POLICE, ARRESTS & SUSPECTS
The True Story of a Front Line Officer
John Donoghue
Copyright © 2015 John Donoghue
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
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concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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ISBN 978 1785894 121
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall
Typeset in StempelGaramond Roman by Troubador Publishing Ltd
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB
For Bethan
Contents
Cover
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by John Donoghue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgements
When I first set out to write this book, I bought myself a new thesaurus. However, it was poor. Very poor. Very, very poor. In fact, I have no words to describe how disappointed I was!
So, it will come as no surprise that I’ve had invaluable help from a select band of talented people that I should acknowledge here otherwise they may be after me for money.
A special thanks to:
Sharon: Walking Thesaurus & Singing Dictionary.
Your help and assistance in this project has been invaluable and is greatly appreciated.
Honourable mentions go to:
Rich: Director of First Impressions.
Jane: Ambassador of Buzz.
Margot: Cowboy Junkie.
Nancy: Tea & Biscuits.
I could go on, so I will.
As always, I wouldn’t be able to write about my escapades in the police without my colleagues on E shift. Thanks to them and all who serve the noble cause on The Thin Blue Line.
I also need to add that the views expressed herein are my own and not endorsed by any constabulary. As ever, names and places have been changed to protect the guilty, but if you do think you recognise yourself and you’re not happy with your portrayal, then you’re probably wrong, and I’m not the John Donoghue that you actually think I am. In fact, if you are offended by anything in the book, then I’m offended at how easily offended you are, and, for your information, from now on I will only accept criticism in the form of song. If, however, you like the book then, yes, it really is me!
These are my own tales from the sharp end of the fuzz, but every police officer has a wealth of stories to tell, so buy them a pint or a cup of tea and I’m sure they’ll happily share them with you.
Finally, thanks to you, dear reader, for taking the time to pick up this book/kindle (delete as applicable). It’s no use being a Writer of Wrongs unless someone actually reads about it.
I hope you enjoy.
John Donoghue
About the Author
John Donoghue never set out to be a writer… he wanted to be a sailor… and a soldier… and a policeman.
He has been all of the above and has written four books covering his escapades so far…
He is still a serving police officer.
Other books by John Donoghue
Police Books
(The True Story of a Front Line Officer series)
Police, Crime & 999
Police, Lies & Alibis
*
Humour / Travel
Shakespeare My Butt!
‘Marsupial Elvis’ to ‘No Place’… ramblings, meanderings, digressions… and a dog
Chapter 1
Drive Time
“January the first already,” commented Gwen, momentarily glancing towards me as she held onto the steering wheel. “And so begins another year of policing for the men and women of E shift.”
It was dusk and we were navigating our way around the town centre ring road. Gwen was driving and I was looking out at the shoppers, wrapped up against the cold, scurrying from shop to shop, their bags laden with bargains. Occasionally, one would dart across the zebra crossing to get to another sale on the other side of the road, causing the cars in front to brake hard. I pondered over why so many pedestrians seem to confuse right of way with immortality.
All the cars, meanwhile, were driving very carefully, rigidly adhering to the speed limit. It could only mean one of two things: perhaps all of the driver’s good underwear was in the wash or everyone becomes a model driver when there is a police car right behind them. Mind you, I’m the same; even when I’m in a police car if there’s a traffic cop behind me I drive like I’m back in training school.
Some are more careful than others though, and the elderly couple we had let out at a junction a while back were hesitantly crawling up Central Avenue in their Rover Connoisseur; driving so slowly that a man walking in front of their car waving a red flag wouldn’t have looked out of place. We were directly behind and were randomly illuminated by their brake lights as they tabbed on them every so often for no particular reason. A long tailback of traffic was growing in our wake.
“What the…” exclaimed Gwen suddenly, glancing in the rear-view mirror. “Some maniac’s overtaking all the cars behind and speeding towards us on the wrong side of the carriageway.”
I pushed myself up in my seat to catch a glimpse of what she was looking at, but I needn’t have bothered as the offending vehicle sped past us, coughing up road debris.
“Worth a pull!” we both remarked at the same time and, as Gwen pulled out around the car in front, I hit the lights and siren. The shortest ever police car chase then ensued as the vehicle immediately pulled over, mounting the kerb in the process. Gwen pulled up behind and I got out to speak with the driver.
With blue strobes slicing through the air, I approached the sporty BMW and knocked on the driver’s window. The woman inside looked over at me and I did a winding motion with my hand, requesting her to lower the glass so I could speak to her. A button was pressed and, with a gentle purr, the window was lowered releasing warmth from the vehicle, as well as the unmistakable strains of Cameo blasting from the stereo. I nearly enquired if you could still wave your hands in the air if you did care, but thought better of it.
“Could you turn the ignition and the radio off, please?” I shouted over the noise. She partially complied with my request by turning the engine off and lowering the volume.
“And how can I help you today, Officer?”
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Well, I’m a 36DD, so I think so,” she answered confidently.
I was immediately taken aback. I’d never encountered a response like that before. Usually, people either sheepishly admit their offence and hope they’ll get away with a warning, or categorically deny that they’ve ever done anything wrong in their entire lives. I chose to ignore her comment and continued with my line of questioning.
“Madam, do you know how fast you were driving?”
“To be honest with you, Officer, I’m more concerned with whether you know how fast I was going.”
Touché. I hadn’t had time to check our own speed let alone hers. I decided to proceed to safer ground: Gwen had seen her suddenly pull out, and I’d seen her driving on the wrong side of the road and speeding past the other motorists.
“You were also driving erratically, madam.”
“Don’t you mean erotically, darling?”
I felt like I had suddenly been transported to the set of a Carry On film.
“No, madam, I don’t mean erotically. And, to compound matters, you’re not even wearing a seat belt.”
“Well, Officer, how are you supposed to see my boobs if I do?”
There she goes again!
“I’m going to have to check your documents.”
“And by ‘documents’, I presume you mean these titaaaays…” She accompanied her statement with a thrust of her chest in my general direction – the contents of her low-cut dress wobbling like jellies on a plate as she did so. I stood in silence at the door of her car, whilst looking desperately over at Gwen for moral support. My colleague, however, simply smiled back at me through the windscreen of the panda car, completely oblivious to my plight.
“Madam, can you take a seat in the back of my car, please?”
“Oooh, you are forward, you naughty boy!”
If this had been anywhere else, I would have given as good as I got, but I was on duty, in uniform, at the side of a road, talking to someone about possible driving offences. I surreptitiously glanced around to check that I wasn’t on some kind of hidden camera show. I tried my best to maintain my professionalism but, despite the cold, I could feel my face flushing.
The woman slowly got out of her vehicle; an expensive looking high-heeled shoe emerged first, followed by a shapely leg. As she extracted herself from the confines of her BMW, her short dress rode up, revealing a fleeting sight of a lacy black stocking top. I turned away to give her some privacy, but I was certain that she must have done it on purpose as she giggled when she asked me if I had caught a snatch of a glimpse.
“It wasn’t that short!” I replied defensively, before realising I had got the words of her question in the wrong order. When I turned around again, she was stood before me in a short black cocktail dress, her long red hair tumbling over her shoulders like a communist falling down a hill. I motioned towards the police vehicle and indicated for her to get in.
“You’re staggering,” I informed her.
“Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Officer,” she replied, winking at me.
“No, I mean you’re not walking in a straight line.”
I accompanied her, holding onto her arm to ensure that she didn’t fall into the road, before opening the back door of the police car for her. As she sidled past me, I caught a whiff of alcohol.
“Aren’t you going to get in the back with me?” she pouted. I explained that it was probably best for all concerned if I sat in the front. I gave Gwen an eye roll as I got in the passenger seat, which she returned with a wry smile.
“Can I have your name please?” I asked, getting my notebook out.
“Astrid,” she replied.
“Surname?”
“Stevens…with a V,” she added, leaning through the gap between the seats and tapping the top of my book. She then sprawled back in the seat, which is something I wouldn’t normally advise considering some of the customers that we transport in the back of our cars. A variety of offenders and victims have all sat back there, leaving behind their own particular form of DNA; some have thrown up; others have spat everywhere; a few have bled on the upholstery and more than a handful have wet themselves. We try to keep them tidy, but police cars are the workhorses of the constabulary; as soon as one shift finishes and gets out, another shift starts and gets in, not even giving the engine time to cool. It’s rare that pandas are taken off the road long enough to go in for a deep clean, so the back seat is not the sort of place I’d choose to lounge around in.
“It used to be White!” she exclaimed, sitting back bolt upright.
“What did?” I queried, hoping she hadn’t sat in something left by one of our previous guests.
“My name, silly! Before I was married.”
I added ‘White’ in brackets and then told her that, although I knew it was rude to ask, I would need to have her date of birth. She informed me that she was a Capricorn, which didn’t really narrow things down that much. Eventually, after a frustrating guessing game that she obviously enjoyed more than me, I was rewarded with the relevant information.
“Comms, can I have a person check with the following details…?”
“You’re doing a check on me?” she suddenly squealed. “Just like a common criminal?”
I informed her that that was exactly what I was doing.
“Ah, I see,” she purred conspiratorially, tapping the side of her nose and glancing in the direction of my colleague. “You’ve got to pretend to do it because she’s here.” She sat back and proceeded to pick some lint off the shoulder strap of her dress.
“From your manner of driving and your demeanour, I’ve reason to believe that you might have been driving whilst over the prescribed limit.”
The check had come back negative; she had no previous convictions on record. I therefore began with the next part of the procedure. “Have you been drinking, Mrs Stevens?”
She gave me a coquettish look. “Call me Astrid.”
“So, how many have you had, Astrid?”
“I say, Officer! How rude! You’re not shy, are you sweetie? A lady never reveals the number of past lovers.”
“Astrid, answer the question, please. How many drinks have you had?” I half expected Barbara Windsor and Kenneth Williams to appear at any moment.
She held up two fingers in a V shape.
“Two?” I enquired.
“Five,” she clarified, “glasses of Prosecco, darling. When in Rome and all that…”
“Five glasses of Prosecco,” I repeated as I wrote it in my book.
“And an eggnog. Well, it is still Christmas; technically.”
“And a glass of pancake batter,” I added, noting that down too, and affording myself a little smile. It was just as well I did, as nobody else seemed to share my humour.
“And some margaritas, sweetheart.”
“Well, they’re not going to regret themselves, are they?” I commented as I added those to my list. I began to get the feeling that my funnies were landing on stony ground. I pressed on regardless. “It’s hardly necessary, considering what you’ve just told me, but I’m going to conduct what we call a roadside breath test to ascertain if you’re over the legal limit to drive.”
Usually, it’s at this point that the subject starts to filibuster, telling you that they only have one lung and it’s made of cardboard, or that the doctor has advised them not to exhale; however, Astrid immediately pursed her lips and leant forward into the gap between the front seats. After I had explained what she needed to do, she made a perfect seal with her lips around the tube and blew, all the while maintaining direct eye contact with me before leaving behind a perfect ring of bright red lipstick on the white plastic.
“You can keep that as a souvenir,” she purred. Normally, that was my line! We all sat in silence, waiting for the result to show up on the display. Eventually, it bleeped, announcing that it had a decision for us. I had a quick look and informed her of the outcome.
/>
“I’m afraid you’ve failed the test. Therefore, I’m arresting you for drink-driving. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence…”
“You’re not actually arresting me?” she interrupted, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Yes, I’m doing just that.”
“Oh, I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here. I’m not some sort of miscreant. Don’t you know that my husband is a leading businessman in the town?”
I continued with the police caution, continuing on from where I had left off.
“I think you’ll find that I know quite a few of the members of the Chamber of Commerce here. You don’t incarcerate people like me in a squalid jailhouse.” She then tried in vain to open the doors, but found she was thwarted by the child locks that are used in the back of every police car to foil such an escape attempt.
“Look, Astrid,” said Gwen, twisting round in her seat to address our charge, “if the sample from the roadside apparatus is above…” but before she could finish she was cut off mid-sentence.
“Oh, shut your cake-hole!”
“Cake-hole?” repeated Gwen – more to herself than anyone else – and turned and sat back in her seat. It was a rebuke of sorts, but, as rebukes go, it was considerably gentler than those usually expressed by our customers.
“I’m sorry, Officer.” Her comments were directed at me rather than my colleague.
It’ll come as no surprise that most people say they are sorry when they’re arrested, although I think it’s more regret at having been caught than having actually committed the crime. “Is there anything I can do to extricate myself from this silly situation?” she continued, lowering her head and suggestively looking up at me. “Is there anything else I can… blow?”
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