by R J Holligan
“My we are the Boy Scout,” smirked Bozza.
“Right catch you in a bit,” said Quayle.
“You’ll need these, space cadet,” said Bozza handing him the car keys.
Taking the keys, he got out of the passenger seat and went to get into the driving seat. There was something catching the light on his trousers. Bending down to brush whatever it was, he looked `down to see it was some of the victim’s long hair from where he had sat on the sofa. The roots were still attached along with bits of bloody skin.
Twenty minutes laden down with plastic evidence bags and a number of brown paper bags, complete with yellow evidence tags attached. The labels provided a chain of custody of the item detailing who had found or seized it and what it was. As Quayle was moving the items, he had to fill in his collar number and other details on the tags. There was also an electronic database which also tracked all evidence. If there were hundreds of items, the process had to be done for all items. The bags contained evidence from a sexual assault, mainly clothing, but also swabs, taken at the scene.
Officers were now provided with test kits to take samples at the scene. It was another essential item in their ‘go bags.’ The clothes were packed in brown paper bags to let the clothes ‘breathe’ and stop decomposition, a lesson learnt the hard way, after valuable evidence had been lost. In the old days detectives had laid victims’ clothes on desks or the floor to photograph them, the items unbagged and the coppers wearing no gloves. More than one high profile rape case had been thrown out over the defence citing possible cross contamination of evidence.
Funding cuts meant that while there was a forensic team of Scene of Crimes Officers based at Quayle’s patrol base, the evidence locker was at the Custody Suite. This meant much to-ing and fro-ing for all response officers. Quayle remembered the bitter SOCO who had given them forensic training. He had told them the woeful tale of how the Forensic Science Service, a world leader on criminal forensics, had been sold off and effectively destroyed. From developing techniques that even big names like the FBI sought help from it had ended up a hotchpotch of profit-centred businesses all leading to a race to the bottom on price. Inevitably corners had been cut and cases had collapsed because of incorrectly stored evidence and samples.
Having stowed the bags, Quayle started the engine and rolled out of the gates. He needed to speak to Colleen, and the evidence locker in the basement was the perfect spot for a clandestine rendezvous. Deciding it was best to hide in plain sight he had simply dialled up the Custody Block on a landline from the Report Writing Room and told her that he’d be returning the property of a Person In custody which had been seized. It was the truth.
A few minutes’ drive later he swung the marked car through the gates and parked up. The Custody Block was a three-storey building officially known as the Justice Centre.
It even had a Front Office as long as there the public only wanted to access it during office hours. The Blue Lamp above the entrance, a nod to the Dixon of Dock Green, was a regular target for chavs with well-aimed stones, a petty revenge after being released from the Custody Block. Currently, it was dark and swathed in yellow tape to prevent broken glass falling on the visiting public. A fitting metaphor for the state of contemporary policing, thought Quayle.
Having parked the car in the ground floor carpark he picked up some of the bags and approached the steel door of the evidence locker, which was a strengthened concrete room. Putting in the pin the door whined and opened. The all-pervading stench of cannabis hit him. Much of the room’s shelves were given over to seized cannabis from ‘grows’ where hundreds of plants were grown in industrial units or large houses. It was usually enough to seize five or six plants to prove the charge of ‘intent to supply’ so the rest of the plants would be smashed up and shredded by a contractor, or the story went. The plants were stored in brown paper bags, so their distinctive smell was always leaking out.
Otherwise the store was filled with clothes, mobile phones – (mounted in special boxes to stop prints being disturbed), weapon, and knives in plastic tubes, along with air rifles and crossbows. At the end of the room a massive safe with a drop in hatch was where seized cash was deposited.
Quayle deposited the clothes on the shelf and turned around to see Colleen standing in the doorway. She was clutching a clear plastic bag in her left hand. They embraced and kissed furtively.
“There’s been a development. You’re under threat. Palfreyman is some kind of ex agent. They want me and him to do some pretty bad under-the-radar jobs, I won’t tell you anymore as it would put you in more danger. You need to get home, leave your car here and get home by taxi or public transport as they might have put a tracker on your car. Then phone in sick tomorrow, something that’ll keep you off for a week or two, norovirus say.,” Quayle said.
She to the news phlegmatically. “Where am I supposed to stay?”
“It’s all taken care off, take this,” he said, handing her a brown paper bag. “I’m playing it straight for now, but if we get Palfreyman, his daughter and you somewhere safe, then you’re off the board so to speak,” he whispered
“Palfreyman’s daughter, what the hell?” she replied.
“It’s a long story, I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he said planting a kiss on her the forehead tenderly.
With that he got in the car and drove off. She left the evidence locker and went to the Ladies and locked herself in the toilets. Opening the bag, she saw Quayle had been thorough. There was a mobile phone, charger and power bank. A wad of bank notes. Used to totting up the total of seized cash and prisoners’ personal effects from her job in Custody she quickly totted up that it was £500 in notes of various denominations. Also, a set of keys attached to several cork balls. “What the fuck,” she said to herself.
Putting the phone on it started up and a number of text messages pinged up. She opened them If you’re reading this you’re doing well. The keys on the cork balls are the keys to a narrowboat ‘The Little Revenge’ moored at Moorcroft Marina The cork balls are so the keys float if you drop them in the water. The little key is for the engine. Karlie, Palfreyman’s daughter, knows how to drive the boat. She’ll be at the Lock Keeper’s Arms at 1pm tomorrow. The boat is fully stocked with diesel and water. Use the cash to get some food. Don’t go to big stores with good CCTV, use corner shops and buy small amounts at different places. And the final one I love you xxx.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath.
For her it had been a bit of fun so far. But in the back of her mind she saw Quayle’s quiet intensity attractive. But love? She wasn’t sure…
The majority of the shift was spread out around the desks on the first floor. The Boss was taking orders for pizza as it was the last late-night shift so there was a party vibe. The radio net had gone quiet. Unlike the rest of the shift who were winding down, playing on their phones or half-heartedly updating crimes, Bozza was tapping away at his keyboard. He had a beef with the owners of ‘The Roxy’ a seedy night club that was a regular stop for The Fun Bus’ He was putting together a proposal for the Boss to carry out a raid and get a temporary closure order on it.
The Boss brought up a stack of pizza boxes and everyone tucked in. Quayle helped himself to a few slices to make a pretence of being social. He really hated the smell of brought-in food which seemed to linger in the low ceiling open plan office He also loathed people stuffing their faces close by him. He liked the cold night air and open spaces. Bozza ignored the pizza party and carried on tapping away at his keyboard.
It wasn’t a lack of evidence of violence and drug dealing that stopped the raid, it was simply one of resources. Bozza wanted to assemble a squad of Specials to take the place down. His proposition focused on the fact that the club was a crime hotspot and to up more than average resources. Closing it would allow resources to be deployed elsewhere.
The Boss had his radio with the earpiece out standing up on a desk. One unit was out at a semi-rural patrol base which was closed
to the public. They had dropped off for ‘refs’, the cop word for ‘refreshments’ when a call came in. A family were cowering in their flat having heard sounds of breaking glass and shouting from the premises next door. Seconds later another call arrived reporting gunshots, at a rural premises, then another call of a blood covered man emerging from a hedge and running out in front of some shocked motorists. Then another call, then another call. “Quieten down, everyone…los like the party’s over.
Earpieces were jabbed in, stab vests zipped up and pizza abandoned as eight cops thundered down the stairs and got in their cars. It was a good fifteen-mile sprint to the small market town near to the small patrol base. The unit there had been told to stand off until the use of firearms could be confirmed or debunked.
‘Bluelight runs’ as cops call the high-speed dashes to emergency calls, are doubly stressful. While there is the drama of either driving or being thrown around as a passenger, there is also the helplessness of being minutes away from the unfolding event, listening in frustration as the OCC caller updates the radio net …
“The caller has reported three males are on the roof of the extension behind the Aquatics Shop. They have broken the windows and have also come up the rear stairs… the family have barricaded the door…” came the calm voice over the radio.
“551 to all units, we believe no firearms are being used at the Aquatics Shop, so please make speed. Apache units will be attending Incident 289 where firearms have been reportedly discharged over.” 551 was the call sign of the Duty Response Inspector, aka The Boss. Civilians might not think the rank of Inspector was that high. But they had immense responsibility being responsible for the overall deployment of all response officers on their shift.
These were all unarmed officers, the heaviest artillery they carried were Tasers. Nevertheless, the Boss carried the can for reactively policing and are populated by close to half a million people and several hundred square miles. Firearms and Traffic Policing were the responsibility of the Operational Policing Unit. A small provincial force but bordering several major cities, it suffered from the problems of cross border major crime without the resources of a city force, like its own helicopters.
Response officers, unlike their city counterparts, had to be adaptable as they would find themselves on their own or in a pair with backup miles away. It was policing of a different kind. Bozza pushed the car down the motorway closing on 150mph the blue lights throwing a parabola over the speeding car like a blue force field. “Control to all units responding to the incident at the Aquatics Shop, the suspects have fled down High Street and driven off in a Blue Ford Fiesta. No VRM available as yet.,” said the voice from the OCC. The radio net buzzed as the various response units worked closely to head the car off and block it’s escape routes.
Six minutes later Bozza dropped the car off the motorway and slowed for the suburban end of the High Street. In the last few minutes, the suspects in the car had decamped and fled into the hinterland of the town where an industrial estate bordered the motorway. The situation had been compounded by reports of another person who had been found lying in a cul-de-sac with gunshot wounds and reports of a burning car not far from the original reported shooting incidents. While these incidents were in low numbers the ubiquity of mobile phones meant the call takers were receiving a barrage of conflicting reports.
“Good job, the Boss got all of us moving,” said Bozza over the din of the siren. “Yes, he’s throwing the kitchen sink at it,” shouted Quayle back. The Boss had put in a request for NPAS, the National Police Air Service who operated helicopters. Air cover was provided on a request basis depending on the location of the nearest helicopter and the urgency of the incident. Bozza slowed the car down and hit the ‘At Scene’ button that killed the siren and left the blue lights flashing.
The street was the usual mix of small shops, a hardware shop, a butcher and a card shop. The buildings were red brick and three storeys. While the ground floors were given over to shop fronts, the first and second floors were offices for solicitors and accountants or had been converted to flats. Access to these premises were gained by a doorway which opened onto the street. Behind the door was a short hallway that led to the stairs.
Sergeant Jackson from B shift was standing in one of these next to the Ripples Aquatics shop. “Glad to see you lads, we need you to do a scene guard till the morning. There are about two hundred plants up there. Los like someone was trying to rip the place off. Bozza you start taking some pictures before it’s got dismantled. I’ll give our Probie a tour of his first grow,” he said nodding to Quayle. Jackson turned and clumped up the steep stairs. “Be careful there’s broken glass everywhere up here,” he said. At the top of the stairs were two doors with 1a and 1b on them. Further down another door was open but hanging drunkenly. “The door with the number on is false, just leads to a broom cupboard. We had to take this one down with a ram. The bosher just bounced off it. Reinforced steel. They must have known that’s why they came over the flat roof of the extension,” said Jackson.
Glass crunched under their feet as they stepped into a narrow corridor. “Here’s where they jacked the electric box, we’ve got the power company coming to sort it,” said the sergeant. Flashing his torch into an alcove, Quayle saw where a crude job of bypassing the electric meter had been accomplished. Cannabis grows needed industrial amounts of electricity and as they were already growing illegal drugs, abstracting electricity seemed a minor step. However, it wasn’t the theft of electric that bothered the Police it was the potential for fires caused by overloaded circuits. In fact, it was fires that were the number one method by which grows were discovered.
Jackson stepped into the kitchen which looked like a bomb had hit it. The main window which looked out onto a felt-covered flat roof was entirely smashed in. A short ladder jutted above the single storey extension. On the windowsill lay a discarded baseball bat. In the middle of the kitchen, a tall fridge freezer lay on its side like a slain beast. The door was open, and the shelves had spilled out revealing plastic bags of cannabis leaves. Some had spilled across the floor. On the kitchen countertop were bottles of glycerol. This Quayle knew to be the base ingredient for vape juice, so users could smoke cannabis in their electronic smoking devices.
“Come and lo at the front, that’s where we found the motherlode,” said Jackson. Following the broad back of Jackson, he stepped into a small room. A window which Quayle guessed loooked out onto the High Street had been taped over with reflective film. Looking down he saw a rolled up sleeping bag. Someone had been living here however precariously.
“Up there,” said Jackson pointing to a loft hatch. Pulling down a sliding aluminium ladder Quayle climbed up it.
“Fuck a duck,” he exclaimed as he to in the full sophistication of the growing operation. The entire loft space was lined with cannabis plants rooted into hydroponic matting with heaters hanging from the ceiling. A plastic pipe attached to a flue pumped gas and the distinctive tangy smell out through the roof.
“With that number of plants, he’d be generating twenty grand a month. These guys usually have three grows on, so that’s 60k a month,” said Jackson.
“Bloody hell! And with the aquatics shop, the heat signature would be masked if the chopper did a pass or a drone,” replied Quayle.
“Spot on lad, all them fish tanks chuck out a lot of heat,” said Jackson. Police helicopters and most recently Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, aka drones with thermal imaging cameras were used to make sweeps over towns with specific targets being industrial units or rented homes. A heat hotspot would flag up possible grows.
“Got the snaps Sarge,” said Bozza from the corridor.
“Great, now you two have the ball ache of a wait till the power company and the disposal guys get here, enjoy.” he said clomping off down the stairs.
Bozza and Quayle sat on the stairs. It was freezing, what with the front door downstairs open and a gaping hole in the kitchen window. Via the radio net and a couple of mob
ile calls they managed to piece together the night’s events. For all the hue and cry no-one was in custody. The aquatics shop and another as yet unidentified premises which was also a suspected cannabis grows had been targeted by a gang of men looking to either steal drugs and plants or put the operations of a rival gang out of operation.
The two cars had been identified and both were found burnt out on laybys on rural lanes not far from the town. Despite a sweep by dog units and a helicopter, no traces had been found. The person living at the grow had obviously gone underground.
The only decent leads were the two men in hospital now under -police guard but not yet officially detained. One had had his left leg amputated, the other was in an induced coma. Both had sustained significant gunshot wounds.
“Some fucker out there thinking it’s the Wild bloody West,” said Bozza.
Since the sarge had departed they’d fought to stave off the boredom. A linesman from the power company had come to turn off the power. He had established that the aquatics shop had a totally separate power supply. Two men had come in a small lorry and spent a couple of noisy hours dismantling the hydroponics systems and bagged up the cannabis plants for incineration.
The deep blue of a new dawn was creeping out when two officers from B Shift came to take over. “How’s it going?” said one.