by Mike Pannett
As Shaun took a step back, hands in the air as if to say, ‘Who, me?’, Ed, Fordy and Jayne struggled to keep Big John restrained. ‘I’ll f***ing have the lot of you,’ he spluttered as he writhed and kicked out and threatened us all with death and destruction. ‘One at a time, I’ll take you.’
I added my weight to the pile of bodies, Asp in one hand, cuff in the other. Slowly, gradually, I got a set on his left wrist, Jayne got hers on his right, and we used a third set to join the two together. Not exactly textbook stuff, but it worked.
In situations like this you’re aware that the suspect can be causing himself quite a bit of harm, struggling on the hard pavement. But you can’t apply the handcuffs until you have him under control.
The marketplace was now illuminated by flashing blue lights as Chris Cocks arrived with the van. Shaun was now lurking in the shadows, but Big John, restrained as he was, was still mouthing off, and I was the target of his venom. ‘You might have the cuffs on me now,’ he shouted, his bloodshot eyes staring right at me, ‘but you f***ing wait till I see you’re off duty. You’re a bastard gand you’re gonna get what’s coming to you.’ He never let up, not even as Chris, Jayne and I manhandled him into the van. Suddenly I decided I’d had enough of his foul-mouthed tirade.
‘I’ll tell you what you are, my friend’ – and I remember looking him right in the eye as I said it – ‘you’re nothing but a piece of scum.’ I had my hand on his shirt and I could feel the sweat coming through the thin fabric as I pushed him into the van. ‘Now get in there. You don’t frighten us.’
For a second or two everything went quiet. Then as we closed the doors on him he erupted into a fury, kicking the panels, pressing his face to the grille and screaming at me.
‘No f***er calls me that. I’ll ’ave you, you piece of shit!’
Ed was looking at me. ‘Scum?’ He glanced at the back of the van where Big John was still ranting, and shrugged. ‘Sounds about right to me, buddy.’
Back at the station we had a reception committee waiting. When you’ve taken a man like that into custody you always try to make sure there are plenty of bodies on hand to stop him from running amok and causing any damage – to himself as much as anything else. There was Jayne, Ed and Fordy, plus a couple of the late-shift lads who hadn’t got away yet, all stood there around the back of the van as Chris unlocked it. I kept well out of the way. If Big John caught sight of me he might kick off again. He would be booked in, put in a cell and dealt with the next morning when, no doubt, he’d be a bit more biddable. Then he’d be interviewed, quite probably by the CID because this was most likely a case of serious assault.
It takes a while to calm down after a confrontation like that – not that you always have time. As it happened, things went pretty quiet for the next hour or two, enabling me to write up my statement. By the time I’d done that I felt it was time to call York District Hospital, where the ambulance crew had taken the boy from Easingwold. I was in luck. He’d already been attended to in the A & E department. He’d lost three teeth, had several stitches to his lip, and had to have his nose straightened, but had suffered no other physical damage. Mind, they told me, he would take a time to recover from the shock of the assault. Yes, I thought, and he’ll most likely think twice about coming into Malton for a night out, certainly on his own. But overall he’d been lucky, I suppose. He could easily have had his jaw broken, or his cheek, or had his skull fractured in the fall to the ground. He could have died. It happens.
I went home that morning assuming that was that. There would, I hoped, be a court case, and a serious punishment, perhaps even a custodial sentence. I certainly wouldn’t have shed any tears over that, because it really seemed to me that this man, once he got a few drinks inside him, was a menace to the public.
I really, really, hoped it would have a satisfactory outcome. Justice, in other words. As a police officer you try not to dwell on these things. Your job, after all, is enforcement of the law. Any trial, and sentencing, is out of your jurisdiction. And besides, you’ve no sooner dealt with one miscreant than a stack of other things are on your plate.
One such – and I kept coming back to it – was this Jed Baker business. He was on my mind all the time now. As soon as I’d finished nights I made a point of going to see the crime analyst. Had she or Des come up with anything?
‘Yes,’ was the short answer to my question. Amanda showed me the chart she’d pieced together on her wall. It must have been four or five feet square and was made up of several sheets of paper taped together. ‘Here’s your man, slap bang in the middle’ she said, tapping at the red-circled name with her magic marker, ‘and here are his main contacts, in blue.’
‘There’s enough of them,’ I said, peering at the lines radiating from the middle of the chart to the dozens of names dotted around the periphery, and the criss-crossing of connections between them. ‘Who are they all?’
‘All manner of people,’ she said, ‘but there are a number of doormen working at nightclubs, in some cases managers.’
‘Right. It all starts to add up, doesn’t it? And are these all local? Can’t be, can they?’
She shook her head. ‘Most of them aren’t from around here at all. They’re all over the northeast – Newcastle, Sunderland, Middlesbrough – but they extend right down to Sheffield, even Derby. This man has quite a little network.’
‘Starting to look as though he could be a main player,’ I said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t get carried away just yet. There could be all sorts of reasons why someone might have a list of contacts like this.’ She sat down and put her marker back in its tray. The tray, like her desk, and the rest of her little den, was amazingly neat and organised. ‘But yes,’ she said, ‘I would have to say that it looks promising.’
‘Anything I should be doing?’
‘I don’t think so, Mike.’ She pointed at the chart. ‘This is just the beginning. We need to circulate this man’s details. I need to make some enquiries with my counterparts in other areas, see what we can find out about his contacts. Des has already checked on a couple.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s found they’re linked to the drugs scene.’
The frustrating part of our job is the waiting. Part of me wanted to rush out now and apprehend this guy Baker. He was surely up to his neck in the drugs business and needed to be taken out of circulation. When you gather information on an individual such as him, information that points to him being ‘a wrong ’un’, as they used to say in Dixon of Dock Green, all your instincts are to go round to his house and haul him in. But of course you have to tread much more carefully than that. It’s one thing convincing yourself that you’ve identified a miscreant, but you need good evidence, evidence that will stand up in court. And you have to be prepared to show that that evidence has been gathered by legitimate means. If you’re going to go to court with a suspect, you need to be quite, quite sure of your facts. Because the bigger the fish, the sharper and more devious his lawyers are likely to be. And they can make a monkey of you, given half a chance. So, much as it goes against the grain, you sometimes have to hang back, knowing that an individual is going to carry right on with his business – in this case, I was ninety-nine per cent certain, dealing in a Class A drug right under our noses. I’ve never been the most patient person, at least, not by nature, although I have learned over the years to temper my enthusiasm. Still, as it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait before we ran into Mr Baker again.
It was a week or so later, and I was back on the night shift with Ed. We’d done our usual tour of town, had a quick break and were about to have a look out in the villages and along the ‘crime corridor’, or A64. It must have been about one o’clock. I was driving, and for some reason I decided to drop down through the marketplace, go by the bus station and along Blackboards Road. Then we’d run through Norton, past the bacon factory and out towards Scagglethorpe. You try to alternate your routes out and back as much as possible, partly
for variety’s sake, partly to reassure the public by your visible presence – not that many of them are up and about at that time of night to watch you drive by – but also to keep any watching villains on their toes.
We were just approaching the level crossing, where Blackboards makes a junction with County Bridge, when a pushbike passed us, heading the other way.
‘Who’s that, this time of night?’ Ed half-turned in his seat to watch the guy ride by. I didn’t. I knew right away who it was.
I didn’t say anything but turned out across the railway tracks, swung quickly right into Welham Road and made a swift U-turn round the bollards before pulling up in the garage forecourt. ‘The man on the bike, my friend, is none other than Jeremy James Baker. He’s the guy me and Fordy are looking into at the moment. Possibly dealing in ecstasy.’
Ed was fully turned on now. ‘Well well well,’ he said. ‘Wonder what he’s doing out on a bike at this time of night.’
‘Good question.’ I was on the radio right away. ‘1015 to control, over.’
‘Go ahead, Mike.’
‘Yeah, Julie, I’ve just spotted a guy who’s of interest to us. Jed Baker. Out on his pushbike, would you believe? He’s just gone down Blackboards, heading towards the bus station. Can you get someone at Malton to pick him up on camera?’
‘Stand by Mike. Chris Cocks is in Malton. I’ll see if he can log on.’
Chris was on the radio within sixty seconds. ‘Yeah, got him, Mike. Fair-haired fellow, on a mountain bike?’
‘That’ll be him.’
‘Just coming up past Yates’s hardware.’
‘Tell you what, Sarge, can you keep an eye on him. I don’t want to spook him, but I’m interested in where he’s off to – or who he’s meeting.’
There was a pause, then, ‘He’s turned up Yorkersgate. Heading towards the war memorial – and puffing a bit, by the look of him. I’m afraid he’s gonna be out of range once he gets past there.’
‘OK, Sarge. Thanks for that. But just – can you keep your eyes peeled in case he doubles back into town?’
‘Will do, Mike.’
‘What’s your plan?’ Ed asked.
‘Yeah . . . good question.’ I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before setting off along Blackboards and up towards Yates’s. ‘We want to be after him, but we wanna stay out of sight. Trouble is, if he’s heading up past the war memorial he could be . . .’ I swung out into Yorkersgate. As far ahead as we could see, the road was deserted.
‘Any one of three ways, yeah?’
‘That’s the trouble. Which one? You feeling lucky?’
‘Oh no,’ Ed said. ‘It’s your call, buddy.’
I pulled up by the memorial. Was it to be the A64 to York, back into town around the Mount, or might he have set off on the Castle Howard road?
‘Gut instinct, Ed. Always trust it.’ I turned right towards Castle Howard, and kept to a steady thirty.
‘What do you think he’s up to then?’
‘Not sure buddy. But you’ve got to say it’s a very odd time of night to be heading out of town, and on a pushbike.’ I drove on towards the edge of town. ‘The other thing is, what’s he doing in Malton? My intel says he lives out Pickering way.’
‘Maybe he’s off to do a deal.’
‘Yeah, but at this time of night I can’t see that it would make sense. Riding a bike, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Surely it would be easier to blend in during the day when there’s people around.’
‘What we going to do if we find him? Are we stopping him or what?’
‘Good question Ed. What’s on our side is he certainly doesn’t know who I am. So if we just happen to come across him on patrol then we might just get the opportunity to speak to him without spooking him. You never know, we might just get the break we need.’
We were almost out in the country now, approaching the bridge that crosses the bypass, and there was no sign of our lone cyclist. Ed was ready to give it up. ‘I mean, if he came this way we’d surely have caught up with him by now.’
‘Hmm. Maybe.’ I carried on across the bridge and went another mile or so. ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘He’s not up here. Bugger!’
I swung the car round, paused to let my lights shine down the wooded lane that leads to Broughton, and headed back towards the bridge. This was really frustrating. But just as we got to the other side, something caught my eye. I put my foot on the brake. ‘See that, Ed?’
‘What?’
‘Not sure. Looked like one of those plastic reflectors.’ I stopped the car and backed up fifty yards or so. There, against a tree, tucked away almost out of sight, was a bicycle.
‘That the one matey was riding?’ Ed said.
‘Has to be. But where . . .?’ I glanced around, wondering if we might see another bike, or a parked car. ‘Wonder if he’s met up with someone,’ I said. I had a really strange feeling. Something was going on, and not far away, but we couldn’t see it. Were we looking in the right place?
‘How about back through town and out onto the bypass?’ I said. But before Ed had answered I’d made up my mind. As I set off that way I got on the radio. ‘Yeah, 1015 to control, over.’
‘Go ahead, Mike.’
‘We’ve found the pushbike hidden by a tree on the Castle Howard Road, near to the bridge which crosses the A64. We’re going down to take a run along the bypass, see if we can see anything.’
‘Echo Tango 18 to 1015, over.’ A traffic car had been listening in.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Yeah, we’re just on the bypass now heading towards Scarborough. What have you got?’
Ed explained briefly what we had going on and I pulled over. If there was a rendezvous taking place on the bypass then we should maybe hold back just in case Baker returned to his bike.
‘That was handy,’ Ed said. We couldn’t see the bypass from where we were parked up, but we could hear it – or could’ve done if there had been anything moving. But it was dead quiet. With the window wound down all we could hear was the murmur of our own engine, a rustling sound as a light breeze stirred the foliage above us, and the screech of a barn owl out hunting somewhere across the fields.
‘What the hell do you think he’s up to?’
‘No idea, Ed. But the more we find out about this character the more dodgy he seems.’
‘And why’s he not in his car?’
‘You tell me.’
‘1015, receiving.’ It was the traffic car.
‘1015 go ahead.’
‘Yeah, I’m just approaching the bridge now. There’s a fairly new-looking black 5 series BMW pulled over – right under the bridge.’
‘There is? Right, I think I need a word with the driver. Can you turn around and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere?’
‘Too late, mate. He’s off.’
‘Bloody typical. Are you in a position to try and catch him up?’
‘Will do. But we’ll have to go up to the A169 interchange to turn around.’
Exasperated, I set off for the bypass. But to be honest I was caught in two minds. Was it better to get down there when the traffic car had as much chance as we had of catching up with the BMW, or would it be better to go back to where we’d been and see whether we could catch Baker picking up the bike? I pulled up at the war memorial.
‘Hobson’s choice Ed. Has he dropped off or picked up? And which one has the gear – Baker or the BMW driver?’
‘We can’t tell,’ Ed said. ‘But we’ve a far better chance of nabbing our cyclist chummy.’
I agreed. The only fly in the ointment was, when we got to the bridge the bike had gone.
‘Damn it!’ I got on the radio to Jayne and Fordy, and Chris Cocks on the CCTV. ‘We need to find this man,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’s just pulled off a drugs deal. So he’s surely carrying the merchandise or the cash, one or the other.’
I turned to Ed. ‘Let’s retrace our steps. I don’t think he realises we’re about. He’s no reason not
to go back the way he came, don’t you reckon?’
‘Worth a chance. Yeah.’
Back in Malton I shot down Yorkersgate, turned down past Yates’s and across the river. There was nobody on the streets. Not a soul.
We’d just entered Blackboards again when Chris came on the radio. ‘Mike, I’ve got him on camera. He’s—’
‘Yep. Me too. Ta.’ There he was right in front of us, pedalling along towards the crossing, wobbling slightly as he flicked a cigarette end into the river.
We were almost level with the signal-box when I got myself alongside, eased ahead, and pulled up, right in front of him. I was straight out of the car. ‘Can I have a word please?’
You learn what to expect over the years. And you’re rarely disappointed. Cheap villains will come quietly, most of the time. They haven’t the experience, or the sheer nerve, to try to wrong-foot you. But the more determined types, the serious crooks, are inclined to be much more confrontational. They know that if they come on strong, especially with a young or inexperienced officer, it’ll most likely throw them off.
‘What the f*** do you want?’
I wasn’t going to fall for that. We were playing a long game with this character, and the less he knew – the less he thought we knew – the better. If he had me down as some officious little copper stopping to check his lights to rack up a few points on my report card, well, all the better. I was happy to play it that way in the interests of achieving the ultimate goal.
‘Mike Pannett,’ I said. ‘North Yorkshire police. Seems an odd time to be going for a bike ride. Can you tell us what’s going on?’
‘Whatever it was, matey, it’s f*** all to do with you.’ He looked me up and down with a sort of sneer on his face. ‘So piss off, yeah?’