by Mike Pannett
‘Maybe you should put in a request,’ was Ann’s suggestion. ‘How about asking Birdie if you can do a bit more acting up?’
She had a point, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to approach Birdie. Not yet, anyway. I prefer people to come to me and I didn’t want to appear desperate, which of course I wasn’t. Besides, we were about to have a short break. It was Valentine’s Day, always a dangerous time for me. I was walking past a travel agent in town, saw a bargain and – well, I was simply overcome with a romantic impulse I couldn’t resist. Without bothering to consult Ann, I lashed out on a week’s all-inclusive midwinter break in Fuerteventura. It probably wasn’t what our bank manager would have advised – we were supposed to be saving for the inevitable expenses when we completed the house purchase – and I worried on the way home that Ann might want my guts for garters. But I’m a canny operator. I paved the way with a big bunch of flowers, then fessed up. To my huge relief she was over the moon when I broke the news. She’s not a lover of winter weather; this year she’d had one cold after another since Christmas and was feeling properly run-down. This break, she said, would be the perfect tonic for both of us. So she packed a collection of her favourite chick-lit books, I agreed – under duress – to take my Blackstone’s manuals so that I could carry on preparing for the exam, and we booked Henry in for a refresher course in discipline at Walter’s boot camp, in return for some duty-free goods to be delivered upon our return.
After our week in the sun, we flew home feeling properly rested for the first time in months. We were both relaxed, tanned, and ready to face whatever came our way. We arrived back at Keeper’s Cottage to find the sun shining, the crocuses in full bloom and a pair of blackbirds gathering bits of twig from under the hedge. It’s a good job I didn’t know what was about to hit me.
Out on my patch opposition to the government’s policy on hunting with dogs was growing stronger by the week. Or perhaps I should say that those who opposed it were getting progressively more organised, and making their feelings felt. Spray-painted pro-hunt slogans in huge lettering began appearing along North Yorkshire’s roads. ‘Fight the Ban’ posters were popping up just about everywhere. People had always been against the legislation, but now they had decided it was time to raise their game and take action, which put me in a difficult situation.
All sorts of people had been telling me how fed up they were about the whole business. Rich and his wife, Algy, even Walter had a bit of a chunter when I called on him to collect Henry after we came back from our holiday. ‘Look,’ I said to him, ‘this ban’s nothing to do with me. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘I know that, lad, but you’re goin’ to be in t’firing line, aren’t you? How you goin’ to feel when they tek to t’streets and you’re sent out to keep the peace? Answer me that.’
I played a straight bat. ‘Our job,’ I told him, ‘is to uphold the law.’
He gave me a funny, sideways look. ‘Even if it is a stupid daft law?’ he asked.
‘Look, Walt, it’s nothing new. Anything controversial that the government does, who’s in the firing line? Us. And I can promise you this: whatever the outcome, rest assured, it’ll be the police’s fault. I can guarantee it. It goes with the territory, mate.’
But Walt wasn’t really listening. ‘Us country folk, we can’t win, lad. First it’s hunting, next time it’ll be shooting, then fishing. They keep on chipping away. Next thing you know there’ll be nowt left. Them townie politicians know nowt about countryside ways.’
‘Hell-fire, Walt, you’re starting to talk like a paid-up member of the Countryside Alliance.’
‘I am. I joined ’em six months since. I tell you, I’ve had it up to here wi’ bloody politicians, southerners, whatever they are. They come up here for a fortnight’s holiday and rattle on about how beautiful it is. Well, how do they think it got that way? Who do they think keeps the countryside looking the way it does? It dun’t maintain itsen, y’know. When it comes to countryside matters, it should be left to them as knows what they’re on with. Them other lot should – why, they should just keep their neb out.’
‘Well, this is where you’re in a privileged position, Walt.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘At least you’re entitled to an opinion. I’m not. Not in my job. We have to be impartial, regardless of what we think. All I hope is that I don’t find myself in the middle of it, having to confront people I regard as friends. That’s my biggest dread. And if they do decide to protest, let’s hope they do it peaceably.’
That conversation with Walter was the first time I’d fully expressed my fears about the hunting ban business. And, typically of the way things unfold, it wasn’t long before I was forced to confront them. Just a couple of weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon in March, Birdie called me at home to say that Chris Cocks had put his back out and rung in sick. I would be acting sergeant for a week or so until he was fit for duty again. Although it wasn’t great for Chris, it was good news for me, another opportunity to gain experience in the role and, hopefully, show what I was made of. And I had every confidence. There was no way, surely, that I’d be tested the way I had been the first time I’d stepped into the sergeant’s role?
The Friday was quiet, I would almost say dull. Everything went like clockwork and I felt quite comfortable with what I was doing. I had very little to tell Ann when I got home that night. I arrived back at work nice and early on the Saturday and went through the normal briefing with the team. Things were so quiet that we met up at Malton Hospital for a team breakfast in their canteen. It’s quite rare these days to have the time to get a cooked breakfast, so that was a bit of treat. The rest of the morning was steady away, as we say, with just the odd minor job and a few statements to take for cases that had been handed over from the night shift. With so little going on, I was able to go out on patrol for an hour or so.
After I’d had a bit of a look round I landed back at the station for a brew and checked through the jobs on the computer. The church clock was just striking twelve noon when Jayne and Thommo poked their heads around the door.
‘Now then, what you two doing here?’ I was surprised to see them. As far as I was aware they weren’t due on till two.
Thommo grinned. ‘Ye see the advantages of being a mere PC, sarge? I’ve been called in on overtime tae cover the match at that so-called football club of yours. Apparently you were supposed to be going – until you got promoted in the field.’
‘Bloody hell, so I was. I forgot I was down for the York match.’
‘Well, with any luck we’ll be outside the ground and won’t have to watch that poor excuse for a team.’
‘Thommo, let me tell you, that so-called poor excuse of a team is on a roll.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘Aye, unbeaten in two. They’re on the march, lad.’
Jayne groaned. ‘Come on Thommo, we need to get a move on. We’re due at York for the one o’clock briefing. We’ll be here all day if you get Mike onto his favourite subject.’
I turned back to the computer. ‘Typical,’ I muttered – but I consoled myself with the thought that I probably wouldn’t have got to see the match anyway. It’s very rare that you actually get to police the inside of the ground these days. That side of thing is mostly left to the stewards; they come a lot cheaper.
‘Control to 1015.’ Brian’s voice sounded a little more urgent than normal.
‘Go ahead, over.’
‘Yeah, are you free for a phone call?’
‘Yes, yes. Sergeant’s office Malton.’
‘Received, standby.’
I didn’t like the sound of this. As a rule, control give out messages over the radio. They only pass it to the sergeant when it’s not straightforward and the response needs to be given some thought. It might be something sensitive such as a sudden death, a complaint against police or an allegation of a very serious crime. As I drummed my fingers on the table and waited for the call to come through, I thought,
who knows, maybe it’s just a call to ask how I’m getting on.
‘Right Mike, are you ready for this one?’
‘Go on, Brian.’
‘Hmm, not every day you get a job like this. We’ve just had reports from North Yorkshire Moors Railway that they have a number of pro-hunt protesters gathering at Pickering station.’
‘Oh hell.’
‘Apparently you’ve got the MP for Scarborough and Whitby, Lawrie Quinn, on the steam train travelling down from Grosmont. He’s a supporter of the hunting ban. Looks like the pro-hunters have got wind of him coming and they’re planning an impromptu reception committee.’
‘Have we got any numbers, Brian?’
‘The station manager reckons about thirty to forty at present. All quite vocal, banners and placards, but not aggressive at present.’
‘Right, show me en route. Get Fordy to meet me there. Is Ed still dealing out at Kirby Grindalythe?’
‘Yeah, afraid so Mike. I’ll get him to break off and start making his way, but he could be some time. You’ve got Brenda the new PCSO on foot in Pickering, don’t forget.’
‘Yeah, I’m aware but we just need to be a bit careful if there’s any disorder. She’s not kitted out for that. I tell you what, ask her to make her way, but wait for my arrival. Can you scope around for some extra staff in case things escalate?’
‘Will do Mike, but we’ve got two football matches on today.’
‘Typical. All right, then. Let me know how you get on.’
I jumped in the car, hit the two-tones and blue lights and headed out on the A169. As I sped along I was trying to think of the best way to handle the situation. There are thousands of protests every year, but ordinarily they’re pre-planned, so you have the opportunity to liaise with the organisers and put your staffing in place as best you can. But in this case we’d been totally caught out, with no prior intelligence whatsoever.
Quinn, as a supporter of the hunting ban, had spoken in its favour in the House of Commons on a number of occasions. None of that mattered, however, as far as I was concerned. What mattered was his safety and that of the general public. It was our duty to protect him while ensuring that any demonstration was conducted peacefully and within the law.
I got on the radio. ‘Fordy, how long till you get to Pickering?’
‘Ten minutes, with luck.’
‘Ed, how you doing over there?’
‘Just about squared up, bud. About thirty minutes, I’m afraid.’
This wasn’t looking good. Experience told me we’d probably want to maintain a low profile, but we needed bodies on the ground – now. My guess was that the protesters would be mainly locals, the sort of people you would count on, ordinarily, to be co-operative towards police, certainly not aggressive. But lately feelings in the countryside had been running high. And wherever there’s a crowd, whatever their intentions, there can be safety issues. Especially where you have trains involved.
‘Control to 1015.’
I turned the radio volume up to counter the sound of the two-tones. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Mike, the good news is the Scarborough inspector has released the dog van. Should be with you in about twenty-five minutes.’
‘Received. What’s the ETA of the train at Pickering?’
‘Well, that’s the bad news Mike. It’s about twenty minutes.’
This was not good. If things kicked off it’d be me, Fordy and Brenda against the lot of them. Sure, the reports suggested that they were good-humoured, but what was to say there weren’t some hardcore saboteur types amongst them? It would not look good on the Pannett CV if the local MP was roughed up, assaulted or goodness knows what on my patch, with me in charge. Christ knows what Birdie would say, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up with a direct bollocking from the chief constable herself. It didn’t bear thinking about.
When you have a crowd to control, the most basic issue is staffing, and we were nowhere near up to strength. With this job there would also be issues around crowd safety near a railway line. Then if things kicked off, and I decided I needed to make an arrest to control a volatile situation, I’d need enough officers to make the arrests and enough vehicles to accommodate the prisoners. At this stage all we had in prospect was one van – and that would be when Ed eventually arrived. What you want, from the outset, is enough officers to deter any would-be troublemakers – in other words, as we say, a show of strength. At this stage of the proceedings the cards were not stacking up for me. Any trouble, and we were going to find it very hard to cope.
I arrived to find a lot of cars lining the street beside the station, among them a number of four-by-fours. I managed to park up and quickly mounted the steps into the station. There I found quite a crowd, milling around by the booking office and on the platform. The majority of them appeared to be respectable people in country-style clothes: waxed jackets, flat caps, checked shirts and ties. They were chatting amicably amongst themselves, some of them laughing and joking. There was a complete mix of age groups, from the more senior to what appeared to be families with children. Even so, they must have been organised; somebody must have been spreading the word. You don’t get three or four dozen people showing up like that by accident – and as I took in the scene I was aware of a steady stream of new arrivals, including one or two gamekeepers I recognised from the moorland estates. So who was in charge?
That was the first question.
I scanned the platform once more, trying to identify an organiser. I saw more familiar faces, one or two farmers I knew from my rounds and people I knew from the Tuesday cattle market, for instance. I was about to collar one of them to find out whether they had a spokesperson when I found myself face to face with a titled lady. I knew Lady C was a keen hunter – indeed, she was the chair of a meet that claims to be one of the oldest in England. She was a woman of some standing in the Malton area, a retired magistrate.
‘Good afternoon.’ I held out my hand. ‘Sergeant Mike Pannett of North Yorkshire police. Can you tell me who’s in charge here?’
As I spoke, someone blew a hunting horn. More protesters were coming into the station carrying placards. ‘59% SAY NO’, ‘WE WANT QUINN OUT!’ I got the impression that people were joining the protest in dribs and drabs, probably arriving by car. But what if a coachload showed up? One or two were on the footbridge already, draping banners from the parapet. ‘KEEP HUNTING’. ‘FIGHT PREJUDICE. FIGHT THE BAN.’ The noise levels were building all the time.
‘In charge?’ Lady C replied, raising her voice to be heard against the background racket. ‘Nobody’s in charge. It’s all quite spontaneous. This man Quinn has angered a lot of people. I heard he was coming and I thought, let’s go and tell him what we think.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t have a problem with people voicing their opinion. But there are a lot of people here now. The last thing I want is any trouble.’
‘Absolutely, officer. But we do want to state our case. I can assure you we will be doing so – politely but firmly.’
You have to be careful how you approach any demonstration or protest. You have to respect people’s human rights, but at the same time you have a duty to protect any persons or property that might be at risk. ‘OK then,’ I said, ‘cards on the table. Our aim will be to monitor and maintain order, and allow a peaceful demonstration, but I’m telling you now I will not have any disorderly behaviour. I’ve heard people in the crowd talking about throwing eggs and flour. That will not be tolerated.’
‘Oh.’ Lady C looked slightly crestfallen. ‘I did actually bring some eggs. Look.’ From her pocket she produced an antique silver-coloured egg-box. ‘So you’re saying that if I throw them at that ghastly man Quinn I’ll be arrested?’
‘Yes, Lady C, you will. You of all people should know that.’
At that moment Fordy arrived, with Brenda. ‘Right Mike, what do you want us to do?’
‘Brenda, if you could take a walk along the platform and tell people quite firmly to step
away from the track. There’s one or two getting a bit too near for my liking. This train will be crawling in, but if someone does go over the edge it can’t stop on a sixpence. I want people well back, yes?’
‘OK, Mike. Will do.’
‘Fordy, just stop here with me a minute, while I think about what we’re going to do.’
‘1015 to control.’
‘Go ahead, Mike.’
‘Yeah, we’ve got fifty to sixty people here now. Still not managed to identify the organisers. It appears they’re all here to let Mr Quinn know in no uncertain terms that they don’t agree with his views. Quite a rowdy bunch but they’re not daft. Passionate yes, stupid no.’