My partner for the day, Steve Clarke, had not been on our team much longer than I. Unlike me, however, he was not an eager youngster. He was a squat, gruff, roll-up puffing, thirty-something joker, whose CID career had come to an abrupt end due to his marksmanship with a bread roll at the 1982 Christmas party. The Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) whose eye he blacked with the flying food clearly lost his festive spirit and busted Steve back to uniform in his first act of the new year.
Despite Steve’s fall from grace and sometimes brusque manner, he liked me. I think he saw his own early enthusiasm reflected in my exuberance. He took time to teach me the job, warts and all, and I often wonder whether I would have had such an early eagerness to become a detective were it not for Steve.
That dull, dank day he and I settled into the creaking Hillman Avenger ready for an eight-hour shift of who knows what. I fired up the ageing analogue radio as Steve coaxed the car into life. Immediately we heard the call that we all dread and will never forget.
‘Whisky two zero two, ten twenty. Officer shot, offenders made off.’ Ten twenty was the code given for a police emergency: one of our own was being attacked. It always triggered a reflex reaction among all cops to drop everything and dash to wherever help was needed.
I instantly recognized the voice. PC Bob Elliott was a dishevelled, battle-worn thief taker; a real old-fashioned bobby who was at home on the streets. Some coppers attract trouble. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen to them, and they have a name – ‘shit magnets’. Bob was, by any measure, king of the shit magnet hill. He’d already won two Queen’s Commendations for Brave Conduct. Police officers take the view that there is a thin line between courage and stupidity. Bob was never stupid and he was braver than most. He used to get mercilessly ribbed for the trouble he attracted but this time we knew it was different. This was really scary.
‘Bloody hell, Graham, did Bob say what I think he said?’ snapped Steve.
‘Yes but I didn’t catch a location.’
‘Right. Let’s go!’ He flipped the blue lights and two tones on and crunched the gears into action.
I hung on for dear life as we two-wheeled out of the police station back yard. With no location yet revealed, I wasn’t sure where we were heading but guessed that Steve’s experience told him to just get on the road. My senses battled with the sound of the roaring engine, the smell of burning tyres and the ordeal of being tossed around in the car. I felt as Grace must do when Branson clicks into his red mist driving skills.
Over the radio came a clamour of units offering help, trying to make sense of what craziness had erupted on this sleepy Sunday afternoon.
Bob and his partner Tim Phillips were on an anti-crime initiative which meant they had free rein to patrol hotspots in and around the resort of Bognor, its neighbour Littlehampton and the majestic inland cathedral and castle town of Arundel.
The details emerging suggested that Bob and Tim had stopped a car on the main Brighton to Portsmouth trunk road, the A27, just as it swept into the shadow of Arundel Castle. Something about the two occupants studiously ignoring the marked police car as they drove past, together with them looking just a bit out of place in the Peugeot 604 they were driving, sparked a hunch that all was not right.
Initially the two occupants, both Londoners, had dutifully stood at the roadside while they tried to bluff their way past the officers. However, they had not reckoned on being caught by two of the most intuitive cops in Sussex.
These two took nothing at face value and when the story the men put up of just going for a Sunday drive didn’t ring true, Bob and Tim got suspicious and announced their intention to search them and the car. In a flash the mood changed and the men bolted back towards the Peugeot in a desperate attempt to flee.
Bob grabbed one and a furious struggle followed, the two men grappling on the verge with speeding cars whistling past inches away. As Tim leapt for the other, his man suddenly pulled a handgun and aimed it at the startled officer. Both officers desperately lunged towards him, reaching him just in time to divert his aim. A deafening explosion made time stand still. A fiery pain tore through Tim. Then all four men, fighting furiously, fell into a drainage ditch. A passer-by leapt from his car and dashed to the aid of the officers. Thinking only about his safety, they ordered him away fearing he would be shot too. Then Bob was pistol-whipped across the face with the Luger handgun and was stunned by the heavy blow. This gave the assailants the time to break free. They dashed to their car and screeched off.
In horror, Tim looked at the serious gun shot wound to his groin.
I was shell-shocked. The police is a big family and, even though I did not really know Tim at that time, I felt for him like a brother. It was the first and only time in my career that I was on duty when an officer was shot. That shock never left me.
It was only surpassed fifteen years later when I came on duty, again on a Sunday, to find that twenty-six-year-old traffic PC Jeff Tooley had been callously mown down, dragged along the road and killed while trying to stop a white Renault van for speeding. To this day, a memorial stands where Jeff fell, close to Shoreham Harbour. His killer, John Heaton, has long since finished his seven-year sentence. Jeff’s family are still serving theirs.
A colleague down and gunmen on the loose, this was big. Very big. A frantic search of the area followed.
Almost straightaway another call came over the airwaves. The fugitives had dumped their Peugeot near Arundel’s Catholic cathedral, forced the occupants of a silver/grey Ford Sierra out at gunpoint and sped off in that car.
My instinct would have been to rush directly to the scene but Steve’s, honed by years of experience, was that we would be needed elsewhere. He knew a ring of steel was being set up and we would be part of it. Had we all acted like bees to a honey pot, the attackers would have had their pick of exit routes.
‘We just have to do as we are told now, Graham,’ coached Steve. ‘We’ll sit up somewhere between Bognor and Arundel until we are sent where we are needed.’
A strange silence descended, no chatter from the radio, nothing to distract us from our anxious thoughts. Even Steve’s usual outrageously sarcastic quips had gone. Scouring the road for any sign of the gunmen, we were focused on nothing but what had happened and what we could do about it. We had to find them before they did something even worse. Desperation grew.
Then, about forty-five minutes later, an eerie radio message broke the silence.
‘Whisky three zero three, I think we are behind the gunmen’s car now. Can you confirm the registration number we are looking for? We can see two males inside. We are on the A29 outside Arundel.’
‘Bloody hell, they haven’t got far. Less than ten miles. They must be either lost or desperate not to break out too soon,’ remarked Steve.
‘Shall we head up that way?’ I suggested.
‘We are no use here now. We’ll drift north towards them but let’s allow the radio controllers to do their job and tell us exactly where they want us.’
‘KB to Whisky three zero three, do not, repeat do not, approach. Keep the vehicle in sight only. Back-up is on its way,’ ordered the gruff controller.
Silence.
‘KB to Whisky three zero three, I repeat back-up is on its way, keep your distance. Do you receive, Whisky three zero three?’
Silence.
Suddenly the airwaves exploded with desperate offers from other car crews to rush to assist Whisky three zero three.
‘This is Ops 1. All units except Whisky three zero three, radio silence immediately. Whisky three zero three, come in . . . Whisky three zero three, come in,’ urged the control room inspector.
More dreadful silence.
‘Any unit in the vicinity of Whisky three zero three’s last location, come in.’
Again a cacophony of desperate offers to help.
We edged towards the location, hoping that our stealth would allow us to glimpse the wanted men. We were determined to catch them but more so to
find Whisky three zero three and the comrades I’d never met. The silence was terrifying. There was nothing. No update, no response to calls. My blood ran cold. It slowly dawned on me that the crew had been kidnapped. Perhaps executed.
Our focus had shifted from concern about Tim to what was happening now. Tim would be treated; he was safe. Now we had two other cops to worry about. This is part of the police way. Emotion and worry are pushed aside when there is a more pressing hazard. Time was against us if we were going to find the crew of Whisky three zero three alive.
Soon reports were coming in from members of the public at a roadside garage on the A29 of two men jumping from a Sierra into a police car and then speeding off. The few witnesses had their wits about them and realized that something was badly wrong with what they had seen. Other officers rushed to the scene and quickly saw the abandoned stolen Sierra with terrified people around it. The silence from Whisky three zero three could only mean that the crew of that car had indeed been kidnapped and were now in mortal danger.
‘All units stand by for a description of Whisky three zero three,’ came the command through the radio set. We knew it was a marked police car but there were now dozens of those in the area. We needed to be told who was friend and who was foe.
‘All units, Whisky three zero three is a marked Sussex Police Vauxhall Cavalier, registration A280 DNJ. Its crew are PC Liam Codling and PC Robin Rager from Petworth. Any sightings report in as urgent but do not, repeat do not, approach.’
The names meant nothing to me but the model of car was good news. The force had only just started to change its fleet from Avengers to Cavaliers and the registration number indicated that it was one of the newer models. At least we could eliminate on sight the aged rust buckets the rest of us were in that day.
Most of the force seemed to have flooded the area and we were all allocated places to search and places to wait. This was before any of the technology that we now take for granted. We were in open country but, in those days, had none of the benefits of helicopters, mobile phones, Automatic Number Plate Recognition (ANPR) or even secure radios. Then, we only had our eyes and ears. At one point my Uncle Gordon drove up in his traffic car to where we were parked. As one of the force’s finest advanced drivers I should have realized that he would be drafted in from his usual Brighton patch. Just a quick hello and check on each other’s welfare was all we had time for. The task in hand was far too pressing for any more pleasantries.
I tried not to think the unthinkable but as the day dragged on I started to fear the worst. Steve knew Liam and Robin well and was getting more and more anxious. Roles were reversed as I, ‘the boy’, spent the next six hours trying to reassure him and keep us both focused on the search.
Finally, as dusk drew in, the hopeless radio silence was broken.
‘Whisky three zero three to KB, do you receive?’
‘Isn’t that them?’ shrieked Steve.
‘It’s their call sign. Listen!’
‘Whisky three zero three. We are safe and unharmed. We’ve been released, stand by for details of the targets.’
With a breathtaking composure they announced to the waiting force that they had been taken to a large secluded house where they, and its residents, were held at gunpoint.
They continued, ‘The offenders have made off with four hostages in a red Talbot Sunbeam saloon car. There are two adult hostages, male and female, and two children. One of the adults is driving and one is in the front passenger seat. The gunman is in the back seat of the car between the two young children. The other offender is secreted in the boot of the car. All caution must be exercised. The man in the back seat is armed. Repeat, the man in the back seat is still armed.’
Just when we thought this couldn’t get any worse we were faced with armed men, mobile, with civilian hostages – including children. However, at least we had a starting point and a swift relocation of officers followed.
Soon, a sharp-eyed police motorcyclist spotted the vehicle. His urgent call drew dozens of police cars to him and a desperate chase through rural Sussex followed. No way were these men escaping.
As we listened to the hurried, brusque radio messages from those units with speed or firepower that were being rushed forward, a very familiar voice stood out. The distinctive Derbyshire brogue could be only one person.
We recently had a cohort of police cadets posted to Bognor Police Station. Jim Sharpe was one of them. He was on my team and became a lifelong friend.
Jim was a scraggy seventeen-year-old who needed a fair degree of help to make his uniform fit for public eyes and often had to be coached not to speak to our old-school ex-paratrooper sergeant ‘Chas’ MacInnes as if he were some long-lost drinking partner. Jim was a work in progress. That said, he learned quickly and was great fun to be around.
During this period he was on his traffic attachment. That day he was being driven by one of Traffic’s most able and experienced officers, PC ‘Micky’ Finn, in the unmarked car whose call sign was Tango one seven one. As he was in a plain car, the commanders seemed eager to move Micky up close to the target. They didn’t seem to know that, rather than it containing two highly trained advanced drivers, one of its crew was barely out of school. Even the excitable updates did not provide the clue.
The convoy was heading west towards Emsworth Bridge on the border of Sussex and Hampshire. Trying to keep up with the commentary and updates became impossible when Hampshire units started to butt in. As we were about to enter their jurisdiction, they would have a say how this chase would continue.
When we arrived at the bridge, I saw the whole carriageway saturated in orange and white light shimmering with strobing blue beacons. It had the appearance of a movie set. I could just make out in centre stage a small red saloon, alien amid the surrounding fleet of high-performance squad cars. A ring of black-clad officers had their rifles trained on the rundown Sunbeam. Even as a rookie I knew the stand-off was on a knife edge. Any decision to force an ending would depend entirely on the safety of the hostages.
The Ops 1 Inspector ordered everyone just to keep watch and no unarmed units were to move closer to the car. The silence across the airwaves was deafening, contrasting sharply to the clamour that had been the soundtrack to the chase just moments ago.
In frustration the inspector demanded, ‘Any unit close to the target vehicle able to provide an update?’
Silence.
‘Any unit?’ repeated Ops 1.
To my horror, his imploring was answered by that unmistakable Buxton accent.
‘Tango one seven one. Well. There’s lots of men with lots of guns. I’m only a cadet and I don’t know what else to say.’
Unbeknown to most of us, and certainly to Jim and Micky (who’d made the mistake of leaving the cadet alone in the car for that moment), the Chief Constable was at Petworth Police Station listening to the manhunt unfold.
‘Who is that on the radio?’ he demanded to know.
Feet shuffled and throats were cleared as a local inspector standing at the Chief’s side divulged, ‘Er, that is, er, that’s. Well, that’s Cadet Sharpe, sir.’
‘Cadet? Did you say cadet?’ bellowed the boss. ‘What the bloody hell is a cadet doing in the car directly behind two men who clearly want to kill police officers?’
Nothing could be done now but some serious explaining would be required when all this was over.
The order came that only armed units and traffic cars would be allowed to enter Hampshire if the target moved off. Suddenly there was a roar of engines as the Sunbeam darted forward and accelerated away. Jim was rudely ejected from Tango one seven one as four heavily armed officers from the Special Operations Group launched themselves inside a split second before Micky joined the pursuing pack.
We waited for about five minutes before we were all instructed to head back to base. We had done our bit. We now had to leave it in the hands of our neighbours and the specialists lucky enough to be allowed to continue.
The last thi
ng I remember as we turned to make our way back to Bognor was seeing a disgruntled Cadet Jim Sharpe shuffling up to departing police cars trying to hitch a lift back.
We learned that on the bridge, while a brave Hampshire officer, PC George Summers, had tried to negotiate with the gunmen one of them twice threatened to shoot a hostage and George himself. In the interests of safety, they had to be allowed through the road block. As the pursuit continued they ended up on the main A3 road where they tried to hijack a lorry. As they did so, one of the kidnappers held a hostage as a human shield. Miraculously, PC Summers was able to fire off one shot, hitting the gunman in the arm. This gave time for the men to be rushed, cuffed and arrested.
Intelligence suggested they may have been en route to confront a local drug dealer – a plan that Tim and Bob seemed to have thwarted. The gunmen, Robert Dew and Rudolf Cooke, received eighteen- and ten-year prison sentences and thankfully Tim was able to return to work and managed two promotions before his retirement. Bob, Tim and George Summers were awarded Queen’s Gallantry Medals.
While these events are thankfully rare and Brighton is neither Dallas nor LA, it has had its fair share of shootings and grudge killings over the years.
In 1976, my uncle Gordon was the first officer at the scene of a shooting in the car park of Grace and Branson’s favourite pub, the Black Lion, on the outskirts of Brighton. Barbara Gaul, the socialite and fourth wife of millionaire property developer John, had been gunned down in cold blood while she was visiting her three-year-old daughter. Gordon had been unarmed and, completely against the safety and forensic conventions of today, had been sent from the scene to the address of a potential suspect. It was almost universally believed that John Gaul was behind the killing. Even some of those who were convicted, as well as Barbara in her dying words, pointed the finger at him.
Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton Page 2