My instinct would have been to rush directly to the scene but Steve’s, honed by years of experience, was that we would be needed elsewhere. He knew a ring of steel was being set up and we would be part of it. Had we all acted like bees to a honey pot, the attackers would have had their pick of exit routes.
‘We just have to do as we are told now, Graham,’ coached Steve. ‘We’ll sit up somewhere between Bognor and Arundel until we are sent where we are needed.’
A strange silence descended, no chatter from the radio, nothing to distract us from our anxious thoughts. Even Steve’s usual outrageously sarcastic quips had gone. Scouring the road for any sign of the gunmen, we were focused on nothing but what had happened and what we could do about it. We had to find them before they did something even worse. Desperation grew.
Then, about forty-five minutes later, an eerie radio message broke the silence.
‘Whisky three zero three, I think we are behind the gunmen’s car now. Can you confirm the registration number we are looking for? We can see two males inside. We are on the A29 outside Arundel.’
‘Bloody hell, they haven’t got far. Less than ten miles. They must be either lost or desperate not to break out too soon,’ remarked Steve.
‘Shall we head up that way?’ I suggested.
‘We are no use here now. We’ll drift north towards them but let’s allow the radio controllers to do their job and tell us exactly where they want us.’
‘KB to Whisky three zero three, do not, repeat do not, approach. Keep the vehicle in sight only. Back-up is on its way,’ ordered the gruff controller.
Silence.
‘KB to Whisky three zero three, I repeat back-up is on its way, keep your distance. Do you receive, Whisky three zero three?’
Silence.
Suddenly the airwaves exploded with desperate offers from other car crews to rush to assist Whisky three zero three.
‘This is Ops 1. All units except Whisky three zero three, radio silence immediately. Whisky three zero three, come in... Whisky three zero three, come in,’ urged the control room inspector.
More dreadful silence.
‘Any unit in the vicinity of Whisky three zero three’s last location, come in.’
Again a cacophony of desperate offers to help.
We edged towards the location, hoping that our stealth would allow us to glimpse the wanted men. We were determined to catch them but more so to find Whisky three zero three and the comrades I’d never met. The silence was terrifying. There was nothing. No update, no response to calls. My blood ran cold. It slowly dawned on me that the crew had been kidnapped. Perhaps executed.
Our focus had shifted from concern about Tim to what was happening now. Tim would be treated; he was safe. Now we had two other cops to worry about. This is part of the police way. Emotion and worry are pushed aside when there is a more pressing hazard. Time was against us if we were going to find the crew of Whisky three zero three alive.
Soon reports were coming in from members of the public at a roadside garage on the A29 of two men jumping from a Sierra into a police car and then speeding off. The few witnesses had their wits about them and realized that something was badly wrong with what they had seen. Other officers rushed to the scene and quickly saw the abandoned stolen Sierra with terrified people around it. The silence from Whisky three zero three could only mean that the crew of that car had indeed been kidnapped and were now in mortal danger.
‘All units stand by for a description of Whisky three zero three,’ came the command through the radio set. We knew it was a marked police car but there were now dozens of those in the area. We needed to be told who was friend and who was foe.
‘All units, Whisky three zero three is a marked Sussex Police Vauxhall Cavalier, registration A280 DNJ. Its crew are PC Liam Codling and PC Robin Rager from Petworth. Any sightings report in as urgent but do not, repeat do not, approach.’
The names meant nothing to me but the model of car was good news. The force had only just started to change its fleet from Avengers to Cavaliers and the registration number indicated that it was one of the newer models. At least we could eliminate on sight the aged rust buckets the rest of us were in that day.
Most of the force seemed to have flooded the area and we were all allocated places to search and places to wait. This was before any of the technology that we now take for granted. We were in open country but, in those days, had none of the benefits of helicopters, mobile phones, Automatic Number Plate Recognition (ANPR) or even secure radios. Then, we only had our eyes and ears. At one point my Uncle Gordon drove up in his traffic car to where we were parked. As one of the force’s finest advanced drivers I should have realized that he would be drafted in from his usual Brighton patch. Just a quick hello and check on each other’s welfare was all we had time for. The task in hand was far too pressing for any more pleasantries.
I tried not to think the unthinkable but as the day dragged on I started to fear the worst. Steve knew Liam and Robin well and was getting more and more anxious. Roles were reversed as I, ‘the boy’, spent the next six hours trying to reassure him and keep us both focused on the search.
Finally, as dusk drew in, the hopeless radio silence was broken.
‘Whisky three zero three to KB, do you receive?’
‘Isn’t that them?’ shrieked Steve.
‘It’s their call sign. Listen!’
‘Whisky three zero three. We are safe and unharmed. We’ve been released, stand by for details of the targets.’
With a breathtaking composure they announced to the waiting force that they had been taken to a large secluded house where they, and its residents, were held at gunpoint.
They continued, ‘The offenders have made off with four hostages in a red Talbot Sunbeam saloon car. There are two adult hostages, male and female, and two children. One of the adults is driving and one is in the front passenger seat. The gunman is in the back seat of the car between the two young children. The other offender is secreted in the boot of the car. All caution must be exercised. The man in the back seat is armed. Repeat, the man in the back seat is still armed.’
Just when we thought this couldn’t get any worse we were faced with armed men, mobile, with civilian hostages — including children. However, at least we had a starting point and a swift relocation of officers followed.
Soon, a sharp-eyed police motorcyclist spotted the vehicle. His urgent call drew dozens of police cars to him and a desperate chase through rural Sussex followed. No way were these men escaping.
As we listened to the hurried, brusque radio messages from those units with speed or firepower that were being rushed forward, a very familiar voice stood out. The distinctive Derbyshire brogue could be only one person.
We recently had a cohort of police cadets posted to Bognor Police Station. Jim Sharpe was one of them. He was on my team and became a lifelong friend.
Jim was a scraggy seventeen-year-old who needed a fair degree of help to make his uniform fit for public eyes and often had to be coached not to speak to our old-school ex-paratrooper sergeant ‘Chas’ MacInnes as if he were some long-lost drinking partner. Jim was a work in progress. That said, he learned quickly and was great fun to be around.
During this period he was on his traffic attachment. That day he was being driven by one of Traffic’s most able and experienced officers, PC ‘Micky’ Finn, in the unmarked car whose call sign was Tango one seven one. As he was in a plain car, the commanders seemed eager to move Micky up close to the target. They didn’t seem to know that, rather than it containing two highly trained advanced drivers, one of its crew was barely out of school. Even the excitable updates did not provide the clue.