That was his fantasy world. In reality he was a hard taskmaster and he ensured that people knew that his respect had to be earned; rank alone did not guarantee it.
We were suffering a spate of frauds at banks along the main drag running from Brighton to Hove. These would, invariably, be just as the bank was closing. It was becoming a real problem and the pressure to catch the offender was growing. David Gaylor made it our key priority to apprehend whoever was responsible and see him locked up for many years.
Intelligence seemed to suggest that the bank on Holland Road, just down from the police station, was going to be targeted late one Friday afternoon. David was beyond excitement. Not only was this his chance to arrest a very prolific villain, but also an opportunity to get one over on his smug counterparts over the border in Brighton.
Two of the most vigilant detectives, Simon Steele and Rachel Terry, were chosen to sit in the bank and wait for the inevitable; the trap was set.
Now Bill appeared to have no life outside the police. Despite being officially off duty, he would often pitch up at the police station and assist, or rather interfere, with whatever was going on. Such was the case on this day.
His presence was not something you could ignore. He was loud, gregarious, nosy, uber-confident and very, very funny. I loved the big old bear!
While holed up in the bank, Simon and Rachel were getting concerned that they both had prisoners coming back on bail later that day and needed to be ready for them. So, just after 3 p.m. they phoned the DS’s office. It was no surprise to them that the off-duty Bill answered the phone.
‘Hi, Bill,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance Rachel and I could come back to the nick? It seems all quiet here and we both need to get some stuff together for later.’
I had stepped out for a while so, not bothering to check with someone who actually knew what was going on, Bill glanced at his watch and gave them the OK. Not ten minutes later they strolled back into the office and quietly settled down to their more pressing commitments.
On the stroke of 3.25, the tannoy broke the silence throughout the police station.
‘All units make for Holland Road, fraud in progress.’
‘Yes,’ shouted David, punching the air, as he dashed from his office to the open-plan DCs’ room, knowing that his hunch had paid off. We had him. Simon and Rachel would be bursting from their cover ready to slap the handcuffs on the offender once and for all. I followed him, sharing his exuberance and delight.
It took David a second to register what he was seeing. Who were those doppelgangers sitting at Simon and Rachel’s desks?
‘What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the bank?’ he yelled.
Seeing their boss’s rage rise, they knew it was time to deflect his wrath.
‘We phoned Bill and he said we could stand down,’ Rachel wisely explained.
‘Bill’s not even here, he’s off today,’ retorted the incandescent David just as the workaholic DS sauntered into the office.
‘Control must have got it wrong. The banks shut half an hour ago,’ he pronounced.
‘Bill, what are you doing here?’ demanded David.
‘You know me, always here to help,’ quipped Bill.
‘Not this bloody time you haven’t. Did you let Simon and Rachel come back?’
‘Yes. No sense in them sitting there in a closed bank,’ he scoffed.
‘Bill, in your world what time do banks close?’ asked David, smelling blood.
‘David, all banks close at three. I know you probably have people to do your banking for you, but us mortals need to know these things!’ joked Bill, now playing to his audience.
‘Bill, I’m not in the mood for your piss-taking. This bank, as well as every other one I know, shuts at 3.30. That is why I authorized an operation to run to 3.30 as that is the time our target has been striking,’ replied a stony-faced David.
By now we could all sense that the viper was about to strike and Bill’s ignorance and self-assured assertions were bringing that moment closer and closer. We were spellbound. I was loving it — it wasn’t often Bill was in the spotlight like this.
Quietly, the northern drawl of DC Mick Burkinshaw, a rugby-playing, hard-working, brash Yorkshireman, could be heard. ‘Cut your losses, Bill. It’s 3.30. Face it, you’re in the shit.’
‘Are you sure?’ demanded Bill.
‘Sure as eggs,’ came the reply, this time from Irishman DC Dave Corcoran.
‘Shit. I don’t normally do this but is it too late for an apology, David?’ asked Bill, clinging onto the last vestiges of his dignity.
‘It’s not David, it’s sir to you,’ bellowed David. ‘Get out of this police station now. Get out of my sight and don’t come back until 8 a.m. on Monday when I want you in my office. If you stay a second longer I will say or do something we will both regret.’
Bill shuffled out of the door and sloped off down the back stairs to his car and away in search of sanctuary. David left the office and the DCs roared with laughter at the slaying they had just witnessed.
Unable to stand a weekend of angst, contrary to his orders and knowing David was working, Bill braved a visit at 9 a.m. the following morning.
He gently tapped on the DCI’s door.
‘You’re late, Bill,’ mumbled David without looking up.
‘But you told me to be here at eight on Monday, I thought I was two days early.’
‘I expected you here apologizing an hour ago. There is no redemption for what you did. I will never let you forget it. I will be angry with you forever more, while all of your colleagues will, in time-honoured fashion, rip the piss out of you at every opportunity especially when you next dare to become the big “I Am” in their presence. Now, this time I mean it — get out and don’t you dare come back until Monday.’
Happy to have survived with his most delicate parts intact, Bill slid out of the nick and did something he had never done before or since — he took the weekend off.
Of course, good as it is to laugh at each other, it’s even sweeter to revel in the crass stupidity of villains. We often rely on a degree of foolishness to assist us in solving certain crimes but some take that to extraordinarily helpful extremes.
It was a cold, windy winter night in Brighton, the glare of the street lamps creating a glow on the damp pavements of the Kemp Town area as it rose from the seafront to the sprawling Whitehawk council estate. PC Rain, as cloudbursts are often called given their effectiveness in keeping drunks off the street, had done his job.
Dave Cooper, a tough and canny probationer who had recently joined Sussex Police from the French Foreign Legion, was in a panda car with his tutor. This duo were not your ordinary pair of cops, they shared a number of things, a quick wit, deep inquisitiveness and the same surname. Dave’s tutor was a Cooper too, Geoff Cooper.
In those wretched early hours where everything is either kicking off or dead as a dodo, the Coopers were trying to make their own luck. Drunk drivers were always fairly easy pickings on cold Monday night shifts. For some reason irresponsible motorists feel less vulnerable when the streets are deserted, unaware they stand out like sore thumbs.
Suddenly as the Coopers inched eastwards along Eastern Road towards the Royal Sussex County Hospital, a car behind them flashed its headlights. Geoff pulled over and the other car followed suit.