I sensed a tension in the room, heightened by my presence. Clearly the inspector who had summoned me, in the style of You Are Dead’s Andy ‘Panicking’ Anakin, was not acting under anyone’s direction.
Public Order Tactical Advisors are the Regimental Sergeant Majors in any operation. Massively experienced and politely assertive they are invariably larger than life. While they make no decisions themselves, only a fool ignores their guidance. One of the most inspiring of these was PC Jonny Reade, who was working for the Silver commander, Jane Derrick, that day.
As an ex-Army officer, Jonny knew how the rank structure worked. He respected those who made courageous decisions, especially if they sought his counsel beforehand. He knew that promotion does not bring with it absolute knowledge and that the best leaders know whom to consult, and when. His military training gave him mastery in making his succinct advice, delivered beautifully in received pronunciation, sound like orders.
His vast form blocked my path as I tried to venture further in.
‘Sir, I am just wondering whether this is the optimum place for you to exercise effective strategic command at this very moment?’ he eloquently suggested.
Before I could argue, with a broad grin he clarified, ‘In other words, would you mind just fucking off for a few moments? Just a few, you understand. Silver and I will pop next door to see you just as soon as we have resolved a few issues.’
Before I could argue he held the door open for me and said, ‘Thank you so much, sir, I knew you would understand.’
Now that might seem odd, but Jonny was right. When all hell is breaking loose, it is the job of Silver to sort it out. Gold, the strategic commander, can do more harm than good. He or she can confuse the command structure, their presence can distract Silver’s urgent decision-making and they may be tempted to meddle. The place of Gold is at one step removed. In these circumstances Gold must let the dust settle, if only for a moment, and then bring everyone together to reassess the plan.
I quietly resolved to give them just five minutes to sort themselves out as I waited in the poky anteroom next door. It took no longer than three.
‘Right, sorry about that, Graham,’ said Jane Derrick as she and Jonny joined me. ‘You caught us just as we were reorganizing the troops to deal with some breakaway groups who tried to storm the shops in Churchill Square. I’m concerned too that there are so many kids in the crowds, they are putting themselves at risk.’
I asked Jane to run through what had happened and whether she had the right resources and specialist tactics available. I grilled her to make sure she still had control and was going to get the result I wanted.
‘It’s very stretched out there. We are being pulled in all sorts of directions. I’ve got some knackered Police Support Units (PSUs) and there are hours of work yet to do. Anarchists have infiltrated the march so we need to isolate them and try to persuade the kids to go home. All that, while we allow the rest of the protestors to continue peacefully as is their right.’
As she said that, there was a sharp rap on the door. ‘Ma’am,’ said a PC. ‘You are needed back in the room. The anarchists are making their way to the police station. Word is they are going to try to storm it.’
‘Shit,’ we all said in unison. All three of us, Jane, Jonny and I dashed back to the suite.
‘Before you say anything, Jonny, I’m coming in so don’t waste your breath.’ I sensed that this was one of the times when Silver would want me at her shoulder to give her the green light for some of our heavier tactics. ‘Right, Jane. Tell me what you need,’ I said.
‘I want every available officer outside the police station under the direction of an inspector. I want an extra two PSUs from around the force here ASAP,’ she replied.
It was a no-brainer to agree to her request, but easier said than done. However, when I saw one of the radio controllers, PC Nick Andrews-Faulkner, get up from his chair I knew the spirit of being all in this together was alive and kicking.
‘I’ve arranged a civilian replacement from next door. I’m going out to protect the building,’ he announced as he departed to don his protective uniform.
I could hear the orders being echoed through phone calls, radio messages and loudspeaker announcements, all directing any available cops out onto the street.
Soon, the few remaining officers left in the police station had taken up posts at every entrance and exit. Some were more prepared than others. While there were those in the correct uniform, many of the detectives were ill-equipped for battle, but no less eager for it.
Stiletto heels and woolly jumpers were unlikely to withstand the rigours of combat but the officers were trained — albeit some years ago — and no-one was coming into their station uninvited.
We knew we were up against it. Radio operators were snapping Jane’s orders out to those on the ground, external windows and doors were locked, CCTV was fixed on the front and rear of the nick. It was unthinkable that anyone should breach our stronghold. It would also wipe out radio control to half of the force.
As a background to the frantic radio transmissions, through the closed windows I could hear a rumbling crescendo of roaring and chanting.
‘Kill, kill, kill the Bill’ suggested that these black-clad and masked activists had no interest in the rise in tuition fees. They only wanted to fight the police and destroy the city.
In no time the crowds surged into John Street and started to build outside the police station. The chanting from the baying mob was angry and urgent. Our mishmash of willing staff could not hold out for long; they needed reinforcements.
I had authorized Operation Spearhead, the force mobilization plan, and I knew we had fifty extra officers due with us imminently. They couldn’t arrive soon enough.
The atmosphere in the control room was intense. The safety of the public and our officers rested squarely on the decisions we would take. It was much, much tougher out there on the streets, but the responsibility we bore to make the right choices at the right time was massive. Sussex Police does not have its own horses, we have to buy them in, and baton rounds and tear gas have yet to be used on the mainland. We only had what we had: highly trained, variably equipped and phenomenally dedicated officers.
As we tried to convince the desperate staff guarding the station that help was on its way, I heard from the street the distinctive cry of one of my old duty inspectors, Nathan Evans. Now in a training role at HQ, he never let an opportunity to come back to the city for some action pass him by. His distinctive Welsh holler signalled that the cavalry had arrived.
It was hard to work out what orders he was bellowing from three floors up, but the fact that they were followed by the yells of a terrified mob fleeing along John Street meant they were clearly working. He had corralled the willing detectives and controllers, augmented them with fresh troops from the far-flung corners of the county and gelled them into a formidable band who proved too strong for those who presumptuously thought they could overrun us.
In the nick of time we had reasserted our control of the police station. Now we could get back to singling out the troublemakers and allowing those peacefully protesting to do just that.
After considerable discussion, I agreed with Jane’s request that we should employ what was, at that time, the most controversial tactic available. We were going to contain the anarchists.