However, in the early nineties their very existence was in jeopardy. They knew only too well that Brighton’s knocker boys were venturing further afield. Pressure was coming down from the big UK cities for the squad to get a grip on its bad boys, who were causing havoc far and wide. Officers up and down the country started to target cars with Brighton registration plates and, if they suspected a link to the antique trade, would order the occupants out of town. Questions were being asked. The squad needed a big result and fast. They had to prove their worth to those who were eyeing them up for the next efficiency saving.
With the eyes of their bosses, as well as those from other forces, on them, the Squad seemed to have hit the jackpot out of the blue. Through their tried and tested technique of striking their prey at their lowest point, they found themselves to be on the verge of a coup that would turn them from zeroes to heroes in a matter of days.
The Squad’s network of informants gave them access to around thirty ‘grasses’ and the team could rely on daily contacts from their snitches. Two in particular were so productive, so reliable that they were afforded ‘agent’ status – effectively on a retainer to gather and pass on information about Brighton’s bad and bold.
As part of an attempt to shift attention to bigger fish, a snivelling thief had blabbed to Nigel Kelly about a huge theft at a stately home in the north of England, which had netted a legendary sapphire stone nicknamed ‘the Plum’. He bragged that this gem, set in a beautiful necklace, was a whopping fifty-nine carats, worth over a million pounds in today’s money, and truly unique. This might have seemed like a desperate boast from a man in a corner but when he described the magnificent house, his tale became more plausible.
To put the size of this stone into perspective, Julie and I considered we had pushed the boat out when we bought what I thought was a massive sapphire set in her engagement ring that had cost £450. I say we bought it as the day we actually decided to take the plunge and select the symbol of our love and commitment to each other, I forgot my credit card. So, in the spirit of sharing, she paid for it. I knew I would never be allowed to forget that so, as soon as I had amassed enough overtime in my new job on CID, I promptly paid her back. I still haven’t been allowed to forget it.
The informant had certainly whetted the Squad’s appetite but they were too long in the tooth not to test these extraordinary claims. These were the days that dear old Norman Potting and our hero Roy Grace were brought up in; detectives were expected to be able to reach out to the underworld to pick up the whispers of who was up to what and when and where. Some had the Midas touch and found that crooks just couldn’t help spilling their guts to them. Others, like me, struggled somewhat but our talents lay elsewhere.
It soon became plain that the underworld chatter was indeed rich with stories of ‘the Plum’, as well as others of manor houses and safety deposit boxes crammed with stolen gems. Electrified by this, Nigel rushed to obtain a warrant to search a Brighton bank’s vault.
The chosen magistrate, who was used to authorizing the searches of homes, offices and warehouses, was stumped as to whether he had the authority to grant search powers in such a secluded hideout. Luckily, a check of the law confirmed he could, and he readily signed the warrant. So, armed with this, and filled with almost childlike excitement, Nigel and his colleague, the burly DC Alan Reed, dashed to the bank whose cellars were unwittingly concealing their prize.
These places, like Southern Deposit Security, the intended venue for Abby’s stash of stamps in Dead Man’s Footsteps, consist of discreet and secretive strongrooms and owe their very being to the anonymity they provide. Uncovering a stash of ill-gotten gems in one of these places would not be straightforward but the Squad knew that justice and their very existence depended on it.
Those entrusted with safeguarding such places are not keen on flinging the door open to any passing detectives to allow them free access to their depositor’s property. Call it protocol, call it polite obstruction, they will do what they can to put barriers in the way rather than be seen to be too accommodating to Plod.
Eventually, the posturing out of the way, entry was reluctantly granted and the search could start. This wasn’t a door-busting raid as in the hunt for Ewan Preece in Dead Man’s Grip. This was a search of one box in one vault where access to the necessary key was, while not easy, at least possible.
Nigel’s heart raced in anticipation as the tumbler bolts fell. The nervous tension was almost unbearable as the tiny safe door gave way, surrendering its secrets.
The contents glittered like an over-lit Christmas tree.
The box was rammed with a stunning array of rubies, diamonds, emeralds and a plethora of equally exquisite jewels that glistened in the half-light – a breathtaking haul of ill-gotten gains, each item representing a victim’s loss and anguish.
But among it all was the prize they were seeking. Proudly dwarfing the array of precious stones, nestled amongst them, sat a bright blue beacon that needed no introduction. The Plum.
Salvation was theirs. Surely now justice would be served and the Squad would regain their reputation as premier league crime fighters.
All the gems were carefully photographed, catalogued and seized, much to the chagrin of their powerless protectors.
Painstaking efforts were made to identify each and every item in the hope that they would reveal further victims whose heartache the jewels’ return might go some way to salve. Sadly, the vast majority of stolen property is not identifiable, either due to it not being distinctive or the owners never having thought it necessary to record the details of its existence.
Thieves rely on this. And there was no greater thief than the lessee of the box. He was a big name, a top-level target. His scalp would prove to the world that the Squad had lost none of its edge.
True to form, though, once arrested his interview strategy was simple; say nothing and let the cops prove it. If guilty, only fools protest their innocence and try to explain. Top villains sit back, listen and keep it zipped.
Our misnomer of a criminal justice system encourages this, with it being incumbent on the prosecution to prove beyond reasonable doubt any case they bring, while the defence merely have to introduce a grain of uncertainty from any quarter. This creates a courtroom combat rather than a search for the truth. In the troublesome trial of Suresh Hussain in Dead Simple, Grace is on the wrong end of the same kind of joust that I became very familiar with, where all sorts of allegations are thrown in the hope that they damage a perfectly just case.
It is important for charges to be properly proved within the rules. But when ethically brought prosecutions fail because a witness has a dodgy past, stolen property remains unidentified or suspects refuse to account for their actions, this cannot be defined as justice being done, especially for victims. They too often become forgotten bit players in the duels between the bewigged combatants. As the twentieth-century poet Robert Frost noted, ‘A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.’
I have, on many occasions, had to sit down with people who have lost their life savings, their privacy and sometimes their innocence and gently explain to them that a not-guilty verdict is not the same as them being disbelieved. To these tearful, dismayed victims it is little comfort that the justice they sought has been denied purely because one barrister argued his or her case better than the other. It’s a tough message to give and one that I could never deliver with any conviction that the system was fair.
Devastated at being unable to locate anyone with a claim to the other gems, Nigel and Alan’s last remaining hope was pinned on the Plum. Surely their just rewards were now a mere short flight away.
Years of their man having slipped through the net, of victims being robbed of their treasures by his arrogance and his apparent immunity from prosecution were about to come to an end. They could almost taste sweet justice as they stepped off the commuter aircraft, the Plum securely but anonymously nestled in the carry-on bag that n
ever left their sight.
If only they had known how misplaced their optimism was. This should have been straightforward yet no-one could have anticipated the massive shock that awaited them.
After the customary hospitality from their locally based colleagues, Nigel and Alan swiftly made the short journey to the wonderful mansion. Having finally reached the top of the ludicrously long drive, they rapped on the huge door.
Knowing they had to go through the formality of introducing themselves to the butler did not make the wait any easier. They were desperate to secure that final confirmation which would turn the jailer’s key once and for all on their nemesis.
As they were ushered into the cavernous hallway they could not believe their eyes. They nudged each other, barely able to contain their delight.
This was surely a gift from God.
In pride of place beside the sweeping staircase was a huge portrait, probably from the nineteenth century, depicting an alluring young woman dressed in the finery of the day, adorned by the most magnificent necklace, the centrepiece of which was the Plum sapphire. Its distinctive size, colour and cut had been beautifully reproduced by the artist. Surely, Nigel and Alan couldn’t be this lucky. But there it was, if ever they needed it, proof that they had won the lottery. The Plum was clearly one of a kind and its owner would very shortly be moved to tears upon its return.
The strangely edgy and uncomfortable aristocratic owner emerged into the hall from one of the many doorways, unnerving them.
‘Good day, gentlemen. I trust you have had a pleasant journey. I do hope you haven’t had a wasted trip.’
This seemed an odd greeting, but sometimes people behave oddly in front of detectives.
Perhaps he had not been told the wonderful reason for their mission. They soldiered on and proudly explained the whole story. The intelligence, the hours of investigations, the recovery of the Plum, the arrest of the suspect, and now – building to the climax – the spectacular sapphire reunited with its rightful owner. Victory was theirs.
‘That’s not mine,’ said the gentleman. ‘That hasn’t come from here.’
Stunned, Nigel and Alan could not believe their ears. Surely they had misheard, somehow misunderstood.
‘But it must be yours. All our enquiries show it is, we even had a detailed description of the inside of this wonderful house. It is definitely yours!’ Nigel pleaded.
‘I’m very sorry, gentlemen, you have been misled. It’s not mine.’
‘But how can that be? This sapphire is the one shown in the Victorian painting by the staircase. That lady is wearing this stone. Please look again. We know it’s yours,’ Alan begged.
‘All I can say is it’s not mine. I can say no more. I am sorry you have come all this way.’
‘You must think again. I couldn’t begin to explain how much misery the person behind this theft has caused. You could end all that, for Christ’s sake. What’s more, this beautiful stone, which that picture tells me is a family heirloom, will go straight back to him. You cannot want that to happen, surely?’ implored Nigel.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I can’t help you any further,’ was the terse reply as they were shown the door, the wind off the hills now more chilling than it had been a few minutes earlier. Hundreds of hours of work, dozens of enquiries and a six-hundred-mile round trip, together with a cast-iron belief that they would get their man, all wiped out in an instant.
Their world had come crashing down. Just as the net was about to close on the big fish they thought they had landed, he slipped away once more. Crestfallen and confused, Nigel and Alan’s journey back south was silent, with each lost in his own thoughts. They knew, for certain, that they had spoken to the owner of the Plum. But if he would not identify the gem, they could not prove that any theft had taken place; suspicion – even 100 per cent certainty – was not enough in the eyes of the law. The absence of a statement confirming ownership meant the Plum had to be returned to the person in whose deposit box it was found. It made them sick that one of their most prolific criminals was going to get a massive payday he was simply not entitled to.
Try as they might, they never did get to the bottom of why their victory was so cruelly snatched from them. The detectives were puzzled by the householder’s flat denial that the gem belonged to him. Was his ownership of it dubious? Did it hold some age-old family secret that would be best kept buried?
Could the acceptance of his ownership of the Plum and its theft really be that devastating? Did he actually give a moment’s thought to the ordinary people who would go on to be further victims? It was anyone’s guess.
The anger and despondency felt by Alan and Nigel was only matched by the sickeningly smug glee shown by their Mr Big as he flourished his signature on the paperwork that would return the Plum to him.
You can rarely predict the reception you get from the public. Experience taught me that not every victim regards the police as knights in shining armour. A thorough investigation, for example, can scupper a nicely inflated insurance claim. Some people are just too wealthy to bother worrying about their missing valuables and all the inconvenience police intrusion brings. Some just hate us and won’t give us house room, whatever the consequences or losses that entails.
It’s bad enough to be thwarted by smart lawyers or a sceptical jury, but it is most galling of all when the victim or a potential prosecution witness clams up. It happens time and again, often for no understandable reason – it could be threats made, fear or embarrassment or some other well-concealed reason. People are fickle and there is never enough time to fully understand the motivations of everyone we come across. Sometimes you just have to accept that it takes all sorts and move on. Policing Brighton is much too frantic to allow much time to do otherwise.
4: LAUGHING POLICEMEN
It’s not all death and misery. Sometimes policing can be fun. As a species, emergency service workers find their light relief in the most bizarre places.
Special (or volunteer) police officers were not always as respected as they should have been. I found this frankly insulting as they put themselves on the line as much as we who were paid did.
I had a very personal reason to admire them. My father, John, always wanted to be a police officer but back in the 1960s the pay was poor and he wanted a family so he let his head rule his heart and instead qualified as a chartered surveyor. However, he and my mum Hilary instilled in me, and my older siblings Martin and Carol, a deep respect for the law and policing. This sparked a single-minded desire to tread the path that he was denied. My parents could not have been more proud of the choice I made, nor I of them.
My Dad decided, later in life, that he could live out his dream by joining the Hove Special Constabulary. Unpaid, the job mostly entailed attending fetes and public events. However, never one to miss an opportunity, Dad volunteered for fortnightly football duty at Brighton and Hove Albion home games. He loved football and loved policing; who needs paying if you can combine your two big passions? When my Uncle Gordon, Dad’s brother, took me to the games Dad was working at, I would stand on the terraces on a crate to give me extra height, and enviously watch him as he patrolled the perimeter of the pitch. I so wanted to be him.
As a natural leader (he became a Director of Brighton Borough Council) he never accepted the status quo. His insistence that ‘Specials’ could do more than just be rolled out for the soft events, such as being a token police presence at church fairs, provided him with the profile of a modernizer and he soon won promotion to head up Brighton’s Special Constabulary.
He could be quite ruthless, never suffering fools gladly, but he was fair. He saw that a number of colleagues were interested only in the status of being a Special, not actually the reality of doing the job. They did not last long but those who genuinely wanted to be part of the wider policing of the city were nurtured and encouraged. Dad would vehemently negotiate their rights and promote the profile of Specials. Many of my Divisional Commander predecessors still spea
k highly of him for this. He brought the Specials out of the dark ages and set them on the path to what they are today.
One Saturday afternoon, my partner, DC Dave Swainston, and I were in the Brighton CID office reading through witness statements regarding a prisoner we were about to interview for robbery. Suddenly the tannoy crackled into life: ‘All units, ten twenty Queens Park Road. Traffic warden being attacked. All free units to attend.’
And that is exactly what Dave and I did. Grabbing a set of car keys we joined the mass exodus all heading for the car park to race the short distance up the hill to assist the warden. Despite Dave being a former traffic officer, it was I who had the keys and therefore I who took the wheel of the CID car.
As I revved the protesting 1100cc engine, I gave way to the better-equipped and more powerful marked response cars then fell in behind them, using their wake of sirens and blue lights to force my way out on to the roadway.
As I raced up towards Queens Park Road, I noticed a very familiar uniformed figure running in the same direction. Dad was never an athlete but neither was he unfit. However, he was thirty-two years older than me so would have been knocking on the door of sixty at this time.
A wave of protectiveness engulfed me and temporarily I forgot about the poor traffic warden. My dad, fully kitted up with radio, truncheon and chunky jacket, would be thankful for the respite I could provide.
I ground the car to a halt next to him, noticing him sweating and panting like a bloodhound.
‘Dad, Dad,’ I shouted, ‘get in, we’ll take you up there,’ expecting him to fling open the back door and gratefully throw himself across the bench seat.
However he broke stride momentarily, took one look and bellowed, ‘You can fuck off, son. I’ve seen your driving. I’m safer risking a heart attack!’ His pace seemed to quicken as if to put as much distance between him and me as possible.
Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton Page 6