Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton

by Graham Bartlett

  ‘That’s bloody charming,’ I remarked to Dave as I accelerated the car away. ‘That’s the last time I offer to help the old timer!’

  As I glanced towards him I saw Dave was in no state to reply. He was creased up, convulsing with hysterical laughter, eyes streaming and fighting for breath.

  I drove on, silently rueing the lack of respect the older generation was showing me. Even the traffic warden didn’t prostrate himself at my feet with gratitude. His assailant had already been handcuffed and was being squeezed into one of the other police cars.

  I got back into the car and sloped down the hill to the police station, feeling distinctly unloved and unneeded. The homecoming warmth that Grace and Branson feel every time they arrive at this strangely welcoming concrete carbuncle escaped me that day.

  One of the most common saviours of our sanity is gallows humour, or the hilarity found in the macabre. We hear in the Grace novels dozens of instances of this and all evoke in me memories of how it helped us cope, free from today’s political correctness Gestapo bearing down.

  Some of the acronyms that describe the various states or liabilities of those involved in road crashes may seem insensitive. FUBAR BUNDY – Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet and DODI – Dead One Did It are both examples of the dark wit of all emergency service workers, but they serve a purpose in keeping us sane amid the horrors we face.

  Like so many of my colleagues, several of the characters in the Roy Grace series would be either the instigator or the target of merciless banter.

  DS Norman Potting, with his old-school roots and his crass political incorrectness, shows his colours throughout with his injudicious comments in briefings, some of which are shocking, but many display the hilarity required to survive consecutive murder enquiries.

  DI Glenn Branson, with his sharp dress sense, encyclopaedic knowledge of the movies and his background as a club bouncer, receives as much teasing for this as he doles out to his friend and boss, Roy Grace, over his age and musical tastes.

  I hate to think what revolting substitutes would have been placed in DS Bella Moy’s ever-present Malteser box, just waiting for her hand to spontaneously grab while beavering away in the incident room.

  When I was a patrol officer most police stations had social clubs. Those who never had to face the misery and violence that frontline policing dishes up in spades saw these bars as a luxury.

  However, after a frenetic late shift I, and many like me, found them a welcome sanctuary where our unofficial debriefs could be held in relative privacy. We had to unwind and the stuff we needed to talk about was not fit for public ears.

  The healing properties of a couple of pints of warm flat beer, supped in the austere surroundings of the fourth-floor Brighton Police Station bar, spiced with an hour of merciless mickey-taking, worked wonders in normalizing the mind after eight hours immersed in human misery.

  There was no seniority or pecking order; no-one was immune. I was as guilty as the next person of homing in on those who’d had an unfortunate shift. You were an obvious target if you had been assaulted, crashed a car or let a prisoner escape – all thankfully rare, hence all the more ripe for a torrent of relentless ribbing.

  None of this was serious. We all knew that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ but as it was not us on those particular days, why not give the luckless ones a hard time and everyone else a good laugh?

  However, this could occasionally become abhorrent. Some would ridicule their colleagues or members of the public for just being different. Women, gay people or those with a different colour skin had a torrid time at the hands of the ignorant. This wasn’t banter, it was bullying plain and simple. My experience now is that this bigotry is stamped on the second it surfaces. Others may disagree.

  It’s a shame, however, that the positive camaraderie that team bonding brings is waning. Some officers feel shy laughing off the trials they have faced in case some clinically minded, desk-bound manager takes offence.

  Often, it’s the members of the public we deal with who provide the richest material for laughs. The lighter moments can spark from a particularly dumb villain, a helpless inebriate as well as from the idiocy of a colleague.

  Show me a cop who doesn’t relish the sights and sounds of Brighton’s notorious West Street late on a Saturday night when the drunks start to spill out from the countless clubs, and I will show you a misery-guts.

  A few punters want to fight but most, in their own woozy way, just ‘wanna be your mate’. Scantily clad women, and men, insist on being photographed with ‘the best bobby in Brighton’. Some confuse the rooftop ‘Police’ sign with one signifying a taxi and demand to be driven ‘Home, James’ while others insist you have ‘a bite of my kebab, mate, ’cos you must be bloody starving and I bloody love the Old Bill, I do!’ The banter is just fabulous and I always imagine their reaction the next morning when reminded of this by friends who would no doubt add, ‘I can’t believe you said/did that to that copper. You were lucky not to get nicked.’ Never a chance of that from me. These people made my evening.

  It was rare to see the blueprint for Roy Grace, David Gaylor, lose his sense of humour. He was normally at the centre of most of the pranks but on one occasion, while the rest of us were revelling in a colleague’s misfortune, his was the only stern face.

  I was a DS and David was the DCI at Hove CID. I’d known David since we both served in Bognor together, him on CID and me as a wet-behind-the-ears probationary constable. He has always been a very self-assured and superbly gifted detective. His reputation for getting things done earned him many promotions. He would always find a way to reach an objective and that, in the policing culture, is a highly prized gift. He ran a very tight ship and we all knew where we stood. That said he was great to be around, always quick with a joke, and could not resist a wind-up when the opportunity arose.

  My very good friend and constant colleague DS Bill Warner was normally very close to David. For years David allowed the office to believe that when he went on holiday, as well as Bill ferrying him to and from the airport, he would task him with various chores at his home such as cutting the grass and keeping the house ship-shape for his return. He would even send him a postcard reminding him. Many thought that this was what actually happened and counselled Bill to stand up to these overbearing and outrageous expectations. It was only when someone threatened to blow the whistle that they both revealed it was all a jape and, as one, everyone had fallen for it.

  Bill was a late entrant to the police. His previous careers running his own contract cleaning business, as a Brighton taxi driver and professional boxer gave him a street credibility that was rare among most of us. He was in his late forties when he became a DS but, as he once represented Great Britain at water polo, he was fitter than most of us.

  Always immaculately turned out, he struck a fearsome form. His broad frame, flattened nose, pencil moustache and tight buzz haircut gave him the look of a high-class bouncer.

  His quick and acidic wit spared no-one. From the Chief Constable to the cleaner, we all had to be on our guard when Bill was around. In my later years I found I was safe from his sharp-witted retorts only when in the relative, yet temporary, protective formality of official meetings. If I managed a swift put-down towards him he would march into my office afterwards and remind me that ‘you are only the Chief Superintendent because I told the Chief Constable to make that so. You know I run this force and you are all subject to my will and I can withdraw rank as quickly as I bestow it!’

  That was his fantasy world. In reality he was a hard taskmaster and he ensured that people knew that his respect had to be earned; rank alone did not guarantee it.

  We were suffering a spate of frauds at banks along the main drag running from Brighton to Hove. These would, invariably, be just as the bank was closing. It was becoming a real problem and the pressure to catch the offender was growing. David Gaylor made it our key priority to apprehend whoever was responsibl
e and see him locked up for many years.

  Intelligence seemed to suggest that the bank on Holland Road, just down from the police station, was going to be targeted late one Friday afternoon. David was beyond excitement. Not only was this his chance to arrest a very prolific villain, but also an opportunity to get one over on his smug counterparts over the border in Brighton.

  Two of the most vigilant detectives, Simon Steele and Rachel Terry, were chosen to sit in the bank and wait for the inevitable; the trap was set.

  Now Bill appeared to have no life outside the police. Despite being officially off duty, he would often pitch up at the police station and assist, or rather interfere, with whatever was going on. Such was the case on this day.

  His presence was not something you could ignore. He was loud, gregarious, nosy, uber-confident and very, very funny. I loved the big old bear!

  While holed up in the bank, Simon and Rachel were getting concerned that they both had prisoners coming back on bail later that day and needed to be ready for them. So, just after 3 p.m. they phoned the DS’s office. It was no surprise to them that the off-duty Bill answered the phone.

  ‘Hi, Bill,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance Rachel and I could come back to the nick? It seems all quiet here and we both need to get some stuff together for later.’

  I had stepped out for a while so, not bothering to check with someone who actually knew what was going on, Bill glanced at his watch and gave them the OK. Not ten minutes later they strolled back into the office and quietly settled down to their more pressing commitments.

  On the stroke of 3.25, the tannoy broke the silence throughout the police station.

  ‘All units make for Holland Road, fraud in progress.’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted David, punching the air, as he dashed from his office to the open-plan DCs’ room, knowing that his hunch had paid off. We had him. Simon and Rachel would be bursting from their cover ready to slap the handcuffs on the offender once and for all. I followed him, sharing his exuberance and delight.

  It took David a second to register what he was seeing. Who were those doppelgangers sitting at Simon and Rachel’s desks?

  ‘What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the bank?’ he yelled.

  Seeing their boss’s rage rise, they knew it was time to deflect his wrath.

  ‘We phoned Bill and he said we could stand down,’ Rachel wisely explained.

  ‘Bill’s not even here, he’s off today,’ retorted the incandescent David just as the workaholic DS sauntered into the office.

  ‘Control must have got it wrong. The banks shut half an hour ago,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Bill, what are you doing here?’ demanded David.

  ‘You know me, always here to help,’ quipped Bill.

  ‘Not this bloody time you haven’t. Did you let Simon and Rachel come back?’

  ‘Yes. No sense in them sitting there in a closed bank,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Bill, in your world what time do banks close?’ asked David, smelling blood.

  ‘David, all banks close at three. I know you probably have people to do your banking for you, but us mortals need to know these things!’ joked Bill, now playing to his audience.

  ‘Bill, I’m not in the mood for your piss-taking. This bank, as well as every other one I know, shuts at 3.30. That is why I authorized an operation to run to 3.30 as that is the time our target has been striking,’ replied a stony-faced David.

  By now we could all sense that the viper was about to strike and Bill’s ignorance and self-assured assertions were bringing that moment closer and closer. We were spellbound. I was loving it – it wasn’t often Bill was in the spotlight like this.

  Quietly, the northern drawl of DC Mick Burkinshaw, a rugby-playing, hard-working, brash Yorkshireman, could be heard. ‘Cut your losses, Bill. It’s 3.30. Face it, you’re in the shit.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ demanded Bill.

  ‘Sure as eggs,’ came the reply, this time from Irishman DC Dave Corcoran.

  ‘Shit. I don’t normally do this but is it too late for an apology, David?’ asked Bill, clinging onto the last vestiges of his dignity.

  ‘It’s not David, it’s sir to you,’ bellowed David. ‘Get out of this police station now. Get out of my sight and don’t come back until 8 a.m. on Monday when I want you in my office. If you stay a second longer I will say or do something we will both regret.’

  Bill shuffled out of the door and sloped off down the back stairs to his car and away in search of sanctuary. David left the office and the DCs roared with laughter at the slaying they had just witnessed.

  Unable to stand a weekend of angst, contrary to his orders and knowing David was working, Bill braved a visit at 9 a.m. the following morning.

  He gently tapped on the DCI’s door.

  ‘You’re late, Bill,’ mumbled David without looking up.

  ‘But you told me to be here at eight on Monday, I thought I was two days early.’

  ‘I expected you here apologizing an hour ago. There is no redemption for what you did. I will never let you forget it. I will be angry with you forever more, while all of your colleagues will, in time-honoured fashion, rip the piss out of you at every opportunity especially when you next dare to become the big “I Am” in their presence. Now, this time I mean it – get out and don’t you dare come back until Monday.’

  Happy to have survived with his most delicate parts intact, Bill slid out of the nick and did something he had never done before or since – he took the weekend off.

  Of course, good as it is to laugh at each other, it’s even sweeter to revel in the crass stupidity of villains. We often rely on a degree of foolishness to assist us in solving certain crimes but some take that to extraordinarily helpful extremes.

  It was a cold, windy winter night in Brighton, the glare of the street lamps creating a glow on the damp pavements of the Kemp Town area as it rose from the seafront to the sprawling Whitehawk council estate. PC Rain, as cloudbursts are often called given their effectiveness in keeping drunks off the street, had done his job.

  Dave Cooper, a tough and canny probationer who had recently joined Sussex Police from the French Foreign Legion, was in a panda car with his tutor. This duo were not your ordinary pair of cops, they shared a number of things, a quick wit, deep inquisitiveness and the same surname. Dave’s tutor was a Cooper too, Geoff Cooper.

  In those wretched early hours where everything is either kicking off or dead as a dodo, the Coopers were trying to make their own luck. Drunk drivers were always fairly easy pickings on cold Monday night shifts. For some reason irresponsible motorists feel less vulnerable when the streets are deserted, unaware they stand out like sore thumbs.

  Suddenly as the Coopers inched eastwards along Eastern Road towards the Royal Sussex County Hospital, a car behind them flashed its headlights. Geoff pulled over and the other car followed suit.

  Both cops stepped out of the patrol car and strolled to the vehicle behind, a Ford Escort. Geoff approached the driver and, true to his training, Dave engaged the passenger in conversation. Immediately both officers realized from their chirpy accents they were dealing with two Scousers – Liverpudlians.

  ‘All right, mate, where’s Newhaven?’ asked the driver, clearly lost.

  As Geoff chatted to the driver Dave succumbed to his natural distrust of just about everyone. Firstly, he decided to carry out a Police National Computer check to find out who owned the vehicle. He edged out of earshot and radioed the control room, giving the registration that started with an E.

  In no time the radio crackled back. Not good news. There was no record of the number Dave had read out. With his military training he doubted he had got it wrong so he took a closer look at the registration plate.

  Despite the pervading darkness, broken only by the glow of sodium from the street lights, Dave spotted something odd on the plate. He rubbed his fingers over the E and, rather than the smooth surface he expected, the bottom bar was raised. He picked at the imp
erfection and soon found that black masking tape had been stuck across the letter. Peeling it away he saw that the real registration started with the letter F, the tape creating the illusion of an E.

  He re-ran the check and was delighted when the call came back; the vehicle had been reported stolen. Dave was elated, but needed to hide his glee for just a moment longer.

  He stepped over to Geoff who was by now boring the two Scousers describing the large collection of cars he had restored. They looked relieved that Dave was about to interrupt his colleague’s monotony until he proudly announced, ‘Right, you two, you’re nicked!’

  As the cuffs were slapped on, Dave could not help but mercilessly rib the two hapless thieves. Exactly how stupid do you have to be, when driving a stolen vehicle, to stop a marked police car to ask for directions?

  Back at the police station, Dave and Geoff summed it up when recounting the story for the umpteenth time – Papa Oscar Charlie; meaning (and I have provided the cleaner version) Pair of Clowns.

  Christmas is a time for families, a season of goodwill to all men. It’s also a great time to catch elusive fugitives as, like homing pigeons, they can’t help but migrate back to their kith and kin.

  One December DS Julian Deans was becoming exasperated hunting down a particularly slippery suspect.

  Deansy, as he is affectionately called, is one of the drugs investigators in the city. He is a man’s man. His passion for golf and football slightly exceeds his ability but, nonetheless, he has a competitive spirit that permeates every fibre of his being. His tendency to say what others only think is not always popular with his bosses, but I found his frankness and his disdain for bullshit refreshing and sobering in equal measures. He has an intense sense of right and wrong and always takes the battle to the villains.

  Yet again, he wearily rapped on the door of the flat where he knew his prey lived.

  ‘Fuck off. He’s not here,’ yelled the delightful wife, in tones reminiscent of Evie Preece when she was raided by police in Dead Man’s Grip. ‘You’re wasting your fucking time!’