Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace's Brighton

18: Battle of Rights

It doesn’t take much to trigger a riot. A determined crowd with a subversive element mixed with aggressive policing is an almost guaranteed recipe for disorder.

In some cases, such as the UK riots of 2011 where towns and cities across the country burned and shops and warehouses were looted by rampaging mobs, the police can be caught off-guard by a mob so intent on creating mayhem and so huge in number that, despite everything, they become overwhelmed and the trouble spreads like a plague. In others, anarchy can be sparked by the two sides, police and protestors, refusing or not knowing how to communicate across the divide.

There are dozens of theories why Brighton is one of the most politically active cities in the UK. Some say it’s the two universities, others its proximity to London. But whatever it is, as a cop balancing people’s rights to protest while preventing looting, arson and chaos is one of the biggest challenges of policing this unique place.

Being a detective, like Roy Grace, for most of my service, I spent much of the 1990s observing the pitched battles between groups such as Reclaim the Streets and the police from a distance. Occasionally picking up an investigation into a group of protestors who had been arrested for violent disorder was about as close as I came to the action. I had actually trained as a public order officer early on, but that came slightly too late for the 1984 miners’ strike and my move to CID robbed me of the chance to police the live animal export protests at Shoreham Harbour, ten years later.

However, you make your choices in life and for me the day-to-day buzz I felt catching some seriously bad people eclipsed the occasional adrenaline rush of standing on a riot line. Little did I know that in the twilight of my career I would command hundreds of officers keeping the peace at anti-war protests, student demos and major football matches.

I knew when I was promoted to Superintendent at Brighton some retraining would become necessary. Every year, Sussex — second only to London — would typically have over thirty large protest events, the vast majority being on my patch. Someone needed to take command of those and now, in my shiny new uniform, much of it fell to me.

I was up for it. It was like a rebirth; something new to immerse myself in. The thrill of planning and running a major public order incident is about as good as it gets for senior officers. The ambiguity of intelligence, limited resources, the eyes of the public firmly upon you; it is decision-making at its most critical.

Even now, I miss sitting in my office on a Saturday afternoon, advisors around me, overseeing an unfolding protest that, despite all the preparation, was teetering precariously between rowdy and riot. I loved being forced to make knife-edge choices based on every ounce of my training, experience and the trust in those around me. I knew whatever I ordered, however, would result in backlash from one quarter or another.

Too much force and the protestors and certain politicians would cry foul, too little and business owners, other politicians and residents would accuse me of running scared. The rights of the protestors inevitably conflicted with the rights of everyone else; I had to walk a thread-like tightrope.

These dilemmas were against the backdrop of the widespread criticism the Metropolitan Police experienced following the 2009 G20 protests. Some sections of the press had unhelpfully induced the public to think that public order policing was rooted in a philosophy of stifling free speech.

That is not to say there were not some dreadful things that happened in London over those few days; the death of bystander Ian Tomlinson being the worst. However, most officers aren’t looking for a fight — they just want to keep the peace and their mind, body and job intact.

There was acute nervousness at the top of our organization. Roy Grace spends a huge amount of time briefing and reassuring the Chief Constable or his ACCs that he has a strong grip on his investigations. His first encounter with his new boss ACC Peter Rigg, soon after his team picked up the investigation into the rape of Nicola Taylor in Dead Like You, presented him with a dilemma I was often faced with: provide them with platitudes or the warts-and-all truth.

As a Gold commander of any incident, you are the person in charge; the buck stops with you. However, the Chief Officers have a right to know what you are doing. I took this responsibility as seriously as Grace does. It could be easier to tell the bosses what you thought they wanted to hear but, like Roy, I never did that. Of course it was necessary to tune into their wavelength and talk about the things that would rightly concern them rather than the minutiae. But sugaring the pill to make things appear better than they were will always come back to haunt you.

By the time I had taken on the role of Divisional Commander at Brighton and Hove in 2009, the conflict between Israel and Palestine was flaring up, austerity was starting to bite and immigration rarely left the front pages. Amid all the cuts, this was a time of growth for public order policing.

Added to this was the rise of alternative politics, nowhere more so than in Brighton and Hove. Not only did part of the city elect the UK’s first Green MP, Caroline Lucas — for whom I have the most tremendous respect — but also its first Green-led council. The legitimacy of protest as a form of political engagement was burgeoning.

On a simple public order operation most of the work of the Gold commander is before the event. During the hours of meetings with the Silver commander I would set out exactly what I wanted the police to achieve. Then we would go about choosing the right people for the key Bronze roles, working out how many officers we needed in all the disciplines, consulting with the affected communities and agreeing a detailed yet flexible plan. It’s actually more complicated than that but you hope, on the day, that with a fair wind it will all go like clockwork and, other than checking in at regular intervals, you can crack on with other matters.

However, it became very clear late one wintry Wednesday afternoon in 2010 that I was about to truly earn my money. Having planned the policing for what was billed as a peaceful protest through the city centre, I decided that as the operation was running smoothly I could chair the weekly Divisional Command Team meeting.

We were just debating where we would take the next round of savings from when a normally demure inspector burst in and spluttered, ‘Er, Mr Bartlett. I’ve been monitoring the radio. I think you’d better go up to the Silver control room, it’s all kicking off out there.’

In a reflex response I crashed my chair back and ran towards the nerve centre, watched by my envious colleagues, who all wanted a piece of the action.

As I dashed up the two flights of stairs, a plethora of possible disasters raced around my mind. Any hope of sliding off early today had been well and truly dashed.

We were policing a protest by students and others, following the recent announcement that university tuition fees were to treble. I knew that many local school children had decided to join the demonstration.

As I reached the Silver Suite, I burst through the doors and glanced at the same bank of CCTV screens that Grace relied so heavily on as he frantically tried to locate Red Westwood in Want You Dead. I could see a line of anxious-looking police officers stretched out along the Churchill Square shop fronts facing a hostile crowd.

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.

The Metropolitan Police had recently been berated for this ‘kettling’ but, properly used, it is a very effective non-violent way of suppressing disorder. I knew I would spend the next days justifying this to a scandal-hungry media, but I had a community and dozens of cops to protect.

With our strengthened numbers, we were able to isolate the anarchists and identify the ringleaders. We ensured that we found out exactly who the hard core were and gauged whether they should be arrested for any previous offences before letting the innocent go, one by one. We might want to talk to them later when we started to trawl the CCTV, so collating their names and addresses before letting them trickle out was essential.

This show of strength marked the beginning of the end of a day that, as well as the attempt to invade the police station, saw shops overrun, Brighton Town Hall put under siege and a Brighton University building occupied. However, due to the effective preventive policing, just five people were arrested. More would follow, but we never let the disorder get to the point that we needed to lock up dozens of thugs as that would have tied up an equivalent number of valuable cops.

Some officers faced the anger and missiles of a minority of violent protestors for over twelve hours, and all showed remarkable resilience and restraint. There are distinct parallels between Grace’s fictional world of crime investigation and its factual counterpart across all areas of policing. In Dead Man’s Time, the hours and commitment he is expected to give to the job cause him to reflect carefully, like I did, on how he will rise to the challenge of fatherhood. Each of the officers I had deployed had families and friends who would be wondering when they would next see them and would be desperately worried for them during the conflict. Few received the accolades they deserved.

In the days that followed, the armchair critics surfaced providing their ill-informed opinions that we had been either too harsh or too soft. Some even asserted that it was our, not their parents’, responsibility to scoop up the kids and take them home for their safety.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

This was just one of a succession of protests and marches. The opening of a factory in Moulsecoomb that manufactured components for fighter planes provided plenty more.

Activists frequently besieged the EDO MBM factory, often supergluing themselves to the railings in an effort to stop production. Occasionally the protests became more intense, characterized by violent attacks on police and wholesale disruption to the city.

Some would seek out secondary targets, such as multinational businesses, to attack. Forgetting that innocent local people worked for these firms or shopped, ate or banked in them, they would terrify anyone in their quest to overthrow the distant oligarchs who ran them.

In one particularly sickening episode dozens of children were trapped in McDonald’s by a baying mob, protected only by a thin line of brave young officers denying the thugs access. The attempt to overturn a parked police van outside just added to the intensely frightening ordeal.

Early in my tenure as Divisional Commander, protestors had managed to break into the factory and cause thousands of pounds of damage. A Hove jury unexpectedly acquitted those responsible. Their defence was that their actions were justified given that they ’had an honestly held belief’ that they were preventing war crimes.

The private view of some supporters of direct action was that the acquittal should have prompted the protest group to take the moral high ground and become more measured in their future activity. It was no secret that business owners, residents and some politicians were fed up with the seemingly endless rounds of protests, blockades and marches. For a city that thrives on tourists, it was not good for trade.

Others, however, had different ideas.

In late 2010 a huge protest was advertised, aimed at noisily expressing ‘universal’ disapproval of EDO MBM. On the face of it, this is exactly what the police were there to facilitate. The right to peacefully protest is the bedrock of any healthy democracy and, despite what some detractors may say, our job was to allow that to happen.

We never simply dusted off previous plans when preparing for a big event such as this. No two protests are ever the same and to use a previous strategy and tactics would smack of complacency. We would of course learn the lessons from before but I always insisted that, despite the huge extra effort involved, every deployment be looked at from scratch.

In Not Dead Yet my dual role as Divisional Commander and Gold is expertly narrated. Peter James deliberately puts me — or rather my alter-ego Chief Superintendent Graham Barrington — at the centre of running fast-moving critical incidents while still taking care of the rest of the city’s policing. This was very much as it was, and intentionally so. I worried that to parachute in a strategic commander for a specific public order event, where that person may have no other stake in the city’s interests, would risk a disjointed policing style and cause someone else — me — to pick up the pieces if it all went wrong.

As Gold commander, given previous attempts to attack EDO MBM, I instructed we seek the Chief Constable’s authority to establish a designated protest zone at the end of Home Farm Road leading to the factory. This was right next to one of the main roads into and out of the city and perfect for the purpose of a visible and vibrant protest.

Word got to us, however, that some hard-core anarchists intended to disrupt our plans. We discovered that a squat had been established in Ivy House, an old cottage nestled in the woods at the back of nearby Wild Park. Dozens of protestors were to spend the night there dossing down, enabling them to give us an early-morning surprise by approaching the factory from the rear.

Of course, we had a plan for that. As the protestors awoke that damp autumnal morning they were met with a ring of police officers encircling their temporary home. Leading this squad was Chief Inspector Jane Derrick. No accident that, once again, such a capable and charismatic leader would be the one chosen to set the policing tone for the day.

As the squatters emerged into the misty dawn chill, each was wearing a full-faced black balaclava — not indicative of people just wanting to make a legitimate political point, in my experience. Prepared for such an eventuality, Jane was authorized to order them to remove the offending masks.

This created the first stand-off of the day. Compliance in their minds would indicate capitulation. Defiance would mean certain arrest. It was likely that some planned to be arrested during the course of the day but not this early, in an isolated wood miles from the public gaze. The only cameras to play up to here were those held by the police evidence gatherers and the one fixed to the police helicopter hovering over their heads.

The Silver commander, Chief Inspector Nev Kemp, and I were in the command suite nervously watching the soundless CCTV pictures being beamed from our eye in the sky. Our bacon rolls going cold, we were transfixed by this stalemate. We could not afford to fail this first test.

I could make out Jane having an animated conversation with the group’s self-designated spokesman. Her body language suggested that she was using her charm, her impeccable reasoning and her indefatigable patience to get her point across — ‘You are going nowhere with those masks on.’

Numerically, we could have just swept them up and bussed them off to custody but that was not in my plan. We had to negotiate agreement and demonstrate our reasonableness. We would nick them only as a last resort but if we did, we knew it would tie up manpower that would cause us heaps of problems later in the day.

The stand-off lasted for ages. Nev, who is famed for his infectious enthusiasm, yelled, ‘Just take them off and we will let you go.’

I grinned. The fact that they were still talking was a positive sign.

I detected a change in Jane’s posture and tried to interpret what it meant.

The stalemate seemed to be coming to an end, but in whose favour? Had they crossed a line? Were we going in hard? Had they listened? Had we won the first round?

The spokesman appeared to turn to his followers. The line of officers took a step back. This looked good.

The evidence gatherers’ cameras were pointed into the undergrowth and the helicopter climbed a few hundred feet — obviously part of the negotiation: no cameras.

We could no longer see what was going on but Jane’s radio message said it all: ‘All the masks are off and we are escorting them to the protest area.’

‘Yes, get in there,’ cried Nev.

‘Calm down, mate,’ I said ‘It’s going to be a long day. You’ll give me a headache if you whoop every time something goes well.’ Inside, however, I too was punching the air.

Despite this first victory, we knew that the rest of the day was unlikely to pass as peacefully.

Different cameras at the protest area showed that as time went by the crowd swelled. They were becoming increasingly rowdy and were taxing the resolve of the officers charged with keeping them there. It became clear that they were not going to be satisfied with staying in the pen we had provided for very long. Despite us supplying water and toilets, they wanted to get to the factory or at least test us trying to stop them.

The growing tension was relayed to Nev in the Silver Suite. The recent acquittals had changed much about our policing. We had to be even more careful that none of our officers said or did anything that would suggest we didn’t, honestly, welcome and support peaceful protest.

The ground commanders had it all covered while Nev and I got our heads together to run through the contingencies. What if they got to the factory? What if they attacked a member of the public? What if a member of the public attacked them? All these possibilities needed a plan before they had a chance to happen.

Suddenly a call came from the Silver Suite.

‘Boss, you are needed. They have burst out of the protest area. They are running amok.’

We dashed back in and saw a mob bolting and rampaging in all directions. Most were making for the woods that skirted the back of the factory, some were trying to head up the road towards the main gate, others were attempting to engage officers to prevent them giving chase.

We knew our inner cordon at the factory should hold but the last thing we wanted was a pitched battle in the rugged copse that bordered not only EDO MBM but also a railway line. We had earlier found paint bombs and baseball bats secreted in the woods, so knew that was part of the protestors’ plan.

Nev rattled off a list of instructions: reinforcing vulnerable points, mobilizing units on standby, shifting officers from A to B. The radio operators faithfully repeated his orders through short sharp commands, all swiftly acknowledged and obeyed.

One of the UK’s most respected public order commanders, Superintendent Ian Davies, was the Bronze in charge of the security of the factory. He knew that his own reputation depended on him and his officers holding their ground.

We couldn’t see everything on our CCTV screens, but the radio traffic indicated a frenzied effort by the protestors to breach the police fortifications, get through the woods and storm the factory.

It was so frustrating not being out there. Some say that people like me get promoted to avoid the front line — not a bit of it. I would have loved to be on the ground. It’s what we all join for. Grace often dabbles in tasks that really belong to the lower ranks purely on the basis that he still loves the job he signed up to. It’s why Ian Davies always flatly refused any indoor job on many of these deployments.

After about twenty minutes of running at protestors to disperse them, Ian’s units achieved their aim and the would-be invaders scattered out of the woods onto the surrounding streets.

Unfortunately for the local communities, they spilled out not only right in the middle of the main Brighton to Lewes road, but also outside a junior school whose children had just come out to play.

It was terrifying. Teachers had to frantically grab the pupils and take them back inside to safety as the crazed mob rampaged around the area. Thugs were running in and out of traffic, jumping on cars, petrifying the occupants who were unable to escape due to the rabble surrounding them.

Our phones lit up. The public and press were demanding action. Twitter went wild with worried parents and residents desperate for us to do something. As Grace knows, especially when matters are moving fast, such as in the race to catch Bryce Laurent in Want You Dead, you have to feed the media, especially social media. Ignore that basic principle and you risk the vacuum being filled by those hell-bent on promoting misinformation and disaffection. We had to do something, and be seen to do something.

‘Graham. I want to nick them all,’ announced Nev.

‘Right. How are you going to do that and what are your grounds? How are you going to make sure you don’t sweep up the innocent with the guilty?’

He laid his thinking out for me. The carnage and fear this minority were causing was simply not acceptable. The public were, rightly, demanding action. We had the grounds to arrest the most disruptive group to prevent a breach of the peace. We had the officers to do it and, with Jane and Ian, we couldn’t have asked for two better commanders to make it happen.

We briskly went through the detail and, satisfied that it was justified, necessary, proportionate and achievable, I gave Nev the green light.

I heard him bark his instructions to the radio operators and in no time at all we witnessed a fabulously choreographed manoeuvre play out on our bank of CCTV screens.

Ian and Jane’s officers had managed to gracefully encircle the hard core of violent protestors. The mere presence of so many officers containing them in the middle of the normally bustling main road sucked the wind right out of their sails. Like naughty school children, and doubtlessly responding to some commands that we could not hear, we saw them all sit down on the tarmac.

Soon the message confirmed what we wanted to hear.

‘Forty-three in custody to prevent a breach of the peace.’

Despite the logistical nightmare this caused, it had just the effect we were aiming for. It isolated the troublemakers from the peaceful protestors. To others it showed that we would put up with disruption only to a point and that to intimidate, harass or try to break into private premises was not going to be tolerated. Those not arrested drifted away, worried they might be next.

This was a defining moment in the policing of protests at Brighton. I knew we could ill afford to continue with a style that set protestors against police. The cost and impact on the community of deploying hundreds of cops to manage what should be a peaceful and lawful activity was unsustainable.

Having heard him speak at a conference, I asked Europe’s leading crowd psychologist, Professor Clifford Stott, now of Keele University, to come down and help us adopt his theory of facilitated dialogue to improve how we dealt with protestors.

Essentially this was about establishing meaningful communication with protest groups before and during events, encouraging a genuine openness about their aims and our requirements. I commissioned training for a dozen Police Liaison Officers who would undertake this essential role during each protest. I also set up a small team to work permanently on developing long-term relationships with activists. It was stunningly successful. In a matter of months we practically eliminated all forms of disorder during the dozen or so protests we policed, just by talking, listening and understanding.

Even at the next EDO MBM demonstration, a full twenty months since we had arrested those forty-three, although it was characterized by animosity and antagonism, we experienced no disorder, no arrests, no damage and no injuries.

I managed to use this evidence to persuade Chief Officers and the Police Authority that this new method should be the default style for all public order policing in Sussex. It has grown and thrived since and, through like-minded officers in this and many other forces, is now in place across the UK.

I’d like to think that I have left a number of important legacies since retiring from the police. This mature approach to protest and the more humane drugs strategy are the two I am most proud of. Both required me to think differently and — with a degree of bloody-mindedness — to persevere in getting others to think likewise. Both, I firmly believe, left Brighton and Hove in a better state when I hung up my handcuffs than it was when I had started my wonderful journey, thirty years earlier.

I know that those who follow me will have the same passion and drive to make the city even safer. It gets to you that way.