by R J Holligan
Aside from a cut on his forehead that had hit the exploding airbag, Doyle was uninjured. Staggering from the crumpled police car he reattached his earpiece and clipped his radio on. It was pandemonium. The net was buzzing with news that two suspect devices had been found in two local town centres after a bomb warning had been phoned into the offices of The Highland News. Doyle had just about taken this in when a teenage boy came running up the road. “Mistah Doyle they robbed the Post Office,”
It would be some time before he would get back to the ospreys. If the staff of The Highland News thought a telephone warning was bizarre, then they were left gobsmacked when the antediluvian fax machine in the corner began whirring away. It was a three-page manifesto published by ‘The Brethren of William Wallace’ claiming responsibility for the Post Office Robbery, the explosive devices and declaring war on ‘The Crown Forces and The Stooges of Holyrood’. “Bloody hell, we’ve actually got a scoop,” said the dipsomaniac and grandly titled Editor, who was in fact one of the two editorial staff on the weekly paper.
The shift was parading double figures for once as they all mooched into the Parade Room, clipping on radios and finishing off coffees.
“Right guys ‘n’ gals said the Sergeant the Boss wants a word with you about our biggest fan Suranne Maxwell.” There was a collective groan from the assembled officers. The Inspector stood up.
“As you know Ms Maxwell has been a perennial pain in our collective arse for a while. As of yesterday, she bit an ambo and they won’t attend without us. Additionally, she made an allegation of sexual assault on a Central bobby who sadly went to her home single crewed and left his bodycam off. So, I want to reiterate, no one deals with her single crewed. I’m liaising with the Super and Social Services to try and get a longer-term solution. In the short term I’m looking for a way to lock her up,” he said.
There was a cheer in the Parade Room as they filed out. Quayle was crewed with Nichole The Sergeant had given them a couple of hours ‘protected time’ to catch up on paperwork. In an email from the Boss, Quayle had been told that, pending his probable new posting, he should close off or reassign his ‘crimes’ that he was dealing with. In his nine weeks on duty he had accrued thirty-eight of them, by no means a high number amongst those on shift. As Bozza was still alive on the system he shunted a good majority there. These would then just disappear in time when the Inspector deleted them. Most of them were no-hopers with no decent evidence or vague statements. Some of them were crimes reported during tours on the fun bus. Pissed up people saying they had been pickpocketed of wallets and purses. Pie in the sky mostly. The more serious crimes he handed over to Becky.
Heads down, a couple of hours whizzed by. Having sent a chunk of documents to the printer, Quayle was walking over to the other side of the printer when he saw Donna, another member of the shift. “Alright, can you go and see the Boss when you get a minute? No biggie, he’s just come across something,” she said. “Sure thing. Thanks,” said Quayle. Picking up his sheaf of printing he trotted down the stairs to the ground floor.
The Boss was in his cubby hole of an office, a stack of law books on his desk. His reading glasses were perched on his nose, making him look particularly studious. “You wanted to see me Boss?” said Quayle leaning through the doorway. “Yes, take a seat, I’ve got something, but I’d like you and your Big Brain to double check it… I think we can get Suranne Maxwell on the charge of Public Nuisance. Have a look and come back to me,” Quayle smiled. “Seems like a good plan Boss, I’ll get back to you soon as,” said Quayle.
On the way back to the first-floor office he grabbed a coffee and a couple of law books from the pile of books in the canteen. Sitting down he got to work. The radio net was relatively quiet. Quayle wondered if he even should even think the Q word. The Boss had been spot on. Suranne was definitely in the frame for this. Although mostly used as a civil issue through County Courts, there was also a common law element that made it an arrestable offence. The Boss wasn’t a vindictive man. Suranne just needed a short, sharp shock. Calling ambulances for spurious reasons tied up vital units and cost thousands of pounds. It just wasn’t on.
Suranne was one of the many cases where the support network had collapsed. Hence the overstretched Social Services paid ‘pass it on’ to the ambulance service and cops. Once again people like Suranne got stuck in the minefield of ‘capacity’. She was burdened with a complex personality disorder but had been deemed to have capacity to be able to make everyday life. Whilst this has previously been a thorn in the side of officers, it now meant that she could be arrested. The alternative that police officers had was to ‘136’ people suffering from mental illness. Broadly speaking this meant that officers could detain individuals for their own protection or to protect others. They then needed to be taken to a ‘place of safety’. In the not so distant past this had been a cell in Custody. Thankfully, provisions were made at local mental health units. It was not simply a case of handing the person over and driving off though. The detained person was still in the custody of the arresting officer. Until they had been assessed by mental health professionals who could section them or provide other treatment.
On more than one occasion officers had detained someone who was suicidal showing extreme mental stress and by the time they had reached the unit the person had resumed some sense of reason and were cleared by the mental health professionals and returned to the police officers care. On many occasions the officers were back at the person’s home a day or two later. Sometimes they just heard on the grapevine from ambos or the coroner’s officer that such and such a person had been found dead. More often than not they were single, often divorced men, a similar age to Quayle. But they were an unseen issue. As Quayle had read Stalin say, ‘One death is a tragedy, a thousand deaths is a statistic.’
Lost in his thoughts, Quayle had been diverted listening to his personal radio. A pat on the back brought him back to the immediate world.
“Come on Milky Bar Kid, Maxwell has dialled the Ambos saying she’s going to top herself. She’s wandering around the bus station on her mobile They won’t go near her,” said Becky.
“And we’re the only double-crewed unit,” said Quayle getting up from the desk. Putting on his fleece they went down the stairs to the parking garage. The Boss was on the landing and gave them the thumbs up. Ten minutes later they were at the Bus Station. An ambulance was parked as discreetly as an ambulance can be parked between two buses. The crew were standing by their vehicle looking like a downed aircrew.
“Good to see you,” said one of them. “What’s the score?” she asked.
“Well, if you’re happy that she really isn’t suicidal we’re going to nick her for causing a public nuisance,” said Quayle.
“Sounds good to me, I’m sick of the cow. She threw a coffee at me last week”, the paramedic said pointing to a bandage on her forearm.
“Right, come with us and we’ll have a chat with her,” said Quayle. They locked the ambulance and followed Quayle, Becky coming up behind. Unlike Bozza who had micromanaged everything and undermined Quayle’s confidence at every turn, Becky had seen that the Boss had asked Quayle to pick up this task. The doors to the bus station opened.
At this time the coffee shop and the newsagent were closed. The inevitable gaggle of track-suited teenagers seemed to have finally found something of interest. Like a pack of hyenas and with no less malice they were gathered around a lone woman. Quayle recognised Maxwell having attended a Travelodg where she had fallen out with one of her ‘boyfriends and caused a scene. For boyfriends read dirty old bastards who picked on women with low self-esteem.
“Fuckin’ ell, you’re in trouble Mad Maxwell, the cops are here,” said a lanky young lad, clutching his inevitable can of energy drink.
Quayle always found it ironic that these layabouts who did nothing of any purpose all day needed constantly topping up with sugary caffeinated drinks. Three teenage girls were also there.
“Suranne, its PC Qu
ayle we met before. We heard you’re not feeling well,” said Quayle to the huddled-up woman.
“She’s not ill, she’s a fucking nutter,” said one of the girls.
“Right move along you three, it’s none of your business,” said Quayle, sitting next down to Walker. Seeing there was no particular danger the female paramedic stepped toward them.
“Suranne, we had a call saying you were going to hurt yourself,” she said.
“I just want my dog,” the woman mumbled.
“She needs locking up,” said one of the girls who had paid no heed to Quaye’s plea to move on.
Becky stepped in. “Right, you three slags, fucking do one or I’ll nick you all and make sure you have a cavity search,” bellowed Becky. They shuffled off but stopped short of leaving the doors.
“So, you’re not feeling suicidal then?” asked the paramedic.
“I just want my dog,” repeated Maxwell.
The paramedic nodded to Quayle to step away. They rendezvoused behind a coke e machine. “Frankly, there’s nothing wrong with her. We’ve got a serious RTC we need to get to,” said the paramedic.
“Fine, we’ll nick her then,” said Quayle. The ambo crew melted away. The young lad and the girls were back. “Go home,” shouted Quayle, wanting some space to arrest Maxwell with some dignity. The lad went into classic strop mode.
“It’s a free country why don’t you arrest the fruitcake, she was waving scissors around earlier” Quayle remained impassive standing in the Jack Palmer position. The teenager closed in on him getting in his face. Doing a quick palm heel push, Quayle pushed the teenager as hard as he could sending him sprawling backwards over a bench and falling on the floor heavily. The three girls to off as Becky stomped towards them. Ignoring the crumpled man, he sat back down next to Maxwell. Speaking softly, he said: “Suranne, I understand your upset, but you can’t keep ringing us every time you’re upset. It costs a lot of money and if we’re here dealing with you, we can’t help people who are really in trouble. Imagine if your mum and dad needed us or an ambulance but there was none for them because they were here?”
It was futile, but Quayle needed to do it for his own peace of mind. Standing up, he flicked his eyes to Maxwell’s handbag. In the almost subliminal manner in which officers communicated nonverbally, Becky picked up and to the handbag out of Maxwell’s hands and stepped back.
“Suranne Maxwell, I am arresting you on suspicion of causing a Public Nuisance. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on court, do you understand?” Maxwell remained impassive. “Suranne, we’re going to be taking you to the Police Station so get up,” said Quayle. She didn’t move… “I just want my dog,” she repeated. Becky and Quayle grabbed an arm apiece and gently pulled Maxwell to her feet. She wasn’t resisting but she wasn’t helping either. Eventually they got her into the rear of the car and strapped her in.
Quayle sat next to her: “435 Tango, one in custody for public nuisance, in transit,” said Quayle into his radio.
“507 to 435 Tango, good work,” came the Boss over the radio. They moved off into the road. From the shadows a can full of piss was launched towards the car hitting the bumper.
“Collin Jarvis. We’ll pay the hoofwanking spangletwat a visit early one morning,” said Nichole.
The rest of the shift was taken with the crank caller. It involved booking in Maxwell and finding a responsible adult to sit in with her in interview. During the interview it was established that she had become distraught as her parents whom she lived with intermittently had gone on holiday to Spain. Worried she wouldn’t care for her chihuahua, Dottie properly, her parents had put the dog in a boarding kennel. Addled by this she had gone to the bus station to apparently ‘get a bus to Spain’. The gang of teenagers had mocked her and stolen a bracelet which contained the name tags from the collars of her previous dogs. She had gone to a supermarket and purchased a large pair of scissors. Threatening the three girls she had got the bracelet back just before the officers had arrived. And that was that.
They dropped her home via Blue Light Taxis. On returning to the nick, Quayle had to type up the whole ‘crime’ and file it. Meeting with the Boss they sorted out a Round Robin email to everyone involved, requesting a multiagency meeting to sort out the Maxwell situation. The Boss estimated the cost of multiple callouts from them and the Ambos reached into the high tens of thousands of pounds. In a nutshell, a full-time carer or some form of supported living for Maxwell would be massively beneficial. If the buck passing could be stopped there might be a solution.
Chapter 25
Stopping off at the all-night garage, Quayle bought sandwiches, crisps and takeout coffees. Returning home, he switched on his burner phones. There were half a dozen texts from Colleen. It was 3am, he texted her back. He would call her in the morning. Palfreyman had texted him about the robbery.
Switching on the TV news he saw it - ‘The Brethren of William Wallace’ - and their manifesto had made the headlines. Paradoxically, while police response officers knew the heartbeat of the streets they policed and the wider geographical area, and also had intimate knowledge of the gangs, groups and individuals and the careers in crime, they sometimes had scant knowledge of national news and the wider world. Being on shift meant immersing themselves entirely in it. Completing a tour beginning on earlies, similar to an office day and finishing six days later on a 10pm till 7am means day and night became irrelevant. Emerging from a well-earned sleep at the beginning of rest days was like surfacing in a submarine that had been patrolling beneath the Antarctic ice. Current affairs and politics came flooding back in.
Placing the food on the kitchen counter, Quayle got the .38 out and stuck it in the small of his back above the waist band of his trousers. Unlocking the cellar door, he switched on the light. “Dominic, wake up,” said Quayle. The smell of piss assaulted his nostrils. The journalist rose up from lying asleep on his side. “Right I’m going to uncuff you, and you can get a shower and a change of clothes. If you fuck around, I’ll shoot you. Got it?” said Quayle sticking the snub nose barrel of the gun into the reporter’s ribs. “Yes,” he said.
Uncuffing the bin snooper, he chivvied him up the stairs and into the kitchen. “That’s a custody wash kit, that’s a towel, that’s a boiler suit. You go in the bathroom with that, you come out with that and no more, understand? The bathroom windows are alarmed so don’t try a Steve McQueen,” said Quayle.
The dishevelled journalist nodded. “Upstairs on the left,” said Quayle urging him forward with the gun. He complied and moved up the stairs and went through the door. “Ten minutes, starting now,” said Quayle handing over his G Shock watch.
The man grabbed it and shuffled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Quayle waited until he heard the hiss of the shower and then went into his study and slipped on another G Shock watch and picked up his Chimera laptop. Sitting down in his office chair he wheeled himself into the hall outside the bathroom door. The computer booted up and Quayle began Googlestalking Eaves while the police systems booted up. There was a lot.
Eaves had started out on regional papers, and seen a meteoric rise ending up working on the investigative team of a national daily title. And his fall had been as rapid. He’d made a big mistake, tangled with the Establishment. A whistle-blower purportedly from the Intelligence services had contacted Eaves with information on black flag operations aimed to discredit the Northern Irish Republican movement’s commitment to peace and oust them from the Stormont devolved power sharing government. There had been a few bombings and attempted assassinations of PSNI officers. Special Branch had demanded his sources. He had refused and they had raided his home. No dice. Then the real nightmare had begun.
Eaves’ informer had been found dead in his home, a note by his body. He had confessed to being a paedophile and had abused children as a young police officer before joining the Intelligence Services. To confirm this
confession, Special Branch confirmed an external hard drive of young children being sexually abused had been found in his home. A memory stirred Ted Calvert; Chief Inspector of Special Branch was quoted in the article.
Quayle recalled a late-night conversation with Colleen. “I got a flash of them as they came into Custody… his name was like Cabbot or Culvert…,” she had said, recalling the two officers who had come to speak to Palfreyman after his arrest. In summary Eaves reputation had been trashed and his team were disbanded. As far as Quayle could see he had been set up.
“Doing some background checks?” asked Eaves walking into the room. Clad in the green boiler suit, he looked and smelt a lot better. “Coffee and sandwiches from Shell Express,” said Quayle. Nodding his thanks, Eaves grabbed the coffee and to a swig.
“So you crashed and burned… I didn’t get to the next bit of your fairy-tale existence,” said Quayle. Picking up a sandwich Eaves sat down. “It depends on your view of my so-called demise,” he said biting into egg and cress.