A Fair Cop

The most repulsive sight was the bathroom. The water in the toilet filled the pan to the top and it was stained black. There were carrier bags tied up on the floor, containing human excrement. There were faeces floating in the bath, too. More distressing was the presence of a cot on the landing right outside the bathroom. The stench was too much and I did the best search possible under the circumstances, before going back to interview the eighteen-year-old mother of two. She was charged with the offence of theft from shops: she’d stolen toiletries and nappies.

Dealing with people like this saddened me. This woman had no chance of breaking her cycle of crime and I felt no satisfaction from charging her, as I knew that her crime was not driven by malice, but by an instinct to survive. I pitied her greatly and found myself making her several cups of tea during her time in custody. Just three days before her court appearance, she was found dead in her house. She had drawn a headstone on her bedroom wall and written the letters RIP on it. She had then lain next to it and taken an overdose of heroin. Her life had become too much. Her children had been with the body for two days before it was discovered. The eldest had eaten bits of flesh from her arms just to stay alive. This was another part of the job that I found difficult to deal with.

As you’d expect, I was glad when those three months were completed. I was pleased to be back with my shift patrolling the streets of Leeds city centre. Almost as soon as I’d finished my time in the shop squad, I made an arrest that attracted national media attention.

One night in January 1997, I was on another night duty. It was Saturday and, as always, we were anticipating a busy night. I didn’t expect, however, to arrest this particular person. It was around midnight and I was driving the police van past the Majestyk nightclub in the centre of the city. I was with my colleague, PC Dave Braddock. There was a long queue of people outside the club, shivering in the freezing temperatures. My attention was then drawn to the other side of the road, to a group of men. They were lively, excitable and loud, but seemingly nothing other than in good spirits on a night out.

Then, without reason, one of the men shouted across towards us. His words were scathing of the police in general and his language was expletive. I was surprised by the blatant nature of the comments. He was a tall, thin man, well dressed and daubed in chunky gold jewellery. He kept on walking towards us and stood directly in front of the car. He looked in at us and shouted once again, ‘You fucking pigs.’ It was at this point that I recognised him.