My First Arrest!
This is an extract from my recently published book. ‘A Funny — and Tragic-Memoir of Life in the Met.’
Every copper remembers their first arrest. Or only arrest if
they are on the Accelerated Promotion Scheme.
One morning I was given a piece of paper by the Sergeant. It
looked important. He told me it was an arrest warrant, so my
hunch proved correct. It had been issued by the local Magistrates
Court because someone hadn’t done as he was told. Magistrates
are local worthies who enjoy telling poor people what to do. They
believe that the oiks stood before them are genuinely chastised
when they give them a jolly good dressing down.
For more serious matters, the Magistrates send the case to the
Crown Court. Crown Courts have people who balance wigs on
their heads and wear capes, despite not being super heroes.
In this instance, the subject of the warrant had been ordered
to Court to face a charge of theft. Clearly not arsed, he hadn’t
bothered to turn up. The Magistrates waited ages and got really
cross. The clerk typed-out said warrant, thereafter signed by the
Magistrate with a quill pen. In this instance, for reasons best
known to himself, the subject had told the Court his real address.
A lot of criminals give false ones to evade justice. 252 Uxbridge
Road was very popular. Aka Shepherds Bush Police Station.
Anyway, this bloke lived just around the corner, so I ate a
Mars Bar, whole, and headed round there with a fellow newbie.
The door was opened by a woman smoking a cigarette, who
gestured us in without speaking. A large Irishman in a white vest
lay sprawled across a bed. He said he’d been expecting us, like a
Bond villain. Then he asked if he could ‘have a shit’ before we
took him away. Unlike a Bond villain. It seemed churlish to deny
him that and off he went for a bit of me-time.
We got a lift back to HQ in the station van, a white Sherpa
with police livery on the sides. In the back are a couple of benches
that people fall off if it takes a corner too fast. As a probationer,
I didn’t expect verbal communication, but thanked the driver
anyway when we stopped. A station’s cell area is known as the
Custody Suite, where permission to bring a prisoner in has to be
sought from a Custody Sergeant. This is never granted straight
away. Instead, you must hang around for ages while the Sergeant
– inevitably grumpy — finishes his cigarette and reads Playboy.
You stand before him, culprit alongside, and explain why you
are there, your grounds for making the arrest and why they need
to be locked up. If the Sergeant agrees with your rationale, in they
go. If not, the prisoner is out the front door. That doesn’t happen
very often or it would make the police look silly.
‘Why’s he not got no trousers on?’ the Sergeant asked on this
occasion, throwing me completely. A double-negative was the
last thing I’d expected. Suddenly, I felt totally out of my depth.
‘He needed to defecate, Sarge,’ I replied, when in reality I had
been so intent on not upsetting the driver I’d forgotten to get the
prisoner dressed. The Sergeant threw me the sort of glance I
would soon get used to and picked up his pen. ‘What’s this for?’
‘It’s a writing aid that dispenses ink over a ball at the end,
Sarge,’ I said. Well, I thought it was funny.
‘The fucking arrest! What’s he been fucking arrested for?’ he
yelled, seemingly agitated. I was ready for this bit, though. In fact,
I had been practising it.
‘At zero eight hundred hours I was proceeding west on
Uxbridge Road, London W12, when I had cause to knock at the
suspect’s door. I used four of the five knuckles on my right fist,’ I
went on, displaying said fist and demonstrating the movement
used. ‘I was in possession of a warrant of arrest issued by West
London Magistrates Court ordering his arrest and presentation
before the Court. We were offered access to the premises by a
white female with a questionable hygiene regime. I do not know
her name, or date of birth, but I would recognise her again.
‘I would describe the flat as dimly lit and furnished to a level
expected of people who are overpaid benefits. In the flat was a
bed. A large bed. On the bed was a man. A large man. A man I
now know to be this man. I can confirm that the man on the bed
is the same man I present before you now.
‘I introduced myself as Police Constable Byrne of Shepherd’s
Bush Police Station and allowed him to defecate. At the
conclusion, I arrested him on suspicion of failing to appear at
Court. I then cautioned him, to which he made no reply at zero
eight ten hours. He was then conveyed to Shepherd’s Bush Police
Station in a marked police vehicle, call sign Foxtrot Hotel two
zero. I did not speak to the police driver at his implied insistence,
but did offer my thanks at the conclusion of the journey. I did
not fall off the bench. Once at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, I
relayed the facts to the Custody Sergeant. Thank you very much
for being here today.’
The Sergeant eyed me with disgust. ‘You just had to say “It’s a
warrant” for fuck’s sake,’ he said before walking to the caged area
and lighting another roll-up. I felt I had been left to carry on the
booking-in process while the Sergeant calmed down a bit.
All persons arrested are subject to a search, any property listed
on the Custody Record. Some were known to secrete items such
as cigarette lighters in their anus. In later years, they would learn
to squeeze mobile phones up there, giving a whole new meaning
to ‘pocket dialling’. I asked my man to put his stuff on the desk
and patted him down in proscribed fashion. As he was only in
vest and pants that didn’t take long, but I felt it drew us closer.
The Custody Sergeant then returned, telling the prisoner he
could use a solicitor for free and have someone told he’d been
arrested. He was also offered chance to read the Codes of Practise
drawn from the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Since the time
of Sir Robert Peel, nobody has ever made use of this right. Even
the police don’t bother. It’s all words with no cartoons, so who
can blame them?
I was told to put the guy in a cell, after which the Custody
Sergeant never spoke to me again, but I had made my first arrest.
Feeling rather pleased with myself I then went to the canteen to
make notes and enjoy a well-earned poo.
