by R J Holligan
435 Tango
by
R.J Holligan
TO BADGER, (LULU), THE GREATEST FELINE WRITING BUDDY ANYONE COULD HAVE WISHED FOR.
“Truth prevails, but it takes some elbow grease.” Jan Masaryk
Prologue
PC Stephen Quayle parked his clunker in the supermarket car park and paid no attention to the gathering of young men smoking cannabis and lounging about in their crappy, but illegally modified, cars. There was the unmistakable tang of weed mixed with petrol fumes. In this armpit of an ex-industrial town this was what amounted to entertainment. When he'd first parked and seen this a few weeks ago the warrant card had felt solid in his pocket and with the zeal of a fresh minted copper he'd imagined that he and his colleagues would come down and sort this mob out, half a mile or so from the Police Station. Would they bollocks. How quickly the scales had fallen from his eyes. He'd been falling ever since. But as they say it's not the falling that counts, it's the landing...
Chapter 1
It was a shitty rainy night and the roads were slicker than the pavement outside a nightclub on Sunday morning. Living off-grid meant no satnav and no motorways and as few A roads as possible.
Joe Public might be vaguely aware of ANPR camera but hadn't caught on they were becoming almost as ubiquitous as their CCTV cousins. Taking a swig from a can of Stella, he swung the car from one dark lane into another. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking but this was cow-cop country. He imagined they'd all be tucked up in the station typing up reports of missing dogs.
The rendezvous was set for the old classic midnight. But Ted Lomax hadn’t lived this long without being well prepared. Being there ahead of time would give him a chance to scout the area and lo for ambush spots and escape routes. His plan was to leave the car some way off and go to the meeting on foot. Squinting into the darkness he leant over the steering wheel. The road was like a dark tunnel between hedges. Then it opened up and he touched the accelerator a little lighter. Something flashed from the grassy verge. Instinctively, he hit the brakes. But nothing happened. The car slalomed into a ploughed field and all was quiet, save for the half-hearted tuk-tuk of the wipers.
Taking leave of the tonne of steel liability he grabbed his rucksack and started back off up the road. Some torch beams were coming down the lane, so he made off across the field. After a few minutes of squelching across the muddy field he hit the welcome firmness of tarmac. Then he saw headlights coming off the distant strip of well-lit motorway. Some old dears coming back from the theatre. Then he saw the car roof light up with a kaleidoscope of blue, and two tones began to howl. “Shit” he said hurling the rucksack deep into the base of a hedge.
PC 1905 Stephen Quayle to a last lo in the full-length mirror. Everything was where it should be. Wicking shirt, trousers tucked into boots, equipment belt cinched up with baton in holder and PAVA spray in holster. Stab vest. velcroed and zipped up with epaulettes displaying his collar number clearly. “Tonight Matthew I'm going to be.... A police officer,” he said in his head. Clomping down the corridor he went to the Report Writing Room where members of the previous shift were still finishing off paperwork or stuffing their faces. Most were doing both. There were no appointed desks for Response Officers as desktops were being phased out in favour of hot desking. Decentish laptop cum tablets had been issued and that was that.
Twisting off his Airwave handset he slid off the battery and pulled a fully charged one from the bank and put the empty one on charge. Then he turned the radio on and punched in the four-digit code. It came to life and he slipped in the earpiece. Checking his G Shock watch he saw it was fifteen minutes before briefing at 22:00. Time for a coffee. Leaving the Report Writing Room he headed down the corridor.
Halfway to the grandiosely named canteen, which was really a large kitchen, the radio net kicked in: “Control 445 Tango can you deal with an Immediate?” A shot of adrenaline pulsed him out of his torpor. 445 Tango was the radio handle for him and his Tutor Constable, the Tango standing indicating it was a Tutor unit and shouldn't go to hardcore incidents. Which was bollocks.
“445 Tango, yes I can deal.” came the reply over the radio, which was echoed down the corridor as Andy 'Bozza’ Bostock his tutor strode into the corridor. With a swift nod Bozza turned and jogged for the car park. Quayle turned and ran to the locker room to grab his go-bag. The Tactical Jack contained a whole bunch of stuff from the heavy hi vis jacket to statement forms and evidence bags and kits. Hefting it over his shoulder Quayle hit the stairs and made his way across the darkened car park.
Bozza had the engine of the marked police car already on. Quayle dumped the bag in the boot and then himself in the passenger seat. The car rolled forward to the gates which were lumbering open. The car slid through them and then Quayle was pushed back in the seat as the car accelerated and the blues and twos kicked in. Bozza was a standard driver which meant he could break the speed limit to get to jobs. Quayle had n his blue light run duck on his first shift. But six weeks into the job he still got a real kick as the car blazed out of the station car park.
It was a Saturday night so traffic was light, but the likelihood of drunken nobs stepping out into the path of the car high, as he slowed for an island Boz punched the car horn to change the tone. A group of teenage hoodies in a bus shelter clutching their cider and BMXs gave them the finger as they sped off. “Fuck off thundercunts, shouted Bozza as they shot off the rain-slicked suburban streets and onto the motorway. Quayle smirked and shot his partner a lo as he swung the car into the outside land and punched the car to 130mph.
Bozza was a tall, wiry, ex-military policeman. The two had become friends in the last few weeks. Quayle had quickly gotten use to his tutor's mercurial nature. Tonight Bozza was on top of the world. Always a thing to make a shift all the more pleasant.
“Cameras?” asked Quayle. “Roger that Probie,” said Bozza. “Control 445 Tango, Cameras M12 Junction 2.” There was a pause and the controller acknowledged. All police cars were on the GPS tracking system and it would be acknowledged that the marked car was on a blue light run when it shot past the overhead gantry cameras. “Control 445 Tango please can we have an update on Incident 205,” Quayle asked.
“445 Tango Control, an SNT Unit has arrived on scene. A male has been located at the scene. It is suspected that he is in drink, SNT are awaiting your arrival to carry out a roadside breath test,” the controller said.
“Received” said Quayle. SNT were the Safer Neighbourhood Teams, community policing in old money. Bozza and Quayle were Response officers that were tasked with dealing with the 'nines' calls wherever they originated.
The car slowed as it came off the motorway and hit a maze of lanes which permeated the rural hinterland like the tributaries of a river delta. Quayle saw the blue lights cutting through the darkness. They pulled up across the other side of the lane
opposite the parked p[1]olice car. Bozza hit the 'At Scene' button and the blue lights changed their pattern. Bozza and Quayle went over to the car.
A uniformed officer stood by the open rear passenger door. In the back of the car sat a man. “Evening Dan, what have we got here?” said Bozza. “Looks like he was using his car as a mobile boozer and lost it on the bend. Car’s over there in the field.” said Dan pointing into the dark hedge. “I'm going take a look at the car. Constable Quayle will do the breath test for you and we'll see what that gives,” said Bozza flicking on his Maglite and disappearing into the muddy field.
Quayle sat down next to the man, He was in his forties with close cropped grey hair and had the whiff that most of the 'customers' Quayle had so far dealt with had: a strange olfactory mix of to
bacco, sweat and stale lager.
“Evening sir,” said Quayle, his pocket notebook open. “Can I ask you your details please?” The man leaned over to him. “Yeah, I'm Geoff Palfreyman,” and then rattled off his address, place and date of birth. He'd done this before Quayle thought as he put his pocked notebook back in his stab-vest. Quayle moved on to the next part of the roadside breath test process he'd practised numerous times in role plays with his very sober trainee officers.
“As you know you've been involved in a moving traffic incident and therefore, I have to carry out a roadside breath test. Should you refuse to provide a sample you can be arrested. Do you understand?”
Palfreyman nodded. Quayle cautioned him and then broke open the sealed tube that went on the top of the breathalyser and set it for taking a reading. Having assured Quayle that he had not had a drink, vaped, smoked or chewed gum in the last half hour, Palfreyman blew into the tube. Quayle looked at the display. The light went green and read 80.
“As you have blown more than twice the legal drink driving I am arresting you on suspicion of drink driving, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned anything which you may rely on later in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,” said Quayle.
Palfreyman nodded. “Okay. We’re going to have to take you to custody and get you to give another sample on the intoximeter,” said Quayle.
He watched the man closely. So far, he'd been as meek as a lamb, but even from his limited experience he realised that once the 'customer' knew they were going into a cell, the light bulb would go on and then violence would kick off. Quayle judged this one as being low risk and decided not to handcuff him in the 'front stack' position, the one that restrained the prisoner most comfortably. Cuffing to the rear was reserved for those who were really kicking off.
Dan, the other officer who’d been watching, gave Quayle the thumbs up. “If you come with me, we'll put you in the other car. Quayle quickly noted the breathalyser reading and time of arrest in his pocket notebook and then went around to the side of the car. Bozza had returned from his nocturnal ramble and had got into the rear passenger door.
Quayle walked Palfreyman to the marked car, got him stowed with a seat belt on, and racked the passenger seat right back. This prevented the prisoner from trying to kick the back of the car seat. . He shut the doors and went around sliding into the back seat. He would travel in the rear not wearing a seatbelt to be able to take any necessary action to restrain the prisoner. Bozza nodded to Quayle via the rear-view mirror. Quayle nodded he was good to go. “Control 445 Tango, that’s one in custody,” said Quayle. “Thanks for choosing Bluelight Taxis, “said Bozza pulling the car off the verge and taking a much more sedate journey back to the police station.
Chapter 2
Saturday night was the last one of the current 'tour' i.e. the end of the six days of shifts before four days off. It was also Quayle’s l shift's turn on the 'Fun Bus'. At around 11:30pm the shift would pile wholesale into two marked vans and 'show the flag' around the nightclubs and pubs. The large vans could seat a bunch of officers and sported a pair of cages where prisoners could be located. Recently the steel cages had had clear Perspex doors added, after a number of customers had spat thorough the grilles.
The shift had paraded at 7pm where the Sergeant had allotted who was on which van. As the shift was parading double figures, a rarity these days, two vans were going out. One would hit the strip while the other would circle the rural hinterland between the large villages and small market towns. Morale was quite high as it only could be as they trooped from the parade room to the canteen. Unlike TV cop shows, where kindly grey-haired ladies doled out egg and chips at reasonable prices, the reality was a kitchen counter with a sink, a hot water boiler and a fridge. Coffee and tea were stored in cupboards labelled for each shift and each one sporting a padlock. Yes, theft was rife in the police station. Each shift had to chip into a 'tea fund' and one officer to responsibility for collecting the dues and keeping the cupboard stocked. On Quale's shift this was Bozza.
A box of Krispy Creme doughnuts sat open on one of the tables. Andy Poulton, the new 'newbie' had made the rookie mistake of using the 'Q' word. The fateful word was 'quiet'. He'd uttered it an hour before the first late shift as everyone had been catching up on updating their 'crimes'. Despite being response officers who spent most of their time responding to nines (999) calls, they also 'carried' the responsibility for investigating the ones they responded to. These were in the majority 'volume crime' assaults, harassment and shoplifting. Juicy stuff like robberies and domestic burglaries went to CID. Poulton's fateful utterance had pulled the stopper from the bottle. A flurry of 'immediates' hit them like a tsunami. Calls were graded from 1 to 4. Generally speaking response officers mostly dealt with immediate and priorities. The former, was where there was a threat to life and limb, and warranted the full blue light treatment. (continue below from here)
The latter needed dealing with within a reasonable time. It was the call handlers in the OCC Operational Command Centre that to the calls and allotted them. Along the way the shift inspector and/or sergeants would then help to assign resources accordingly. More often than not demand outstripped supply. Calls slid down the list and only immediates got dealt with. More often than they would have liked, the shift sergeants or Inspectors would have to beg units from the south of the county, which on the whole was more prosperous and faced less crime of the volume kind anyway.
Two domestics, a pub fight and a prowler quickly sent a flurry of cars issuing from the station and the resulting arrests and paperwork saw no-
[2]one get off shift on time. So a 'cake fine' had been issued, hence the doughnuts.
There was a sliding scale of cake fines for various minor cockups like losing equipment or dropping your crewmates in it. Quayle made a coffee, grabbed a doughnut and headed to the first floor. In normal office hours the first-floor open plan office was the domain of the civilians. At night it was colonised by uniforms happy to log onto a desktop with a decent screen and a proper keyboard. When the civvies were in, the shift were relegated to the grandiosely named 'Report Writing Room’. Basically one long bench with office chairs, a scattering of landline telephones and a charging bank for Airwave radio batteries. Here the shift either had to use their laptops or attach their laptops to a 'docking station' with a screen and keyboard. So the logical conclusion for Quayle was 'Why not leave the desktops in?'
The docking stations were great, until you got an immediate. Then as you needed your laptop for taking statements you had to undo everything and pile it into the car. Quayle booted up the desktop and logged onto the EAGLE command and control system. In essence it was a live feed database that showed where units were deployed and most importantly the 'jobs' that were coming in and were being dealt with. It gave information on the caller, what they had reported and essential information such as the caller's name, address and phone number. These 'logs' were constantly updated as the situation came in and was being assessed.
As Quayle had quickly learned the general public were pretty crap at giving accurate information. The report of a large group fighting with knives and baseball bats which caused six units with tasers to be deployed, often turned out to be some juiced-up teenagers. On the flip side reports of some 'kids messing around' to which a double crewed unit like Quayle and Bozza would be deployed to, would turn out to be a full-scale melee between rival gangs involving weapons. Which they had to then stand off from until a Taser unit could be deployed. Requests for a Dog Unit usually got the response which was now legend 'The Dog is in the South'. You might as well have asked for an Apache gunship.
Quayle logged his and Bozza's car under the callsign 435 Tango. He then logged onto the much-hated crime management system to 'update' his crimes. Looking over to the other desk he saw Bozza bashing away on the keyboard. It was 'school report' night. As a student officer or probationer in old money, Quayle had t
en weeks with a tutor and then should have been signed off as 'Independent'. On paper this meant the Student Officer had ticked off a number of tasks such as arrests, searches, and other general policing duties, making them 'street ready'. In reality it meant that the student officer could be deployed 'single crewed', thus creating another unit.
After that the student officer had eighteen months to complete a portfolio to achieve 'Substantive Rank'. i.e. a fully-fledged police constable. Quaye had taken eighteen weeks for his initial training. But he was one of the last. The powers that be had decided to end that system and brought in a new programme, where Student Officers had either got to have a degree before applying or acquire one whilst training.
In the first ten weeks the tutor constable got a weekly progress report. Quayle feigned interest in his 'crimes'. Currently he had 23 on his books, most of which were heading for the NFA dustbin. Once a month the sergeant would go over the 'crimes' that were languishing and despatch them with a click of a mouse. The paradox was that the Home Office rules required that all crimes be 'recorded'. So more or less every incident attended got put on the system. Many with zero chance of seeing an arrest and suspect interview much less a prosecution.
“Outstanding... ly average,” said Bozza dropping the report on the desk in front of Quayle. Their ritual was for Quayle to read it and then peruse it again before signing it to say he agreed with the contents. It was reminiscent of the oft played out scene with the waiter and wine.