Prisoners, Property and Prostitutes

by Tom Ratcliffe

‘OK,’ he said, ‘you’re at an accident – what would you like to find in a first aid kit?’

  The children again responded well, and Brian was soon reciting a list of ‘bandages, sterile wipes, plasters, antiseptic ointment’ and so on.

  Like a game show host he got to the ‘let’s open the box and find out’ stage.

  He opened the box, and to his dismay found not a single medical item. The box contained a single, small screw. And it was rusty.

  I enjoyed the driving course from start to finish – it was the first formal driving instruction I had ever received – but one of the highlights had to be the day on the skid pan. This was an area of concrete with two circles of tyres on it, so you could drive round it as an oval, a circle, or a figure of eight. It had years’ worth of old oil covering the surface, and a sprinkler system made from an old hosepipe to get it good and slippery. The day we were there it drizzled as well, so the whole area was truly glass-like.

  We tried various experiments, such as timing how long it took to go round a set course using two different driving techniques – the first being very controlled, sliding as little as possible, and keeping the car under full control. The second time the same course was driven as fast as possible, tail out, engine roaring, all very flamboyant. Although this second way looked faster, it was actually significantly slower – a huge disappointment to the boy-racer within my soul.

  The downside of the course was that at the end of each day the cars had to be washed dried and hoovered out, and it was Winter time. My own car would get washed Winter and Summer – once in each season whether it needed it or not – so to be washing someone else’s car every day was irritating, but I suppose not too bad a price for the skills learned.

  The course also introduced me to the art of providing a commentary while driving. This required you to say out loud what you were doing and why, and in theory is perfectly easy. In practice it was a different matter. The instructor would start you off with,‘Right, you’re driving on the B456 in the direction of Blinston. Carry on.’

  Trying to get one’s brain into gear you would repeat,‘I am driving on the B456 in the direction of Blinston.’ And then fall silent as thousands of different facts all jostled for position to be first out of your mouth. Should I say it’s a single carriageway? That the road is dry? That there’s a car ahead, a junction to the left – oh I’ve gone past it, oh I’ve just been overtaken, should I change gear? And so it went on, and eventually all the facts waiting to be released gave up, turned round, and sulked in dark parts of the brain, refusing to emerge, until rudely awoken by the instructor saying ‘Come on, tell me something – the course ends in a fortnight!’

  Eventually, like so many of the initially unfamiliar skills, commentary became more natural, and after a while it was more a matter of being annoyed at missing minor details than missing out whole and blatant features.

  There was also a written exam in the last week, based on the Police ‘Roadcraft’ driving manual. Minimal cheating was allowed, so some serious study time was needed. But this was a residential course, so after driving and studying there was still plenty of time to use the gym or drink in the bar. There were two of us to a car, so the lad I was partnered with went to the gym while I went to the bar. I felt I had made the right choice as after a couple of hours he would appear looking very red faced, sweating and out of breath after using bars, weights, treadmill and all the paraphernalia of the keep-fit fanatic. I meanwhile had had a few cigarettes and a couple of pints, was not at all out of breath, and only slightly red-faced. I might not live quite as long, but I would surely have had more fun.

  The last Thursday of the course was the ‘final drive’, when the Inspector in charge of the driving school did the all-or nothing assessment. It was incredibly nerve wracking, and even though the Friday was available for any last minute re-sit, I was faced with the realisation that this test was the key to my career hopes – pass it and I was a step nearer to a Traffic job, fail and I was back to a big hat and boots, and a long wait for another course. Additionally there would be the inevitable leg-pulling if I had weeks away and came back with nothing to show for it. But the gods must have smiled on me, as I not only passed but was awarded an ‘Advanced Recommend’, a very useful plus in an application for further training.

  Ten

  Training is one thing, putting it into practice quite another. On my return to Division I was one of the drivers not allocated a permanent car, but would get to fill in when there was a space, so I felt honoured and fortunate one afternoon shift only a few days after my return when the Sergeant allocated me to a car beat – my time had come. I did everything by the book – checked all the tyre pressures, made sure that all the issued kit was there (including the obligatory size 8 wellies), fuel tank full, washer bottle topped up, lights and indicators working, and log book completed correctly.

  Finally I had moved from two feet to four wheels – what a landmark!

  If I was to realise my ultimate aim of going onto Traffic it was important to keep as clean a slate as possible, so the less damage to the car attributed to me and the less accidents I was involved in, the better. I determined not to forget any of the training, and also to use it to the full. I had been amazed at how much I had learned on the course, and had developed a far better feel for the handling of a car in all sorts of everyday situations. The driving course had us practising parking for some considerable time – not a daft as it sounds, as most bumps and scrapes are during low speed manoeuvres. Any fool can drive on a big wide empty road at 70 miles an hour, but not everyone can judge correctly the width and length of their car in a parking space. We had practised ‘uphill parks’ and ‘downhill parks’, leaving the wheels at an angle so if the handbrake cable broke the car would simply rest against the kerb, not roll into the car behind. Sensible, logical, and simple, if arguably a little paranoid.

  I drove out of the Police Station yard and stopped at the exit onto the High Street. While I was waiting for a gap in the traffic I realised just how conspicuous I felt – far more than I had done on my first day on unaccompanied foot patrol – I was still just a uniform Constable, but I was sitting in a car with ‘POLICE’ written in great big letters on both sides. I was a vast advertisement that said ‘If you have a situation you can’t cope with or can’t understand, the man in this car will sort it out for you’. I felt incredibly vulnerable and exposed, but a deep breath saw me drive calmly out into the road and towards the town. First port of call was to be for my own purposes, to go to the cash machine and get some money from the bank so that later in the shift I could buy some food. The bank I was to use had a parking area in front of it, with about six spaces on either side. This meant a simple left turn off the High Street, then a ninety degree turn left or right into the first available space. As I turned off the High Street I could see there was only one space, and it was in the right hand side set of spaces, about half way along. There wasn’t a great deal of room to spare, but I was quite happy that I would be able to fit the car in, and sure enough I pulled smoothly and evenly into the gap. All I had to do was make sure the car was far enough into the space that the rear didn’t stick out. The problem with the Vauxhall Astras we had at that time was that the nose of the car sloped down quite steeply, so there was quite a lot of the front that was not visible from the driver’s seat and had to be guessed. You would often see these and similar slope-fronted cars with a vast gap in front of them as an over-cautious driver had stopped way short of where they imagined the nose of the car to be. Far better than hitting something, but obviously lacking in the skill and judgement I now possessed. With careful slipping of the clutch I inched my car forward to perfection. Almost. I actually misjudged the length of the car by about an inch, and this was just enough to knock over the litter bin in front of it. Had it been completely full the bin might have had enough weight to resist the gentle shove I gave it, but being only part-full and made of metal it hit the pavement with an almighty clang before roll
ing slowly down the slope of the street. My calm professional façade vanished in an instant, and I went from setting a wonderful example of slow-speed car control to chasing after a rattling, grinding litter bin before it caused more mayhem elsewhere. As I dragged it back into position I was also forced to spend a little while picking up the various chip wrappers and empty bottles that had predictably fallen out during its brief escape. Consequently my first operational excursion as a patrol driver ended up back at the station to wash my hands, humiliated, disappointed and still with no money for my tea.

  However, the possession of a driving authority didn’t guarantee a car to drive every day – pecking order meant that the ‘big hat and boots’ were still the norm. This in turn also carried the unenviable extra duty of ‘security’ at the Police Station. Various terrorist threats meant that the national level of security was increased, and the powers-that-be demanded that the yard at the Police Station have a uniformed officer trudging solemnly up and down 24 hours a day. To share the burden, everyone got allocated one hour each, unless there were less than 8 of us on for the shift. Then someone (again usually the lower in service) would have two, or even three or four hours of this mind-numbing duty. The worst part was that the yard itself was only about 150 feet long and hardly a security nightmare to check. A reasonably thorough check took about thirty seconds, or a minute if you adopted a very slow, deliberate walk.

  There was a covered area up the left hand side wall reserved for senior officers’ cars, and the right hand side had parking for panda cars along the outer wall of the cells. Half way along this wall was a long narrow entry down which there was a bicycle rack and two dog kennels. This area was gated at its entrance in case any dogs escaped, but annoyingly was unlit, so at night general debris had to be felt for or you risked tripping over any odd bits and pieces of property which had been handed in but were too big to go in the normal property store. Beyond this the yard opened out a little and there was a downhill slope to a couple of garages which formed the Traffic bay. The garages held a few motorcycles, and two or three of the Traffic Rovers would be parked on the slope. Opposite the slope were two petrol pumps for refuelling. The yard ended in a sharp right turn which led down a short piece of tarmac, past a few parking spaces to the main road. Any terrorist plotting an attack would probably have taken one look and decided someone had already beaten them to it, but still it had to be patrolled.

  The stints of Winter ‘security’ meant cold boredom, interspersed with occasional hot drinks passed out from the radio room, whose window opened onto the yard. The Station Sergeant sympathised, but refused to allow a break to warm up in the office, as to do so would probably have coincided with a late night impromptu visit by some senior officer and the Sergeant would be in trouble for allowing you inside.

  When it was my turn to patrol I would trudge up and down, watching the hands on my watch move ever more slowly round the dial and waiting for my turn to end. Often, with minutes to go, I would hear my relief get diverted to a domestic or road accident, and know that my bout of boredom had just doubled or trebled. The only relief I would get was to go and visit the lost dogs in the kennels. Some were regulars, handed in by well-meaning animal lovers, and who would probably have made their own way home perfectly happily if not ‘rescued’ by charitable members of the public. Others were obviously frightened by their unfamiliar surroundings and would growl, bark or snap if you went near, but a great number were just a bit bored and embarrassed at their predicament. They would happily come to the bars in the door and scrounge for biscuits, a large sack of which was kept in a cupboard close by.

  I felt sorry for these animals – maybe I was a soft touch – but as an animal lover they were a welcome bit of companionship to pass a few dull minutes in a shift and share our predicament, stuck in a place we didn’t want to be, but with no means of changing our situation.

  One night I went in and was surprised to find a dog in the kennels. Normally you would have advance warning of an occupant from the barking that a stray would produce. But this animal was quiet. She was the only occupant, and came up to the bars wagging her tail as I went to the door. She readily ate a couple of biscuits, and again surprisingly didn’t bark when I left her so I could again scour the yard for explosives and errant terrorists. Through the night I went back a number of times, and was particularly touched when as I handed her a biscuit she raised a paw and placed it on my hand. When I moved my hand away the paw ‘gripped’, and the gentle brown eyes stared with a genuine ‘please take me home with you’ look. This was the sort of dog that was inevitably collected by a frantic owner within 24 hours, especially one as pretty as this – a black Labrador cross.

  To my surprise she was still there the next night, and looking at the card with her details on it I found she had already been at one of our out-stations for two days. She had been found in a village square and taken to the Police Station, where with commendable practicality the officer on the desk had promptly taken her to the back door of the station and kicked her out, working on the assumption that she would go home. When he went back to the front door to deal with another caller a few minutes later, there was the dog again. Another exit from the back door followed, but the dog lay siege to the station and showed no signs of going home, so he was eventually forced to book her in. Unclaimed, she came to the main station to await the local dogs’ home collection which she had missed that week due to her stay at the out-station.

  The following afternoon I mentioned the dog to my wife.

  ‘She sounds very nice, but we can’t have a dog, you know that.’

  She was absolutely right. Arthur the hamster, now long dead, had been as big a commitment as we felt we could manage as both of us worked full-time, me on shifts and my wife with her own career.

  However, common sense and practicality have never been a strong point of mine, and I eventually persuaded my better half to come to the Police Station, ‘just to have a look.’ Surprisingly she agreed, and within a few minutes of meeting the dog she went quiet, then turned to me and said,‘Can we call her Jet?’

  It seemed a most appropriate name, the dog was as dark as the stuff that makes such beautiful jewellery, and so a couple of days later she came home with me. In true ‘ We can fix anything’ Policeman mode, Paul Lineham and I decided to build a kennel for her, as she would have to live outside. An afternoon’s work resulted in a serviceable dog kennel, and also the accidental cutting in half of a wooden garden table. The dog took one look at the kennel and refused to go near it. She took up residence indoors, and about three years later I took the kennel to pieces and threw it on the local tip.

  Jet, however was a different matter. She was fully grown when I brought her home, so her exact age was never known, but she was with us for just over fourteen years.

  I have made many decisions over the years which would not stand up to logical examination – to take on a stray dog of unknown history is not on the face of it a sensible thing to do. With hindsight it was one of the best things I ever did, so I suppose the drudgery of security duty on those long cold nights had an excellent by-product in the end.

  Eleven

  My first summer as a driver at Newport saw a true heat wave. Not even the Chief Constable’s car had air conditioning in those days, so our pandas became uncomfortably hot.

  Despite the training, Police drivers generally do not treat their cars very well – a public perception that Police cars are ‘souped up’ is derived from the fact they seem to go faster than privately owned versions, but this is simply because no-one in their right mind would subject their own car to such terrible abuse. If you don’t have to pay for the repairs, any incentive for mechanical sympathy is greatly reduced. To try and reduce the barbaric thrashing meted out to the poor little cars, each member of a block was allocated a specific car, so if there was anything wrong with it, it was in your interests to get it rectified as you would have the same car back on your next shift, instead of knowing which car not t
o pick. Getting it rectified was another matter unfortunately, as our maintenance garages seemed to do their utmost to avoid doing any work if at all possible.

  ‘Let it develop’ was the favourite phrase, applied to anything from a misfire to a wobbly wheel, as if the car had magical self-healing properties.

  A traffic car once developed a rather sinister whine from the gearbox, which gradually turned into a rumbling which became louder by the mile. Anticipating the obvious the driver took it to the garages and got the usual instruction. The driver went from the garages to the ring road, where he put the car into second gear and then up to maximum revs. After about two miles the rumble turned briefly to a screech, at which point the gearbox disintegrated. Sitting in the car at the roadside, the driver radioed up: ‘Call the garages please, tell them I’m on the ring road, the gearbox problem has now “developed” and can they bring a trailer.’ Not the most responsible way of sorting the problem, but faced with such entrenched opposition to a request for repair it seemed reasonable to force the matter into the open rather than nurse the car along only to have it fail at some far more crucial moment.

  When it came to road-testing a car after any repair the mechanics would take it out and drive it round for a bit, report on it and if all seemed well they would deem it fit for return to service. With a runabout-type panda car their test drive would usually be adequate to locate and diagnose most defects, but with the Traffic cars there were occasional problems between mechanics and the Police drivers.

  The Traffic cars at this time were Rover SD1s, with a 3.5 litre V8 engine. By modern standards they are not desperately fast cars, but they were still capable of around 130 miles an hour most days.

  One such Rover was put into the garages with a misfire, and returned the following day marked ‘no misfire found’.