handcuffed and bound with leg restraints around his ankles and his thighs. Still snarling, and continuing to stare menacingly at each officer in turn, he was then unceremoniously carried out to a waiting van. Puzzlingly, he hadn’t uttered a single word throughout, which somehow only served to make things seem worse. Barry was stood holding the door open as we placed him in. The rest of us, meanwhile, were either stood leaning against the sides of the vehicle or were bent double with our hands on our knees, our breathing laboured and blood smeared all over our hands, faces and uniforms, with aching joints and bruises to every part of our bodies.

  “At least everyone still has their teeth, and there’re no broken bones,” observed our leader. He had a point: no major injuries and we were all still alive – always a bonus!

  “Donoghue, what are you up to? Why are you grinning like a psychopath?” Barry had seen me out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the van, beaming broadly.

  “Smiling, Sarge – not grinning. I read about it. It says you should smile after something stressful. It lowers your heart rate.” Apparently, it’s got to be a genuine smile – engaging both your eyes and mouth. Laughing also has a myriad of benefits such as lowering stress, easing pain and boosting the immune system. I had toyed with the idea of chuckling away, but I wasn’t sure if the general public was quite ready to witness a bunch of police officers carrying a violent thug out to a van and then standing around laughing like drains.

  “You never cease to amaze me.” Barry shook his head before clarifying his position. “And by amaze, I mean deeply concern.”

  Note to self: don’t do the smiling thing when Barry’s about.

  Our sergeant then rallied the troops. “Now, the exciting part of the day: get back to the office and start writing up your statements. And you”, he added, addressing the monster in the back of the van, “are further arrested for resisting arrest.”

  Our prisoner was driven to custody with a guard of honour in case he kicked off again when we tried to get him out of the cage at the other end. Those of us remaining finally headed back to the parade room.

  “Apparently,” Jess informed us as we all sat typing up our statements, “the guy you arrested has got that Congenital Analgesia thing.” She folded up the piece of paper that she had written the term down on and put it back in her pocket. “His wife told me.”

  She was greeted by a series of shrugs from the rest of us.

  “It’s a disorder that means he can’t feel any pain,” she clarified.

  Pain signals run through neural pathways to the brain, and pain levels themselves are graded 1-10 by the medical profession. Grazes are ranked at number 2, a broken nose at 4, while childbirth and migraines register 8. At the highest level scoring 10, are dental pain and renal colic or kidney stones, although I would personally add toilet splashback and eating a Toblerone straight from the fridge to the list.

  “That explains a few things,” muttered Lloyd, holding a wad of damp paper towels to his forehead. “There had to be something super-human about him.”

  A general murmur of agreement spread around the room. A further murmur of approval followed when Barry came in and announced that traffic was taking on the collision investigation. The child neglect case, however, would remain our responsibility. In fact, in a room just along the corridor, the children were already being looked after by Chad until social services came to collect them. It’s a sad state of affairs, but today more children than ever before are looked after by the State due to abuse or neglect at home.

  Social services are hard to second guess, and I had no idea whether the children would be taken into long-term care or quickly returned to the family home. However, even when local authorities do remove children from immediate danger things often don’t get much better despite multi-agency involv
ement. Statistics show that 50% of girls who leave the care system become single mothers within two years; half of all inmates in young offender institutions are, or have been, looked-after children, and a massive 80% are unemployed after two years of leaving the care system. Yet, even with those depressing figures, I felt certain that the children we had rescued this morning would have a better start in life in care than if they remained in such an abusive household.

  An hour later, I was waiting in Barry’s office to discuss the case when he returned in the company of a young woman. “Social services!” he announced as he ushered her into the room, before disappearing off down the corridor. Her phone rang almost immediately, and I could hear her talking about the children to whoever was on the other end of the line, explaining that she had just arrived at the police station.

  As she stood chatting away, I noticed that she looked very prim and proper: an ankle-length, navy linen dress; hair scraped back in a bun and not a scrap of make-up. Large, horn-rimmed glasses, perched near the edge of her Roman nose, gave her the appearance of an old-fashioned school ma’am. What was most evident about her, though, was that she was clearly heavily pregnant.

  Being a gentleman, I caught her eye and, not wanting to disturb her call, quietly offered her my seat. It was only when I saw the look of abject horror on her face that I began to appreciate that something was drastically wrong. I mentally replayed my actions and after a few seconds and to my own intense dismay, I realised that to all intents and purposes I had made direct eye contact with this expectant mother while pointing enthusiastically at my crotch and mouthing, ‘Do you want to sit here?’

  I immediately felt that familiar warm glow of embarrassment rushing to every part of my body. Thankfully, at that very moment, Barry re-entered the room carrying a chair for her. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “It’s me,” she announced as she put her phone away and sat down. Well, maybe I had misjudged her – she seemed to have a sense of humour after all.

  “Hello you. It’s me, too!” I proclaimed happily in response.

  “No, that’s my name,” she replied frostily. “My name is Esme.”

  Barry looked over at me and shook his head before formally introducing us both. She wrote down our names but seemed to be pressing just a little bit harder with her pen when she wrote mine.

  The rest of the meeting was a sober affair. I reported on the state of the house, the condition of the children, the attitude of the parents and so on, whilst Esme took notes. I felt like I was being cross-examined and after an hour of questioning I was beginning to feel as if I was the guilty party. It was like the Spanish Inquisition… and nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! On a couple of occasions, when my answers clearly weren’t as detailed as she wanted, I was tempted to suggest that she might want to visit the property herself, but the occasional withering glance from my sergeant suggested to me that this wouldn’t be a good career move. It was nearly an hour later that she finally declared that she had heard enough and would be temporarily taking the children into care pending a full case conference. She then proceeded to get up and thank Barry for his support, completely ignoring me.

  Barry once again disappeared off down the corridor, this time to find Chad and the children, leaving me standing in an awkward silence with my interrogator. Eventually, I felt I had to clear the air and offered my hand and apologised for the lap-pointing debacle.

  “Sorry about the misunderstanding… about the lap-pointing thing.”

  And that’s where I should have left it, but instead I decided to try and make light of the whole sorry episode. “I guess that’s how you got into that predicament in the first place,” I joked, pointing to her bump. As she glanced up and met my gaze, I could tell that I had misjudged the situation entirely.

  I’d often heard that if you lose one sense your other senses become enhanced. That might also explain why people with no sense of humour have an increased sense of self-importance. As Esme began her retort in a calm and measured tone, I realised that this was definitely the case here.

  “Are you suggesting that I am with child because I sit on random strangers’ laps when I attend meetings?”

  It sounded like a question, but it was more of an accusation.

  “No…” I replied hesitantly, making it sound like it should have had a question mark at the end. I shook my head and looked down at my boots. I tried a nervous laugh but it clearly wasn’t cutting any ice. She was deadly serious. I started to edge out of the room, trying to extricate myself from this uncomfortable situation as quickly as possible. However, she wasn’t finished with me yet.

  “And predicament?” she hissed, as she repeated my ill-chosen words back to me. I sensed the scale of indignation in her voice. “My predicament? I most certainly do not call bringing life into this world a predicament!”

  She turned abruptly on her heel to face Barry, who had just returned in time to catch the tail end of my ritual humiliation. As she informed him where the children would be taken to, I felt my stress levels rising and went to combat it with a broad smile… just at the very second Esme chose to turn around. She shot me one of her school-ma’am glares.

  “Oh, so you think it’s all a big joke, do you?” She sounded angry – very angry.

  “No, no, he’s not happy about whatever has happened; he’s just read somewhere that…” Barry tried in vain to explain but it was too late: our guest was already storming off down the corridor.

  Note to self: start reading notes written to self.

  Meanwhile, Barry just looked at me, shaking his head in exasperation and pointing towards the door. As I sidled past him, I could hear him muttering those familiar words, “Donoghue, Donoghue, Donoghue.”

  Chapter 3

  Hitler in Tights

  “I hope you have a lovely day at the spa, sir,” beamed the receptionist as she handed over the small, foil-covered chocolate heart. “And enjoy the Valentine’s Day treat, with compliments of the hotel.”

  The smartly dressed male thanked her before making his way towards the changing rooms. He was still sat there twenty minutes later when Peter Erskine arrived and began to get changed. The two men exchanged pleasantries – the seated male revealing that his wife had arranged the visit to the spa as a Valentine’s Day present, whilst Erskine divulged that he was a regular visitor to the facilities, and that today he was booked in for a massage. When he had finished changing, Erskine donned a towelling robe, bid his new friend goodbye and then made his way through to the treatment rooms to await his pampering.

  As soon as he was out of sight, the other male retrieved his bag from underneath the bench, removed a crowbar and proceeded to jemmy open Erskine’s locker. Once inside, he helped himself to the Rolex he had seen Erskine wearing, and then patted down the pockets of the suit jacket. Finding his wallet, he quickly glanced inside to see a number of cards and some cash. After helping himself, and then carefully closing the locker, he put his stash in his bag and then hastily sent a pre-worded text from his phone. Within seconds, a car could be heard pulling up outside the rear of the spa. Exiting through a fire door, the male got in the back of the vehicle and was quickly driven away.

  Half an hour later, a call came through to the hotel that sent the young receptionist scurrying down the corridors to the spa. Soon a flustered Peter Erskine, wrapped in a white towelling robe, was taking a call that had been redirected from the main switchboard.

  “Is that Mr Erskine?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Hello, Mr Erskine, this is Colleen from the bank. I just need to carry out a few security questions before we can continue, if that’s ok?”

  When requested, his full name, date of birth, mother’s maiden name, first line of his address and details of his last purchase were duly given. Once the woman at the other end of the phone was satisfied that she was speaking to the account holder, she continued.

  “We’ve been contacted by the police, Mr Erskine, to inform us that they
have apprehended a man who has your wallet and a Rolex watch in his possession.”

  “That’s mine!” exclaimed Erskine. “Whilst we’ve been talking, the spa manager went to check and he confirms that my locker has been broken into!”

  “Well, the good news is that the police have recovered your property, and that the male responsible is now in custody.”

  “Excellent!” replied Erskine. “I hope they throw away the key!”

  “Pleased to be of service,” continued the woman. “Just to confirm: the police have your watch and the two credit cards, and we will arrange to have them all returned to you as soon as possible.”

  “Hang on, did you say two cards? There were three in my wallet.”

  “Actually, the police did say that a second male ran off,” conceded the woman. “He may well have the third card. I’ll arrange to have it cancelled straight away.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll just need a further security check before I can continue.”

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “I’ll need the last three numbers of the security code on the back of the card.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know it. It’s not something that you really remember.”

  “No problem, Mr Erskine. I can still cancel it with your PIN number.”

  “Now, that I can tell you; it’s the year that Tchaikovsky’s opera Jevgeni Onegin was premiered in Moscow.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “1879.”

  “That’s excellent, Mr Erskine,” she laughed. “That checks out. Your card has now been cancelled. We’ll have another one sent out to you. It usually takes up to five working days to arrive. In the meantime, if you could wait at the hotel, I’ve arranged for the police to come out to see you within the hour. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No, you’ve been more than helpful. Thank you very much.”

  Peter Erskine put the phone down, and took a seat in the garden room. The spa manager, who had been hovering nearby, approached his guest to apologise profusely for the unfortunate set of events that had occurred, whilst the receptionist brought him a brandy to calm his nerves.