At five minutes to three on the afternoon of Sunday, September 5, 1982, William reported to Hendon Police College in north London. He enjoyed almost every minute of the training course from the moment he swore allegiance to the Queen to his passing-out parade sixteen weeks later.
The following day, he was issued with a navy-blue serge uniform, helmet, and truncheon, and couldn’t resist glancing at his reflection whenever he passed a window. A police uniform, he was warned by the commander on his first day on parade, could change a person’s personality, and not always for the better.
Lessons at Hendon had begun on the second day and were divided between the classroom and the gym. William learned whole sections of the law until he could repeat them verbatim. He reveled in forensic and crime scene analysis, even though he quickly discovered when he was introduced to the skid pad that his driving skills were fairly rudimentary.
Having endured years of cut and thrust with his father across the breakfast table, William felt at ease in the mock courtroom, where instructing officers cross-examined him in the witness box, and he even held his own during self-defense classes, where he learned how to disarm, handcuff, and restrain someone who was far bigger than him. He was also taught about a constable’s powers of arrest, search and entry, the use of reasonable force, and, most important of all, discretion. ‘Don’t always stick to the rule book,’ his instructor advised him. ‘Sometimes you have to use common sense, which, when you’re dealing with the public, you’ll find isn’t that common.’
Exams were as regular as clockwork, compared to his days at university, and he wasn’t surprised that several candidates fell by the wayside long before the course had ended.
After what felt like an interminable two-week break following his passing-out parade, William finally received a letter instructing him to report to Lambeth police station at 8 a.m. the following Monday. An area of London he had never visited before.
Police Constable 565LD had joined the Metropolitan Police Force as a graduate but decided not to take advantage of the accelerated promotion scheme that would have allowed him to progress more quickly up the ladder, as he wanted to line up on his first day with every other new recruit on equal terms. He accepted that, as a probationer, he would have to spend at least two years on the beat before he could hope to become a detective, and in truth, he couldn’t wait to be thrown in at the deep end.
From his first day as a probationer William was guided by his mentor, Constable Fred Yates, who had twenty-eight years of police service under his belt, and had been told by the nick’s chief inspector to ‘look after the boy.’ The two men had little in common other than that they’d both wanted to be coppers from an early age, and their fathers had done everything in their power to prevent them pursuing their chosen career.
‘ABC,’ was the first thing Fred said when he was introduced to the wet-behind-the-ears young sprog. He didn’t wait for William to ask.
‘Accept nothing, Believe no one, Challenge everything. It’s the only law I live by.’
During the next few months, Fred introduced William to the world of burglars, drug dealers, and pimps, as well as his first dead body. With the zeal of Sir Galahad, William wanted to lock up every offender and make the world a better place; Fred was more realistic, but he never once attempted to douse the flames of William’s youthful enthusiasm. The young probationer quickly found out that the public don’t know if a policeman has been in uniform for a couple of days or a couple of years on William’s second day on the beat.
‘Time to stop your first car,’ said Fred, coming to a halt by a set of traffic lights. ‘We’ll hang about until someone runs a red, and then you can step out into the road and flag them down.’ William looked apprehensive. ‘Leave the rest to me. See that tree about a hundred yards away? Go and hide behind it, and wait until I give you the signal.’
William could hear his heart pounding as he stood behind the tree. He didn’t have long to wait before Fred raised a hand and shouted, ‘The blue Hillman! Grab him!’
William stepped out into the road, put his arm up, and directed the car to pull over to the curb.
‘Say nothing,’ said Fred as he joined the raw recruit. ‘Watch carefully and take note.’ They both walked up to the car as the driver wound down his window.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Fred. ‘Are you aware that you drove through a red light?’
The driver nodded but didn’t speak.
‘Could I see your driving license?’
The driver opened his glove box, extracted his license, and handed it to Fred. After studying the document for a few moments, Fred said, ‘It’s particularly dangerous at this time in the morning, sir, as there are two schools nearby.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the driver. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Fred handed him back his license. ‘It will just be a warning this time,’ he said, while William wrote down the car’s number plate in his notebook. ‘But perhaps you could be a little more careful in future, sir.’
‘Thank you, officer,’ said the driver.
‘Why just a caution,’ asked William as the car drove slowly away, ‘when you could have booked him?’
‘Attitude,’ said Fred. ‘The gentleman was polite, acknowledged his mistake, and apologized. Why piss off a normally law-abiding member of the public?’
‘So what would have made you book him?’
‘If he’d said, “Haven’t you got anything better to do, officer?” Or worse, “Shouldn’t you be chasing some real criminals?” Or my favorite, “Don’t you realize I pay your wages?” Any of those and I would have booked him without hesitation. Mind you, there was one blighter I had to cart off to the station and lock up for a couple of hours.’
‘Did he get violent?’
‘No, far worse. Told me he was a close friend of the commissioner, and I’d be hearing from him. So I told him he could phone him from the station.’ William burst out laughing. ‘Right,’ said Fred, ‘get back behind the tree. Next time you can conduct the interview and I’ll observe.’
Sir Julian Warwick QC sat at one end of the table, his head buried in The Daily Telegraph. He muttered the occasional tut-tut, while his wife, seated at the other end, continued her daily battle with The Times crossword. On a good day, Marjorie would have filled in the final clue before her husband rose from the table to leave for Lincoln’s Inn. On a bad day, she would have to seek his advice, a service for which he usually charged a hundred pounds an hour. He regularly reminded her that to date, she owed him over twenty thousand pounds. Ten across and four down were holding her up.
Sir Julian had reached the leaders by the time his wife was wrestling with the final clue. He still wasn’t convinced that the death penalty should have been abolished, particularly when a police officer or a public servant was the victim, but then neither was the Telegraph. He turned to the back page to find out how Blackheath rugby club had fared against Richmond in their annual derby. After reading the match report he abandoned the sports pages, as he considered the paper gave far too much coverage to soccer. Yet another sign that the nation was going to the dogs.
‘Delightful picture of Charles and Diana in The Times,’ said Marjorie.
‘It will never last,’ said Julian as he rose from his place and walked to the other end of the table and, as he did every morning, kissed his wife on the forehead. They exchanged newspapers, so he could study the law reports on the train journey to London.