Confessions of a Police Constable

by Matt Delito

  ‘If you were hurt, would you want the helicopter to come and rescue you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what would happen if someone refused to let the helicopter land?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, twitching a little. ‘I don’t care.’

  I began to wonder whether the guy might be suffering from psychological issues of some sort.

  ‘Don’t you think you are being a little bit unreasonable?’

  ‘No. Fuck off. I like this park,’ he said, reaching for his cider. The only time our eyes met throughout the whole conversation was then, as he took a huge gulp of cider. He held the can up, as if to say ‘cheers’, and drank again. I regretted telling him that I wasn’t going to take his can of cider off him, because my usual course of action would be to pour it out and send him on his way.

  ‘Move!’ I said. ‘Now. I will explain everything to you afterwards, if you like, but this helicopter is going to arrive any second.’

  ‘No,’ he said, simply, before sucking down the rest of the cider, picking up a new can from the Tesco bag behind the bench and starting to tap the top of the can with his fingertips. He opened it slowly, with deliberate movements, and took another sip, all without acknowledging me with as much as a glance.

  ‘Please?’ I tried.

  ‘Why don’t you piss off?’ he said.

  By now I could hear the helicopter in the distance, and as I glanced behind me, I saw that another police car had pulled up next to the three cars that were already outside the warehouse.

  ‘Seriously, if you don’t fuck off out of this park right now, I’m going to have to remove you by force,’ I exploded, with a spectacular lack of professionalism.

  ‘I’ll have you for assault,’ the man said, with a small shrug.

  Two officers stepped out of the police car. One of them waved at me, whilst the other – a sergeant – went straight into the warehouse. I waved back to the constable and indicated for him to come to me.

  As the constable – a slender-looking chap in an immaculately ironed uniform – approached, I shouted the details of the situation to him: ‘Helicopter is nearly here. This guy is refusing to move. Give me a hand.’

  I turned back to the man in the park.

  ‘Okay, I’ve warned you several times. You can hear the helicopter. I don’t really care if it lands on top of you, but it delays the paramedics, so you’re now going to leave the park.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said, simply.

  ‘You heard my colleague, William, we need to land this helicopter now, or our injured friend could die,’ the officer said.

  I read his nametag: Police Constable Frost.

  ‘You heard me,’ William replied. Then slowly and deliberately, turning between the two of us, he added: ‘Fuck. Off.’

  I heard the unmistakeable clicking sound of a baton being racked next to me.

  ‘Gis a hand,’ Constable Frost said, before grabbing William by the arm. I leapt into action, and tried to secure his other arm.

  William tried to hang on to the bench with his hands, but Frost slammed his baton into the metal a couple of inches away from his fingers with a loud metallic crash that sent vibrations all the way through the bench. He hissed, ‘The next one goes on your fingers – come on, stop fucking about.’

  Wisely, William decided to let go of the bench, and the two of us policemen dragged him along the grass towards the gate, with him shouting ‘Police brutality!’ ‘Murder!’ and ‘Someone take a picture! See what they are doing to me!’ all the way.

  A few people stopped along the edges of the park to look on, attracted as much by the helicopter that was lowering out of the sky as the man shouting bloody murder.

  I looked over to my bike. William’s friend had left, but I saw that my motorcycle helmet had left with him. Great.

  At the edge of the park, we let William go.

  ‘If you try to enter the park again, I will handcuff you to this railing,’ Frost said, pointing with his baton to the metal fence next to the gate.

  ‘I want to complain! Police brutality!’ William shouted, beside himself with anger and frustration. ‘You owe me a cider, you bastards!’

  ‘You want to complain? No problem,’ Frost said. ‘Here, use my phone.’

  The constable handed over a waterproof-looking orange-and-blue mobile that was so desperately unfashionable that it had to be a work phone.

  ‘The number you want is one-zero-one,’ he said.

  I left Frost with the man, and took a few steps into the small park just as the helicopter landed in the seemingly-impossibly-small space. Before it had even fully come to rest on the ground, a paramedic and a doctor hopped out. I pointed to the warehouse, and they nodded to me before running in a helicopter-blade-avoiding half-crouch towards the warehouse, small suitcases of medical equipment in hand.

  The co-pilot gave me a quick thumbs-up as the chopper touched down.

  I looked over at Frost. He was standing with William, who was speaking into the phone, lamenting his violent eviction from the park. When he finally rang off, he gave the phone back to Frost and stumbled away.

  ‘Old William’s normally harmless,’ Frost said to me, as I walked up to him. ‘But he is rather paranoid.’

  ‘Did he file a complaint?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, I think they directed him to the police station to file a formal complaint and to do the paperwork. That’s where he’s headed now, I believe,’ Frost said with a shrug.

  He stuck a hand out.

  ‘I’m Jeremy,’ he said.

  ‘Matt,’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘No worries. We have to deal with William quite often. He’s a regular on the borough. Keeps saying he knows his rights but then doesn’t act as if he knows any of his responsibilities,’ he shrugged. ‘He’s good as gold most of the time, but he does a bit of shoplifting and can’t get it into his head that we can search him. He even accused one of the WPCs, Sandra, of rape the last time he was arrested, which caused a bit of palaver.’

  ‘Shit, how did that end?’ I asked, as we were walking towards the warehouse together.

  ‘Sandra helped when he refused to let himself be fingerprinted. It got quite messy, but it was all on CCTV in custody, so it won’t go anywhere. He just seems to like complaining about us whenever he can.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a pain in the arse. And of course, they have to investigate any allegations, but it’s such a waste of time. Better make sure you write this up carefully, Matt,’ he said, before he excused himself.

  ‘Thanks, buddy,’ I called after him, and I walked into the warehouse.

  Whenever we use force – whether it’s actual force or just a threat – we have to write it up and justify it carefully, whether the write up is for an EAB68, another form or just a pocketbook entry. I always keep careful notes anyway, but Jeremy’s warning was welcome nonetheless. It often feels as if what we write down only gets scrutinised when someone complains about use of force. But, I suppose, this is rightly so.

  Inside the warehouse, I was met by quite the drama.

  The kid was still on the warehouse floor. The HEMS doctor had just finished opening his chest with a rib spreader – a device that wouldn’t be out of place in a medieval torture museum. A device that also gruesomely accurately named: a rib spreader spreads ribs. I stood watching in the background as the doctor shoved both his hands into the gaping hole in the boy’s chest.

  The paramedics who had arrived in their car were standing by, ready to jump in if they were needed.

  ‘What the hell happened here?’ I asked one of them. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He looks about fifteen, but we haven’t been able to ID him yet,’ one of the paramedics replied. ‘He was stabbed in the chest, and it looks like they nicked his heart. The trauma guys are trying to stop the bleed before whisking him off to the Royal.’

  ‘Did they catch the suspect?’ I asked t
he paramedic. The sergeant, who’d arrived with Jeremy and was standing on the other side of me, jumped in with a reply.

  ‘Not yet. But we know who he is; one of our guys recognised him on the CCTV footage. The sus is only about sixteen, but he’s a known gang member. Nothing but trouble. The Borough Support Unit are going around to find him,’ the skipper explained, without ever taking his eyes off the victim. ‘This poor bastard had better pull through; I’m really not in the mood for a murder today.’

  When he finally tore his eyes away from the live-action medical drama in front of us, he turned to me. ‘We were a bit thin on the ground today; your help is most appreciated. I imagine I’ll be the one dealing with William’s complaint at our end later, so make sure you’ve got your altercation written up carefully.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Jeremy said as much. Complains a lot, does he?’

  The skipper only laughed.

  ‘Hey, Delito,’ a voice sounded behind me.

  I turned around to see Jeremy had returned.

  ‘Think quick! Present for you,’ he said, and tossed something towards me. I caught the item before I’d even realised it was my motorcycle helmet.

  ‘Where’d you find it?’ I asked him, feeling very grateful. I had been worrying about all the hoops I would have to go through to get a helmet brought to me from the police station in order for me to be able to ride my Solo back to base.

  ‘The pub.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The guy who took it. He nicks stuff all the time, and always sells it at the pub down the road.’

  ‘How did you know who took it? He left before you arrived?’

  ‘William told me,’ he said. ‘I made him a deal. I told him the payment for borrowing my phone was telling me who his friend was.’

  ‘And that worked?’

  ‘You’ve got your helmet, don’t you?’ Jeremy said.

  ‘Ha! Thanks,’ I said, shaking his hand.

  ‘We had one of the probationers nick him for theft. They’re going to need a statement from you about the helmet when you have a chance.’

  ‘No problem; looks like I’ll be doing a lot of writing today anyway – what’s an extra couple of MG-11s?’

  I jotted a quick note on my hand to remind myself to write a witness statement about the incident.

  Behind us was a flurry of activity as the paramedics and helicopter crew prepared the victim for a helicopter ride. I left them to it and walked back to my motorbike, helmet in hand.

  The memory of the paramedic, elbow-deep in the kid’s blood right there on the dirty warehouse floor sent a chill down my spine.

  I started the heavy BMW motorbike and began to make my way back to the police station to spend some quality time with a cup of coffee, a black ballpoint pen and a ream of paper.

  As I was waiting at a stoplight, I found myself crossing my fingers, hoping that the kid would survive the next few hours.

  He didn’t.

  Ambushed in the Riots

  The briefing for the late shift was nothing out of the ordinary. At least, in the same way that strolling to work and finding Elvis in a tap-dancing competition with Chairman Mao, accompanied by the cast of Glee playing a Latin American-flavoured cover of Culture Club’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me’ would be nothing out of the ordinary.

  The briefing is usually at 2 p.m., which means that most of my colleagues show up at work around 1 p.m. to shower, change into their uniforms, read the day’s briefing and emails, and then stroll over to the briefing room for a few rounds of pre-shift banter.

  Usually.

  Today, everybody had arrived at the briefing room more than an hour before it was due to start. The room was chock-a-block with chatter.

  A few days earlier, in Tottenham, police officers had shot a suspected gang leader in a minicab.

  ‘Damn right he deserved to be shot, he had a fucking gun,’ one of my colleagues said. ‘They need to start understanding that if you’re carrying a gun, you’re likely to get shot, whether it’s by another gang, or by us.’

  ‘Pipe down, Charlie,’ Jay responded. He was speaking from experience; he’d been a firearms officer for many years. ‘It’s never that simple, mate. I heard on the news that they found an unloaded gun in a sock. You can’t just go around shooting people if they don’t have a gun that’s even ready to use. It’s insane that we’re even talking about this – one of our colleagues was shot. It’s the gung-ho attitude that will get us in trouble, my friend.’

  We were all shocked about the shooting of a police officer, but thankfully he’d survived.

  ‘Ah, fuck off, you has-been,’ Charlie fired back at Jay. He followed up with a smile, but he was a fraction too late.

  Being called a ‘has-been’ clearly didn’t sit well with Jay – anger flared across his face.

  Jay and Charlie were old friends. Like all of us, they love a spot of banter. Everybody knew that Jay had decided to stand down from being an authorised firearms officer. However, not many people knew why. All that was universally known was that Jay doesn’t like talking about it.

  Banter. It’s part of the job. You can’t deal with the things we do day in, day out without having an outlet; black humour, practical jokes, making a bit of fun of each other, and the occasional bit of rough-housing comes with the job. It’s part of the fabric that weaves us together as a team. We spend a lot of time wrestling on the floor with smelly criminals, running after scoundrels and dealing with death. A playful punch on the shoulder, a hug or some gentle ribbing here and there is the lubrication that keeps the machine running. Just make sure you don’t tell the SMT69; they’d send us all on How to Be Nice to Each Other courses.

  The importance of a strong team spirit is one reason why we felt all the more uneasy in the briefing room that morning. When the joking grinds to a halt, we get caught in a vicious cycle: more tension causes less banter, causes more tension – this shift was off to a truly rotten start.

  I was glad when the briefing finally started.

  ‘Read the briefing in your own time, at your own pace,’ the skipper barked, ‘but the summary is this: it’s messy out there, and it’s going to be rough for a few days.’

  The Metropolitan Police intel branch was red-hot with tips received via telephone, found on Internet forums, and pilfered from social-networking sites – they all pointed to all-out riots.

  The skipper leaned forward over his little speaker’s podium, casting a long look across the room. He looked evil in the red glow from the projector in the darkened briefing room.

  ‘Ladies and gents, stay very alert: the gang who lost their boss to a police bullet say they want the lives of two Metropolitan Police officers in retaliation for the shooting …’ He paused. ‘We’re particularly worried about the specificity: normally, threats are non-specific. This time, intel suggests that they are planning a definite hit. I won’t lie to you; it’s going to be bloody dangerous for a while. However, we’ve got lots of extra resources on the ground, including extra Trojan70 units.’

  He stopped and took a sip from his water bottle. I looked at my colleagues; they were glued to his every word. It was going to be tough to be a police officer in our borough for the foreseeable future.

  ‘As you know, we’re short-staffed,’ the skipper said, and then grinned. ‘I hate recruitment, so try to stay in one piece, all right?’

  A wave of laughter spread throughout the room and some of the tension dissolved.

  Charlie slapped Jay on the shoulder, and got a shrug and a smile in return – an apology accepted.

  It’s episodes like this that remind me why some of the skippers are promoted ahead of others – sometimes, all it takes to save the day is for someone to just reel the team back in, to put us back on the right track. We were ready, now, to deal with the outside world.

  ‘No single-crewing tonight, folks. Be extra vigilant, and don’t hesitate to call in help if you aren’t sure about something. I’d rather have to send two or thre
e cars to a call and have everyone go home at the end of the shift, than be stuck in A&E with one of you for the rest of the night,’ the skipper added, scanning the room.

  ‘Right, get out of my face. Happy hunting,’ he finished.

  And with that, we were sent out onto the meaner-than-usual streets of London.

  In several parts of the borough, there had been stirrings of civil unrest: people had been seen gathering in alleys. Many shops on the high streets had boarded up their windows with plywood.

  We were instructed to stay well clear of any problem spots. They were to be left to the Level Ones. The Level Ones were operating on separate channels from us, and it was made clear to us that we’d face disciplinary action if we listened in. ‘Any relevant information will be circulated on working channels,’ a sternly worded email from the top brass reminded us.

  Public order training comes in three levels – three, two and one:

  Level Three is the basic level of public order skills used for policing large events, such as football games, official state visits, and anywhere where the police have to work as large teams and face large groups of members of the public – it covers all officers.

  Level Two officers are trained to a much higher degree, including shield tactics, dealing with extremely violent people, rapid-entry techniques (including stuff like breaking down doors), search tactics and much, much more. When you think ‘riot police’, the people that spring to mind are probably the Level Two guys.

  Level One officers have roughly the same training curriculum as for Level Two, but they have to repeat their training every six weeks or so, and are generally deployed to a ‘support unit’ full-time.

  Our job that night would be to look after all the ‘normal’ police tasks (if anything could be called normal on a day like this).

  I was posted with Jay – our ex-firearms officer – as Mike Delta 40. It’s an unusual call sign; we don’t tend to use 40, but this was an unusual day. There were a huge number of extra resources on duty; a lot of the officers who generally while away their days shuffling bits of paper around had dusted off their uniforms. In some cases, our extra show of force would prove more entertaining than preventative: officers who had gained 30lb since the last time they had worn their stab vests looked anything but dignified as they tried to wrestle their way into a corset-like Kevlar.