435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Bozza to charge of Andy and to him to the medical room where a nurse dressed his badly bitten hands. Meanwhile Sylvester went through the boing in process with Quayle and Andy’s social worker who was present on speaker phone. This rigmarole created a Custody record and went through a pro forma set of questions varying from mental health status to dietary requirements. Normally the Person in Custody would be taken through this i in person.

  “This is a between the stools job,” said Sylvester. “I mean, he’s got ‘capacity’ officially, but he’s also a vulnerable person. Sorry about this Quayle but due to the biting I’m gonna stick him in a glass door cell and you’ll be on a constant watch. But don’t worry I’ve contacted Duty CID and they’ll do the interview as it’s robbery.” He e smirked knowing that Quayle’s involvement was probably over, and CID would take the glory for the result.

  Capacity was the bane of the Police Officer’s life. Swingeing cuts to Mental Health services meant the Police were the final port of call for people suffering mental health problems. These issues were often exacerbated by issues with alcohol and drugs abuse. Many people were deemed to have capacity i.e. they were aware of their own surroundings and held responsible for their actions. Hence, they could be arrested and dealt with as normal. However, this capacity varied wildly, and these people would have not been deemed fully compos mentis by the average person in the street. Granting capacity however allowed these vulnerable people to be left to their own devices albeit with some scant support. Inevitably when some of them crashed and burned it was the Police who had to pick up the pieces.

  Bozza returned with Andy whose hands were bandaged and clutching a coffee. “Number 7,” said Sylvester, handing Quayle a blanket and a clipboard. Andy went meekly into the cell and sat on the concrete shelf that had a thin rubber covered mattress on it. “You have a sleep for a bit, and someone will come and process you later,” said Quayle.

  “What happened to David, you won’t put him in here with me will you? “Andy asked timidly.

  “Course not,” said Quayle, shutting to the reinforced clear glass door. While the boing in and responsibility lay with the Custody Sergeants, the grunt work of processing prisoners which involved taking their fingerprint, DNA swabs and picture was left to the civilian Custody Detention Officers of which there were usually two or three on duty at any time. They also bought food and drinks at regular interviews. It had not gone unnoticed by Quayle that vulnerable people in Custody were looked after much better than they were when living their day to day lives.

  Andy put the blanket around his shoulders and Quayle made his first entry on the clipboard as he sat on a plastic chair in the corridor. His mind drifted back to the events of the previous evening. After leaving the bus and dumping the knife down a drain they had gone back to Colleen’s rented flat. Their clothes had hit the floor and they had jumped naked together into the shower. Quayle wouldn’t have called it making love it was plain old fucking, the pure untrammelled meeting of a carnal desire. A jolt of pure stress relief between two people undergoing the raw attraction that heralds the beginning of many relationships. In the early hours of the morning after much needed sleep they had made love tenderly and gently before falling back into a graceful sleep their limbs entwined, Colleen’s head nestled in the crook of Quayle’s extended arm.

  He was roused out of his reverie by the clunk of the corridor door opening. The hefty form of Barny emerged. An ex-biker, he walked with a pronounced limp after a nasty motorbike accident shattered his leg. Despite this he was still a formidable looking chap and his cheery presence and dark sense of humour made him a popular figure in the Custody Suite.

  “Come to fetch Andy for processing,” said Barney.

  Nodding, Quayle got up and unlocked the cell. “Come on chap we’re taking your pic and your prints, won’t take long then we’ll get you some food,” said Barney calmly.

  Andy stood up and walked down the corridor behind Barney. Quayle brought up the rear. Custody was clear apart from Sylvester who was behind the redoubt tapping away on his keyboard. The door from the nurse’s office opened and a half naked David appeared.

  “You grass, I’m gonna cut you,” he shouted. The wail of the Custody alarm drowned his words. Quayle pushed Andy behind him and drew his baton. “Barney get him back to his cell now,” shouted Quayle.

  “I’ll kill that bastard,” shouted David a razor blade now clearly in his hand. Quayle raised his baton to strike if David advanced any further. “Get back,” he screamed, taking a step forward. There was a slam of a door as Barney bundled Andy back into the cell corridor. The custody alarm still wailed. Quayle saw two figures emerge from behind the rampart of the Custody desk.

  “David look at me,” shouted Sylvester who has armed himself with a round plastic riot shield.

  “David looked around and Quayle saw his opportunity smashing his baton across the back of David’s knees. As the man folded to the floor, Quayle grabbed David in a bear hug clamping the man’s arms to his sides. Sylvester joined the fray pinning David under the shield.

  “Let it go, let it go,” shouted Sylvester. David wriggled and struggled but let go of the razor. Barney reached down and grabbed the weapon, tossing it behind the Custody desk. Sylvester kept the shield pressed down on the prone David who was still pinioned by Quayle. Leaning down, Barney grabbed Quayle’s handcuffs and David’s right wrist, snapping on a bracelet. “I’ve got your arm name David. If you try anything, I’ll break your bloody wrist,” he said quietly.

  Between them the three men managed to cuff David and propel him into a cell. They all stood in the Custody area catching their breath. “Thanks Sarge, where the fuck did you get that shield?” asked Quayle. Sylvester laughed, “One of the Tasking Group gorillas left it behind after a raid last week. It’s on its way back to Stores,” said Sylvester. The Tasking Group were the ‘heavy mob’ who were often seen tooled up in full riot gear smashing their way into houses and drugs dens with the Big Red Key or an enforcer, to give i it’s formal name. More recently they had taken to using hydraulic rams on reinforced steel doors or chainsaws on the composite doors which had proved unbreakable with the enforcer.

  Trained in dealing with public order or riots in plain English they were an elite cadre at peak physical fitness and tip top in training. It came as no surprise that they copped a lot of flak from the mere mortal uniformed colleagues who dealt with domestics and shoplifters for their daily bread.

  “Oh shit - the nurse,” said Barney rushing to the Nurse’s Office. “Taken care of gentlemen,” said Bozza, emerging from the Custody Office door sipping a coffee. “I went to see her in there and she’s fine.”

  “Apparently he had the blade in his mouth inside some chewing gum,” said Bozza.

  “Jesus, whatever next,” said Sylvester. He would have to make some changes to the search processes, after he’d finished all the paperwork that would come from this situation. The constant watch to over the rest of Quayle’s shift. Picking up a marked car he drove back to the station and booked off. Having no time to update his paperwork he to his police laptop home. He was on a ‘late’ the next day, so not starting till 2pm. Arriving back at the house he saw the red light blinking on the landline answerphone. A rare sight indeed. He hit Play.

  “Hello Mr Quayle, it’s Alf from the Allotments. Just to say it’s good to see that you’ve been back down at your plot. We’re glad to see you back. If there’s anything we can do just give us a call,” Quayle listened to the message slightly puzzled. Pouring himself a stiff Scotch he sat down and switched on his Chimera laptop. His time sitting outside Andy’s cell hadn’t been wasted. He had decided on a new track. Firstly Kylie Courts and the solicitor Philip Carrington-Howell. The legal eagle was the one who had sat in on Palfreyman, the drunk driver Quayle had arrested. The solicitor wasn’t one of the usual egg and ham ‘duty briefs’ who the Police had on call to represent people in custody who required a solicitor and didn’t have a nominated solicitor. This guy dro
ve a Bentley and billed in triple figures per hour. So why had he turned up to represent a down and out man apparently living in his car for a simple Drink driving offence in the wee small hours? That was inexplicable. He made a note to visit the Hope & Anchor pub to buy the old soak solicitor Charles Beasley a few drinks and see what he knew about Carrington Howell. But first he needed to concoct a reason to speak to Karlie Courts. And he knew just the man to make it happen. Picking up his burner phone, he dialled Jay.

  Chapter 12

  Bozza was away on a two-day Public Order refresher course. Many uniformed officers to this course as it allowed them to deploy as ‘riot police’ at events such as demonstrations and football matches. The course was held at a disused airfield where a mocked-up town allowed the participants to practice shield work whilst being pelted by real petrol bombs and bricks. The regular officers who were also public order trained kept their public order kit, consisting of fire-retardant suits, various pieces of body armour and NATO helmet in additional lockers at the station they worked at. On more occasions than the Home Office would like to let on, these officers were drafted in to help other forces under the concept of ‘Mutual Aid’, as was the case with the London Riots of 2011 when hundreds of officers were sent to London.

  While Bozza was away on his jolly, Quayle was crewing with Natalie, a fellow Student Officer who was nearing the end of her eighteen months. Small, blonde and feisty, Quayle found being crewed with her refreshing. She was renowned throughout the shift for her titanic swearing. “Get out of the way you wank puffins,” she said as she manoeuvred the car through the town’s traffic.

  It has been ‘Q’ so far and they were on the way to get a statement from a witness regarding some criminal damage to a car. “I hope we don’t get any collars today, that fucking cockwomble Sylvester is on duty at Custody,” she said changing gear. Quayle laughed to himself, chuffed that not only did Natalie share his disdain for Sergeant Dawson, but the moniker he had coined was now shift currency.

  “Sylvester?” asked Quayle.

  “Don’t get wise with me you cum bubble, Sergeant Dawson. I know you made the name up and it’s spot on,” she smiled. “He gurns just like a big sodding cat, thinks he’s God’s gift,” she laughed.

  “Findus says Dawson’s ex-army,” said Quayle. “Yeah he was in the Territorials, the Weekend Wankers,” she scoffed. “This traffic is horrendous, it’s the works on the ring road. The fucking town planners are about as much use as a one-legged man at an arse kicking competition,” she spat.

  “Aye up, something going down on the Compton Estate,” said Quayle fiddling with his radio earpiece.

  “There’s always something going on there. It’s like Beirut and Bosnia rolled into one,” she said. Quaye pulled his earpiece out so the radio was on speaker.

  “Aw fuck!” shouted a voice. The radio ping ponged. It meant an officer had pressed the orange emergency button at the top of their Airwave unit. It cleared all other calls on the net for ten seconds.

  “Urgent assistance required at Nellist House,” shouted a voice.

  “It's Bladder and Thompson,” said Nichole. Detective Sergeant Dave 'Bladder' Wilson and Detective Constable Joseph Thompson were the force's most infamous thief takers on the Proactive Offender's Management Unit and worked in plainclothes taking out drug dealers who plagued the low-rise tenements of the Compton Estate.

  “Nodding to Quayle, Nichole floored the car.

  “435 Tango to Control we are in the vicinity, show us making to Nellist House, 515 is a basic driver so we may be a few minutes,” said Quayle. Nichole only being a basic level driver could not exceed the speed limit or put on the blues and twos. It didn't stop her blasting through a red light and making frantic use of the horn though.

  “Fucking get out of the way you shitweasel,” she bawled.

  They veered into a side-street that ran down the back of the Compton Estate and was a much-used rat run for escaping villains taken off on their toes. Screeching to a halt they jumped from the car. The two detectives were tussling with a scraggy looking young man who they had got in handcuffs. “Get the drugs,” shouted Thompson. A bag of drug wraps was on the ground along with a number of ten-pound notes blowing across the cracked concrete. Fishing an evidence bag from his stab vest, Quayle bagged up the drugs and sealed the bag. Putting the stash in his stab vest pocket he opened another bag and scooped about two hundred pounds in ten-pound notes. A couple of feral looking teenagers had emerged to see what the ruckus was.

  “You two, fuck off back inside,” bellowed Nichole. They made themselves scarce. Quayle helped Thompson get their prisoner to his feet, “Get off me Four Eyes,” said the young man. “That's original,” said Quayle propelling the man into the back of the police car.Nichole stood on guard by the open car door as Quayle sat next to him in the back also with the door open.

  “What happened?” said Beckie to Dave Wilson.

  “We were going to execute a warrant on laughing boy here's flat. We were on the way when we saw him in a taxi on the way here. He was making deliveries, so we raced ahead and grabbed him as he went into the lift. He was quiet at first, but then he kicked off when we found his stash. So we all had a good roll around.” said Wilson.

  He had got his nickname 'Bladder' from his constant need to go to the loo whilst on surveillance. Most notably he had left a four-pint milk container of piss in an unmarked car.

  “What's his name?” asked Quayle updating in his pocket notebook that he'd seized the suspected drugs and money.

  “Hey Speccy, where's my money. I only just got paid?” he moaned.

  “How can you get paid when you've never had a job?” asked Nichole.

  “It's my JSA,” he moaned. “This little scrote is Cain Maxwell. He's been dealing drugs since he was in his pushchair,” said Wilson. Becky laughed.

  “You can fuck off Fatty,” said Maxwell. “

  Quayle laughed. Nichole was around five foot five inches and athletic and lean. “You're not looking too hot yourself,” replied Nichole.

  Maxwell was clutching his swollen elbow. His manky tracksuit trousers were halfway down his legs exposing some filthy boxer shorts. “Another marked car pulled up and Ron Findley, a grizzled lifer Police Constable got out and lit up a fag. “Oh look it's the Compton's answer to Scarface,” he quipped blowing out a plume of smoke

  “Can I have a fag?” asked Maxwell. “No smoking in police cars,” said Nichole. “Once these cuffs come off, I'll fucking rape you, you dyke bitch,” said Maxwell wriggling in the back seat.

  Take it easy,” said Quayle pushing his finger into Maxwell''s neck on a pressure point.

  “Ah you cunt,” said Maxwell screaming in pain.

  “Okay, Finny can come with us and do the flat and you can take him back to the station,” said Wilson.

  Nichole slammed the door and got in the driver's seat. “Control, 435 Tango, One in Custody on possession with intent to supply. We'll inform Custody,” said Quayle into his radio.

  Maxwell was a known tricky customer and two more uniformed officers were waiting in the car park as the airlock door rolled open. “Oh aye it’s the fucking welcome committee. You got my room ready,” spat Maxwell as Quayle got him out of the car. The other two officers fell in behind them and they walked into the concrete floored no man’s land between freedom and custody. The door rolled shut and Becky hit the intercom. As the door shut Findley slid through clutching a bulging clear evidence bag.

  “You’re fucked gobshite, loo what we just found in your fridge,” he said holding up the bag. “Enough ice and brown to put you away for five to seven, you little shitbag,” Maxwell slumped but was ready with a comeback as he swung and spat at Findley who sidestepped it.

  “Missed,” he said. Quayle and the other two grabbed Maxwell pinioned his arms and pushed him to his knees hard on the floor.

  “Any more of that and we’ll stick a bag on your head,” said Findley squatting down and shouting into Maxwell’s face. The steel
door swung open and they manhandled Maxwell down the short corridor and into the Custody Suite. Sergeant Trumpton was behind the desk. “Right get the cuffs off him and get him searched before we book him in, I’ve already authorised detention, he said. Quayle took the cuffs off and snapped them back into the pouch on his belt. “You’d better sterilise them,” said Findley.

  Maxwell puffed himself up and lurched towards Findley. The veteran cop was ready and pushed him away in the classic SPEAR open handed method. Quayle caught Maxwell and got one of his arms in a wrist lock. “Come on, get in the Search Room,” he said urging the struggling man through an open door. Findley followed them in and shut the door. “You know the drill,” said Quayle.