Both cops stepped out of the patrol car and strolled to the vehicle behind, a Ford Escort. Geoff approached the driver and, true to his training, Dave engaged the passenger in conversation. Immediately both officers realized from their chirpy accents they were dealing with two Scousers — Liverpudlians.
‘All right, mate, where’s Newhaven?’ asked the driver, clearly lost.
As Geoff chatted to the driver Dave succumbed to his natural distrust of just about everyone. Firstly, he decided to carry out a Police National Computer check to find out who owned the vehicle. He edged out of earshot and radioed the control room, giving the registration that started with an E.
In no time the radio crackled back. Not good news. There was no record of the number Dave had read out. With his military training he doubted he had got it wrong so he took a closer look at the registration plate.
Despite the pervading darkness, broken only by the glow of sodium from the street lights, Dave spotted something odd on the plate. He rubbed his fingers over the E and, rather than the smooth surface he expected, the bottom bar was raised. He picked at the imperfection and soon found that black masking tape had been stuck across the letter. Peeling it away he saw that the real registration started with the letter F, the tape creating the illusion of an E.
He re-ran the check and was delighted when the call came back; the vehicle had been reported stolen. Dave was elated, but needed to hide his glee for just a moment longer.
He stepped over to Geoff who was by now boring the two Scousers describing the large collection of cars he had restored. They looked relieved that Dave was about to interrupt his colleague’s monotony until he proudly announced, ‘Right, you two, you’re nicked!’
As the cuffs were slapped on, Dave could not help but mercilessly rib the two hapless thieves. Exactly how stupid do you have to be, when driving a stolen vehicle, to stop a marked police car to ask for directions?
Back at the police station, Dave and Geoff summed it up when recounting the story for the umpteenth time — Papa Oscar Charlie; meaning (and I have provided the cleaner version) Pair of Clowns.
Christmas is a time for families, a season of goodwill to all men. It’s also a great time to catch elusive fugitives as, like homing pigeons, they can’t help but migrate back to their kith and kin.
One December DS Julian Deans was becoming exasperated hunting down a particularly slippery suspect.
Deansy, as he is affectionately called, is one of the drugs investigators in the city. He is a man’s man. His passion for golf and football slightly exceeds his ability but, nonetheless, he has a competitive spirit that permeates every fibre of his being. His tendency to say what others only think is not always popular with his bosses, but I found his frankness and his disdain for bullshit refreshing and sobering in equal measures. He has an intense sense of right and wrong and always takes the battle to the villains.
Yet again, he wearily rapped on the door of the flat where he knew his prey lived.
‘Fuck off. He’s not here,’ yelled the delightful wife, in tones reminiscent of Evie Preece when she was raided by police in Dead Man’s Grip. ‘You’re wasting your fucking time!’
‘Well you won’t mind me coming in to have a look then, will you?’ implored Deansy, sensing as he gently wormed his way in that this was going the same way as every other visit he had made.
‘Help your fucking self.’
As he walked into the hall, Deansy was met by a five-year-old girl, dressed in all her festive finery and looking like a little angel. Her sweetness and innocence seemed to be in spite of, rather than a consequence of, her upbringing. She stared up at him with her bright blue eyes, smiled and gently asked, ‘Are you looking for my daddy?’
‘Yes, I am, sweetheart,’ replied Deansy, feeling faintly optimistic.
As if giving away a game of hide and seek, she pointed and her voice dropped as she giggled, ‘Oh, he told me not to tell you but he’s hiding in that cupboard.’
The look of fatherly love was distinctly absent as the runaway was dragged unceremoniously from the under-stairs closet and off to the cells.
Gus Chiggers was a careful chap. He knew that crime was everywhere and opportunist thieves were not terribly choosy who they targeted. He also knew, despite being from South London, that Brighton had a certain reputation. If you didn’t want to become a victim there, you really couldn’t be too cautious.
One Monday lunchtime in late July 1990, PC Paul Norlund was enjoying a reasonably peaceful shift, riding shotgun in the city centre response car. The usual band of shoplifters, nuisance beggars and domestics had been dealt with and dispatched with relative ease. He and his colleague Sam, a gentle fellow whose quiet manner thugs often misread to their cost, were parked in a police bay close to the main shopping mall, Churchill Square. Both had the end of the shift in their sights and were hoping to catch some rare summer sunshine in just over an hour’s time.
Paul was one of those sickening people: tall, athletic, an all-round accomplished sportsman and far too handsome for his own good. Add to that his natural skill at picking out wrong’uns in a crowd, his innate easy style with all manner of people and the fact he was great company, humbled us lesser mortals.
‘Any unit for an armed robbery Lloyds Bank North Street?’ crackled the urgent call over the radio.
‘Bloody hell. I suppose that will be us then,’ he remarked to Sam. ‘Yep, Charlie one zero one, we are just by the Clock Tower now. ETA about a minute. Have you got any more details?’
‘Not much but it seems that the offender has been detained by staff,’ came the controller’s reply.
Sam put his foot to the floor and they raced towards the iconic Victorian memorial that marks one of the busiest road junction in Brighton. As they crossed it, lights flashing and sirens wailing, the more astute pedestrians and motorists cleared a path for them. All except a startled French student, equipped with language school rucksack, frozen astride her pushbike in their path. As Sam swerved to her left, saving her from certain death, Paul bellowed something less polite than ‘Please give way to emergency vehicles with their sirens on.’
They hardly got out of second gear as they raced the short distance down the hill to the bank in question.
Partly frustrated that their afternoon plans had been scuppered they were nevertheless fired up with the adrenaline now surging through them in expectation of the drama that lay ahead. Leaping out of the car milliseconds after it came to a halt, they sprinted for the half a dozen steps that led to the banking hall.
As they did so Paul privately cursed the selfish cyclist whose bike was locked to the lamppost as he clipped his leg on its back wheel on his way past.
Bursting into the public area, the scene that greeted them was surreal. It was packed, not wholly surprising given it was a summer lunchtime, but business seemed to be carrying on as normal. Was this a hoax call? They had said Lloyds Bank, hadn’t they? Their finely tuned ears had never before misheard a location, even in the heat of the moment.
Having quickly closed the bank’s doors to prevent any witnesses or suspects slipping away, Paul became aware of a bundle of bodies on the floor close to the quick tills — the unscreened counters where people could make transactions up to £200.
As he made his way over, he heard a plaintive cry of ‘Help’ coming from somewhere near the bottom of the pile. ‘Help me. Get them off.’
‘Let me through,’ Paul ordered in his lilting Geordie tone.
As the heap of people started to untangle, he realized that at the bottom was a very frightened-looking young man.