435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Taking a swig of coffee he l around once more. Part of fieldcraft he learnt from thrillers was not to stand out, so he opened the copy of The Times that was on the table and began reading the Business Section. One of Quayle's other dalliances was the stock market. Three quarters of an hour later the builders and the road warrior had made off and the place was more or less empty. Jittery from the three coffees and fully briefed on business he was so desperate for something to read he even considered reading the Sports section which he'd tossed aside. It was time to give up. Picking up his tray and dumping the waste in the bin, he made his exit and walked back to the car.

  Driving back to Beasley's house he worked out that Lomax had made a mistake and had now realised the fact. It was a dead end and a done deal for Quayle. This is what he was thinking as he drove. That was until a mobile phone started beeping.

  Chapter 9

  Quayle had returned to the car and loed under the seat. He thought Lomax had checked him out and then slipped a 'burner' phone into the car. A burner is simply a cheap pay as you go phone that's not linked to a contract and therefore untraceable. However, it was not to be. Picking up his mobile after pulling on some blue plastic gloves he carried everywhere in an empty Kinder Egg, which he found. nestling amongst a clutch of discarded lager cans, he saw t displayed 'One message' .

  “Charlie, Fancy an afternoon at The Baron? Ted.”

  “Shit!” said Quayle lobbing the phone back into the detritus. Putting the keys where he'd found them, he made for his bike. All was still quiet on the allotments as he pulled the tarpaulin back and recovered the bike. It was peaceful down here and he looked at the sorry mess there, the mess that his plot had become. A wigwam of canes containing last year’s runner bean plants stood at one end. The whole plot was overgrown with weeds and run to seed crops. Only the shed was in good order. The roof looked like it had been patched and previously odd warped planks had been replaced. Truly he couldn't remember if he'd done it. Perhaps Alf or one of the committee had done it. They knew his circumstances and had been more sympathetic than they need to have been.

  “Bollocks to it,” thought Quayle. “Onion sets and compost bins could fuck off at the moment. “ . Again like the house, this had been theirs. The job was his ‘everything’ now and after a lacklustre start, the wheels had really started turning. Locking the gate he mounted the bike and made for home in an indirect manner.

  A few minutes later he pulled up to the front gate just as John the postman was coming down the path at the front of the house. “Morning,” the jovial postman said coming out of the gate and holding it open. “Thanks John, how's it going?”

  The postman gave a wry smile and said, “Living the dream,” as I believe you youngsters say. Quayle was pushing his bike through the gap when his toe caught on a loose slab. He toppled over and dropped the bike. “Been on the booze?” said John laughing as he helped Quayle up. “I bloody wish,” said Quayle nodding his thanks and picking up the bike. “Oh you dropped something,” said John holding up a piece of rolled plastic. “Thanks” said Quayle wondering what the hell it was. “Be seeing you” said John, disappearing down the street.

  Once he'd stowed away the bike he went inside and started the coffee machine. Sitting at the breakfast bar he to out the plastic roll. It was a tightly rolled piece of laminated paper, held together by two rubber bands. Taking them off he flattened out the paper. Printed on it were five names:

  CHARLES COURTS

  JAMES SIDWELL

  ROBERT TALLIS

  THOMAS MARSDEN

  It could have only been put there by Lomax. A first piece in the puzzle?

  Chapter 7

  For once the die had fallen in Quayle’s favour and he and Bozza had swapped a super late shift for an early; meaning they could finish their tour on office hours. Added to which they'd got a 'Gucci' job, one that came gift wrapped with no grief and loose ends.

  “Employee theft from a warehouse. They've been helping themselves to electrical goods and concert tickets to a value of a couple of grand,” said Quayle as Bozza pulled the car into a warehouse complex that made Gatwick look small. The former coalfields area that had been decimated by Thatcher's victorious war over the miners had seen business parks and warehouse complexes sprout up like mushrooms alongside the web of motorways and A roads that criss-crossed the area.

  “Here we are. This one's all yours,” said Bozza parking the car. A security guard lead them though the security barriers and into a labyrinthine network of pipes and conveyor belts. Quayle thought the station was a featureless bunker, but this place was in a different league. A forklift beeped its tinny horn making them stop. Finally they went up a spiral staircase and into a mezzanine office. A well-built man in his late forties stood at the door and greeted them.

  Quayle smelt ex-job as soon as he saw him. “I'm Martin Ster, Head of Security, laddo is over yonder in the corner He's put his hands up to everything,” said Ster. “I'm PC Quayle this is PC Bostock. Do you mind if we have a quick word with him and then we'll come and get a statement from you if that’s okay,” said Quayle. “Already done, just let me have your email.” Quayle el raised an eyebrow. “Ex job?” Ster nodded. “Fifteen years, West Mids. Quayle nodded. “Well that'll move things along, thanks for that,” and disappeared into the office. Even a Gucci job has paperwork and property to deal with.

  Three hours later the light-fingered but co-operative young man had been arrested conveyed to Custody, booked in, and would be likely released after being interviewed, charged and then given a court date. CID would do the interview, wanting to establish If the young man was a sole pilferer or part of something a little bigger.

  Bozza and Quayle had to make another journey to do a search of the young man's bedroom at his parental home to recover further stolen property that the man had 'coughed' to. Then it all had to be bagged, labelled and logged onto the property system. Plus the uploading of all the statements and other paperwork for the court file. In all, two officers had spent four- or five-hours’ work each for an offence where the offender would probably get community service or a fine. Still, as jobs went it was great to be loing at getting off shift with a least one thing more or less wrapped up.

  Quayle stared at the dregs of his coffee and decided a refill was in order and maybe some chocolate. The canteen was devoid of any of his shift members but the jar of top brand instant he'd brought in earlier that morning had been decimated, nonetheless. Bozza had pointed out to him to dekit the car. Those three beautiful words.

  But Quayle had somehow rerolled the dice. “Control 435 Tango, we've got an immediate outside Custody. Can you deal.” Quayle looked forlornly at the array of chocolate. Tossing a couple of pound coins in the tin he grabbed a couple of bars, stuffed them in his stab vest pocket and jogged to the car park.

  “Control 435 Tango, please show us your dealing,” said Bozza over the radio. The car was already running as Quayle jumped in. “Ha thought you'd get to the end of tour without one last 'quality' job,” said Bozza gunning the engine and hitting the blues and twos.

  The late afternoon commuter traffic. Even with the blaring two tones and the blue lights flashing, some drivers were slow to react. Quayle had gotten used to the behaviour of motorists. Either they did nothing to get out of the way, or they put on a signal to indicate they were moving over and then did nothing. Others moved out of the way without indicating. And finally some were just plain panicked weaving all over the place. Quayle could not be less than in awe of how Bozza put the car through the traffic. More than once a driver panicked and tried to stop and let them past in a traffic calming area where the road narrowed. Bozza simpy jinked the car around them and went into the oncoming lane.

  The call had come from their Custody Suite, where they had been only hours earlier. A drunk male was outside pressing the buzzer and rambling incoherently. Having received no answer he'd taken his anger out on the blue police lamp outside. While there was that rarity of rarities, a manned front
desk at the Custody Cent - it only opened during business hours.

  “There's our man,” said Bozza, pointing to a figure slumped against the front doors of the station. Turning off the lights and two tones, he drew the car to a halt, From the other end of the street ran two other uniformed officers. “Fuck' thought Quayle as he recognised the two officers who were from the shift that was just turning on. They closed up to Quayle .

  ” Afternoon, Probie,” said Dave Cornford, a grizzled veteran. “I reckon we can let PC Quayle have this collar,” he said to his equally veteran colleague, Marie Downing who nodded in agreement. “Sure thing, there's another immediate just come in,” she uttered.

  By this time Bozza was on the scene. “All yours,” said Cornford nodding towards the drunk who now slid down onto the ground with his back leaning on the doors. The pair of cops jumped back into the car and blitzed off in a blur of blue lights. The noise caused the alcoholically challenged young man to snap out of his doze.

  “Afternoon Sir, I believe you wanted to speak to some officers,” Quayle kept a couple of metres away in the 'public zone' And while it looked like he was just standing with his arms folded, Quayle was making an analysis of the young man. Clad in jeans and a tee shirt which appeared soaked through with some liquid or bodily fluid, from here the guy stank. They always did. Quayle could see he hadn't got much chance of having a concealed weapon. Having tried the former approach, Quayle toned it down a notch. “Hi fella are you okay? You lo like you've been in the wars.” He avoided the word 'mate' like the plague. A fellow student officer who couldn't shake off using the term was currently wearing a face splint after being headbutted whilst attending a domestic. All had gone well till he’d said, “Get in the van mate.”

  Quayle moved into the personal zone, about a metre and a half. Basically enough space to keep out of range of a swinging punch or a headbutt. “Fucking bastards rolled me for my phone,” the young man mumbled. His arms were by his sides and he was swaying on the balls of his feet. “Those wankers in there wouldn't open up,” he said pointing at the intercom.

  Quayle toa step closer to the man. “Well they don't like to get their arses off their stools, do they? Leave it to mugs like me and my colleague here,” Quayle said nodding towards Bozza who was just to the offside of the drunk. Close enough to step in if need be, but far enough to let Quayle lead the dialogue.

  “Have you hurt yourself at all?” asked Quayle switching on the torch on his stab vest. “Nah, just skinned me knuckles,” the man replied. “Okay I reckon you'd wanna get that seen to by the nurse and we can get you a change of clothes and some food. How's that sound? The young man looked down at his gashed hand. “Yeah that'd be good. Have you still got the all-day breakfasts?” he asked.

  Quayle now stepped into the 'intimate zone' right next to the man. As their Self Defence Instructor had said this zone was only for 'fucking or fighting' But in this case it was to establish a degree of authority and also enable Quayle to get 'hands on' if necessary.

  Members of the general public and especially those with a martial arts or military background always lo puzzled at YouTube videos where a number of officers are struggling with a violent prisoner. They are looking through a different prism. Arresting or detaining someone is not about physically conquering or destroying the prisoner. Whereas a soldier can literally use quick and extreme violence to kill or severely wound their opponent, the Police need to use 'reasonable force' to incapacitate their opponent. Hence the use of PAVA incapacitant spray, and batons.

  Batons aren't used as fighting weapons, but rather as a method of putting in strikes to incapacitate the prisoner or provide the officer protection from an offender with a weapon. Once the person is incapacitated then restraints like handcuffs come into play. The Million Dollar Question for every officer is how to gauge each situation. Most people will be compliant, but a misplaced comment or action can turn on a penny to a full-blown violent confrontation. On a small number or occasions there’ll be no compliance and violence from the outset. To which many officers would say 'Game On relishing the simplicity of the job in hand.

  “Come with me and we'll find out. But first I’ve got to tell you that you're under arrest for criminal damage. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if do not mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?” asked Quayle.

  “Yeah sure, let’s go,” said the man sticking out his wrists for the handcuffs, “We're only walking to Custody so if you're not going to kick off, we'll leave the cuffs,”

  The man nodded. Quayle gestured for the man to make the short walk to the rear gate of the car park. Bozza strode ahead and radioed to Custody and also updated Control that they had one in Custody. The rear gate rumbled open and they were soon in the airlock. Thankfully, Custody was empty of customers and Quayle got the man before the Custody sergeant who authorised his detention. While the young man who'd given his name as Dan Riley was asked a panoply of questions by Sergeant 'Sylvester’, Bozza filled Quayle in on the man's background.

  Dan Riley was the youngest son of a rich car dealer. His mother had died when he was still at primary school. His father had quickly remarried, and Dan hadn’t ever got on with his step-mother. . Since his early teens he'd been on the fringes of minor criminality. More often not his dad gave him some money to get him out of the way. Dan would end up returning home, wasted on this, that or the other, and he'd be turfed out again More often than not, he saw the Custody Suite as his emergency accommodation.

  Having been searched, booked in and dressed resplendent in a green boiler suit, Riley sat on the bench demolishing a microwaved 'English Breakfast' while Quayle stood near him. “This is all good, but you can’t call those fucking beans,” he said to Quayle who nodded in agreement. As he'd found out since starting the job, while he didn't want to be one of the customers staying at the 'Blue Light Hilton' it seemed detainees got fed and watered well, whereas the officers rarely got spare time to eat or drink whilst on shift.

  Quayle had one eye on his charge and one on the Custody Desk where Bozza and Sergeant 'Sylvester' were hunched in conspiratorial conversation. Riley scraped the last bit of sausage from his plastic tray and handed it to Quayle. “I'll get rid of that for you,” said Quayle taking it and placing it in the bin in the kitchenette which catered for PICs or Persons In Custody. Bozza was stood a few yards away near the Intoximeter Room and beckoned Quayle over.

  In one hand was a clipboard. “Righty-o bang, goes your rest day for a while. Sylvester says Riley is a high-risk person with a dictionary load of mental health issues. He wants you on a constant watch till laddoes fit to be let go. You'll need this, fill it in every fifteen minutes. No need for War and Peace, just a brief comment. I there's no change, just write – No Change,” said Bozza, handing him the clipboard with attached pen on a string.

  “Number Six!” shouted Sylvester to Quayle handing him a large key. “Thanks Sarge,” said Quayle. “Don't worry we'll get you a coffee sent down in a bit,” said Sylvester.

  Quayle escorted Riley to a cell. The wing of cells mostly had the huge thick full steel doors with an eye level hatch and a spyhole. Six had a sturdy glass door. Clutching his freshly issued blanket, the ones that were rip proof to stop them being used to make ligatures, Riley winked as Quayle shut the door. Quayle plonked himself on the chair outside the door. Riley soon bedded himself down on the rubber mattress that lay on the low shelf like concrete bed and disappeared beneath the blanket. Quayle rapped on the door: “Make sure I can see your head please,” he shouted. Riley flipped the blanket down and was soon either asleep or doing a great fake of it. Either way it was going to be a long night.

  Quayle soon worked out a way of remaining awake, He crossed his legs and balanced one boots sideways over the one that was flat on the floor. When he began to nod off his balanced boot would slip off the other and rouse him. Other than that, standing up every half hour and stretching j
ust about did the job. About three hours in, the door in the corridor opened. A female Custody Officer made her way down the cells taking a peek though the spyhole to do the hourly checks on the other residents of the cells.

  “How's it going?” she asked. Quayle resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment, reining it in. “All fun here,” he said with a smile. “Can I get you a coffee or something?” Quayle nodded. “Coffee would be great; milk two sugars, please.” She smiled back, “bbe back in five,” and disappeared down the corridor. Quayle had just written the latest update and was making a detailed study of the phalluses and testicles that had been drawn on the reverse side of the clipboard when she returned.

  She handed him the mug. In the dark watches of the night the usually passable coffee tasted like nectar. “Thanks,” he said. She fixed him with a stare as a memory stirred. “Are you the one who brought the drunk driver in the other night. Lomax, I think he was called.”