Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace's Brighton

4: Laughing Policemen

It’s not all death and misery. Sometimes policing can be fun. As a species, emergency service workers find their light relief in the most bizarre places.

Special (or volunteer) police officers were not always as respected as they should have been. I found this frankly insulting as they put themselves on the line as much as we who were paid did.

I had a very personal reason to admire them. My father, John, always wanted to be a police officer but back in the 1960s the pay was poor and he wanted a family so he let his head rule his heart and instead qualified as a chartered surveyor. However, he and my mum Hilary instilled in me, and my older siblings Martin and Carol, a deep respect for the law and policing. This sparked a single-minded desire to tread the path that he was denied. My parents could not have been more proud of the choice I made, nor I of them.

My Dad decided, later in life, that he could live out his dream by joining the Hove Special Constabulary. Unpaid, the job mostly entailed attending fetes and public events. However, never one to miss an opportunity, Dad volunteered for fortnightly football duty at Brighton and Hove Albion home games. He loved football and loved policing; who needs paying if you can combine your two big passions? When my Uncle Gordon, Dad’s brother, took me to the games Dad was working at, I would stand on the terraces on a crate to give me extra height, and enviously watch him as he patrolled the perimeter of the pitch. I so wanted to be him.

As a natural leader (he became a Director of Brighton Borough Council) he never accepted the status quo. His insistence that ‘Specials’ could do more than just be rolled out for the soft events, such as being a token police presence at church fairs, provided him with the profile of a modernizer and he soon won promotion to head up Brighton’s Special Constabulary.

He could be quite ruthless, never suffering fools gladly, but he was fair. He saw that a number of colleagues were interested only in the status of being a Special, not actually the reality of doing the job. They did not last long but those who genuinely wanted to be part of the wider policing of the city were nurtured and encouraged. Dad would vehemently negotiate their rights and promote the profile of Specials. Many of my Divisional Commander predecessors still speak highly of him for this. He brought the Specials out of the dark ages and set them on the path to what they are today.

One Saturday afternoon, my partner, DC Dave Swainston, and I were in the Brighton CID office reading through witness statements regarding a prisoner we were about to interview for robbery. Suddenly the tannoy crackled into life: ‘All units, ten twenty Queens Park Road. Traffic warden being attacked. All free units to attend.’

And that is exactly what Dave and I did. Grabbing a set of car keys we joined the mass exodus all heading for the car park to race the short distance up the hill to assist the warden. Despite Dave being a former traffic officer, it was I who had the keys and therefore I who took the wheel of the CID car.

As I revved the protesting 1100cc engine, I gave way to the better-equipped and more powerful marked response cars then fell in behind them, using their wake of sirens and blue lights to force my way out on to the roadway.

As I raced up towards Queens Park Road, I noticed a very familiar uniformed figure running in the same direction. Dad was never an athlete but neither was he unfit. However, he was thirty-two years older than me so would have been knocking on the door of sixty at this time.

A wave of protectiveness engulfed me and temporarily I forgot about the poor traffic warden. My dad, fully kitted up with radio, truncheon and chunky jacket, would be thankful for the respite I could provide.

I ground the car to a halt next to him, noticing him sweating and panting like a bloodhound.

‘Dad, Dad,’ I shouted, ‘get in, we’ll take you up there,’ expecting him to fling open the back door and gratefully throw himself across the bench seat.

However he broke stride momentarily, took one look and bellowed, ‘You can fuck off, son. I’ve seen your driving. I’m safer risking a heart attack!’ His pace seemed to quicken as if to put as much distance between him and me as possible.

‘That’s bloody charming,’ I remarked to Dave as I accelerated the car away. ‘That’s the last time I offer to help the old timer!’

As I glanced towards him I saw Dave was in no state to reply. He was creased up, convulsing with hysterical laughter, eyes streaming and fighting for breath.

I drove on, silently rueing the lack of respect the older generation was showing me. Even the traffic warden didn’t prostrate himself at my feet with gratitude. His assailant had already been handcuffed and was being squeezed into one of the other police cars.

I got back into the car and sloped down the hill to the police station, feeling distinctly unloved and unneeded. The homecoming warmth that Grace and Branson feel every time they arrive at this strangely welcoming concrete carbuncle escaped me that day.

One of the most common saviours of our sanity is gallows humour, or the hilarity found in the macabre. We hear in the Grace novels dozens of instances of this and all evoke in me memories of how it helped us cope, free from today’s political correctness Gestapo bearing down.

Some of the acronyms that describe the various states or liabilities of those involved in road crashes may seem insensitive. FUBAR BUNDY — Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet and DODI — Dead One Did It are both examples of the dark wit of all emergency service workers, but they serve a purpose in keeping us sane amid the horrors we face.

Like so many of my colleagues, several of the characters in the Roy Grace series would be either the instigator or the target of merciless banter.

DS Norman Potting, with his old-school roots and his crass political incorrectness, shows his colours throughout with his injudicious comments in briefings, some of which are shocking, but many display the hilarity required to survive consecutive murder enquiries.

DI Glenn Branson, with his sharp dress sense, encyclopaedic knowledge of the movies and his background as a club bouncer, receives as much teasing for this as he doles out to his friend and boss, Roy Grace, over his age and musical tastes.

I hate to think what revolting substitutes would have been placed in DS Bella Moy’s ever-present Malteser box, just waiting for her hand to spontaneously grab while beavering away in the incident room.

When I was a patrol officer most police stations had social clubs. Those who never had to face the misery and violence that frontline policing dishes up in spades saw these bars as a luxury.

However, after a frenetic late shift I, and many like me, found them a welcome sanctuary where our unofficial debriefs could be held in relative privacy. We had to unwind and the stuff we needed to talk about was not fit for public ears.

The healing properties of a couple of pints of warm flat beer, supped in the austere surroundings of the fourth-floor Brighton Police Station bar, spiced with an hour of merciless mickey-taking, worked wonders in normalizing the mind after eight hours immersed in human misery.

There was no seniority or pecking order; no-one was immune. I was as guilty as the next person of homing in on those who’d had an unfortunate shift. You were an obvious target if you had been assaulted, crashed a car or let a prisoner escape — all thankfully rare, hence all the more ripe for a torrent of relentless ribbing.

None of this was serious. We all knew that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ but as it was not us on those particular days, why not give the luckless ones a hard time and everyone else a good laugh?

However, this could occasionally become abhorrent. Some would ridicule their colleagues or members of the public for just being different. Women, gay people or those with a different colour skin had a torrid time at the hands of the ignorant. This wasn’t banter, it was bullying plain and simple. My experience now is that this bigotry is stamped on the second it surfaces. Others may disagree.

It’s a shame, however, that the positive camaraderie that team bonding brings is waning. Some officers feel shy laughing off the trials they have faced in case some clinically minded, desk-bound manager takes offence.

Often, it’s the members of the public we deal with who provide the richest material for laughs. The lighter moments can spark from a particularly dumb villain, a helpless inebriate as well as from the idiocy of a colleague.

Show me a cop who doesn’t relish the sights and sounds of Brighton’s notorious West Street late on a Saturday night when the drunks start to spill out from the countless clubs, and I will show you a misery-guts.

A few punters want to fight but most, in their own woozy way, just ‘wanna be your mate’. Scantily clad women, and men, insist on being photographed with ‘the best bobby in Brighton’. Some confuse the rooftop ‘Police’ sign with one signifying a taxi and demand to be driven ‘Home, James’ while others insist you have ‘a bite of my kebab, mate, ’cos you must be bloody starving and I bloody love the Old Bill, I do!’ The banter is just fabulous and I always imagine their reaction the next morning when reminded of this by friends who would no doubt add, ‘I can’t believe you said/did that to that copper. You were lucky not to get nicked.’ Never a chance of that from me. These people made my evening.

It was rare to see the blueprint for Roy Grace, David Gaylor, lose his sense of humour. He was normally at the centre of most of the pranks but on one occasion, while the rest of us were revelling in a colleague’s misfortune, his was the only stern face.

I was a DS and David was the DCI at Hove CID. I’d known David since we both served in Bognor together, him on CID and me as a wet-behind-the-ears probationary constable. He has always been a very self-assured and superbly gifted detective. His reputation for getting things done earned him many promotions. He would always find a way to reach an objective and that, in the policing culture, is a highly prized gift. He ran a very tight ship and we all knew where we stood. That said he was great to be around, always quick with a joke, and could not resist a wind-up when the opportunity arose.

My very good friend and constant colleague DS Bill Warner was normally very close to David. For years David allowed the office to believe that when he went on holiday, as well as Bill ferrying him to and from the airport, he would task him with various chores at his home such as cutting the grass and keeping the house ship-shape for his return. He would even send him a postcard reminding him. Many thought that this was what actually happened and counselled Bill to stand up to these overbearing and outrageous expectations. It was only when someone threatened to blow the whistle that they both revealed it was all a jape and, as one, everyone had fallen for it.

Bill was a late entrant to the police. His previous careers running his own contract cleaning business, as a Brighton taxi driver and professional boxer gave him a street credibility that was rare among most of us. He was in his late forties when he became a DS but, as he once represented Great Britain at water polo, he was fitter than most of us.

Always immaculately turned out, he struck a fearsome form. His broad frame, flattened nose, pencil moustache and tight buzz haircut gave him the look of a high-class bouncer.

His quick and acidic wit spared no-one. From the Chief Constable to the cleaner, we all had to be on our guard when Bill was around. In my later years I found I was safe from his sharp-witted retorts only when in the relative, yet temporary, protective formality of official meetings. If I managed a swift put-down towards him he would march into my office afterwards and remind me that ‘you are only the Chief Superintendent because I told the Chief Constable to make that so. You know I run this force and you are all subject to my will and I can withdraw rank as quickly as I bestow it!’

That was his fantasy world. In reality he was a hard taskmaster and he ensured that people knew that his respect had to be earned; rank alone did not guarantee it.

We were suffering a spate of frauds at banks along the main drag running from Brighton to Hove. These would, invariably, be just as the bank was closing. It was becoming a real problem and the pressure to catch the offender was growing. David Gaylor made it our key priority to apprehend whoever was responsible and see him locked up for many years.

Intelligence seemed to suggest that the bank on Holland Road, just down from the police station, was going to be targeted late one Friday afternoon. David was beyond excitement. Not only was this his chance to arrest a very prolific villain, but also an opportunity to get one over on his smug counterparts over the border in Brighton.

Two of the most vigilant detectives, Simon Steele and Rachel Terry, were chosen to sit in the bank and wait for the inevitable; the trap was set.

Now Bill appeared to have no life outside the police. Despite being officially off duty, he would often pitch up at the police station and assist, or rather interfere, with whatever was going on. Such was the case on this day.

His presence was not something you could ignore. He was loud, gregarious, nosy, uber-confident and very, very funny. I loved the big old bear!

While holed up in the bank, Simon and Rachel were getting concerned that they both had prisoners coming back on bail later that day and needed to be ready for them. So, just after 3 p.m. they phoned the DS’s office. It was no surprise to them that the off-duty Bill answered the phone.

‘Hi, Bill,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance Rachel and I could come back to the nick? It seems all quiet here and we both need to get some stuff together for later.’

I had stepped out for a while so, not bothering to check with someone who actually knew what was going on, Bill glanced at his watch and gave them the OK. Not ten minutes later they strolled back into the office and quietly settled down to their more pressing commitments.

On the stroke of 3.25, the tannoy broke the silence throughout the police station.

‘All units make for Holland Road, fraud in progress.’

‘Yes,’ shouted David, punching the air, as he dashed from his office to the open-plan DCs’ room, knowing that his hunch had paid off. We had him. Simon and Rachel would be bursting from their cover ready to slap the handcuffs on the offender once and for all. I followed him, sharing his exuberance and delight.

It took David a second to register what he was seeing. Who were those doppelgangers sitting at Simon and Rachel’s desks?

‘What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the bank?’ he yelled.

Seeing their boss’s rage rise, they knew it was time to deflect his wrath.

‘We phoned Bill and he said we could stand down,’ Rachel wisely explained.

‘Bill’s not even here, he’s off today,’ retorted the incandescent David just as the workaholic DS sauntered into the office.

‘Control must have got it wrong. The banks shut half an hour ago,’ he pronounced.

‘Bill, what are you doing here?’ demanded David.

‘You know me, always here to help,’ quipped Bill.

‘Not this bloody time you haven’t. Did you let Simon and Rachel come back?’

‘Yes. No sense in them sitting there in a closed bank,’ he scoffed.

‘Bill, in your world what time do banks close?’ asked David, smelling blood.

‘David, all banks close at three. I know you probably have people to do your banking for you, but us mortals need to know these things!’ joked Bill, now playing to his audience.

‘Bill, I’m not in the mood for your piss-taking. This bank, as well as every other one I know, shuts at 3.30. That is why I authorized an operation to run to 3.30 as that is the time our target has been striking,’ replied a stony-faced David.

By now we could all sense that the viper was about to strike and Bill’s ignorance and self-assured assertions were bringing that moment closer and closer. We were spellbound. I was loving it — it wasn’t often Bill was in the spotlight like this.

Quietly, the northern drawl of DC Mick Burkinshaw, a rugby-playing, hard-working, brash Yorkshireman, could be heard. ‘Cut your losses, Bill. It’s 3.30. Face it, you’re in the shit.’

‘Are you sure?’ demanded Bill.

‘Sure as eggs,’ came the reply, this time from Irishman DC Dave Corcoran.

‘Shit. I don’t normally do this but is it too late for an apology, David?’ asked Bill, clinging onto the last vestiges of his dignity.

‘It’s not David, it’s sir to you,’ bellowed David. ‘Get out of this police station now. Get out of my sight and don’t come back until 8 a.m. on Monday when I want you in my office. If you stay a second longer I will say or do something we will both regret.’

Bill shuffled out of the door and sloped off down the back stairs to his car and away in search of sanctuary. David left the office and the DCs roared with laughter at the slaying they had just witnessed.

Unable to stand a weekend of angst, contrary to his orders and knowing David was working, Bill braved a visit at 9 a.m. the following morning.

He gently tapped on the DCI’s door.

‘You’re late, Bill,’ mumbled David without looking up.

‘But you told me to be here at eight on Monday, I thought I was two days early.’

‘I expected you here apologizing an hour ago. There is no redemption for what you did. I will never let you forget it. I will be angry with you forever more, while all of your colleagues will, in time-honoured fashion, rip the piss out of you at every opportunity especially when you next dare to become the big “I Am” in their presence. Now, this time I mean it — get out and don’t you dare come back until Monday.’

Happy to have survived with his most delicate parts intact, Bill slid out of the nick and did something he had never done before or since — he took the weekend off.

Of course, good as it is to laugh at each other, it’s even sweeter to revel in the crass stupidity of villains. We often rely on a degree of foolishness to assist us in solving certain crimes but some take that to extraordinarily helpful extremes.

It was a cold, windy winter night in Brighton, the glare of the street lamps creating a glow on the damp pavements of the Kemp Town area as it rose from the seafront to the sprawling Whitehawk council estate. PC Rain, as cloudbursts are often called given their effectiveness in keeping drunks off the street, had done his job.

Dave Cooper, a tough and canny probationer who had recently joined Sussex Police from the French Foreign Legion, was in a panda car with his tutor. This duo were not your ordinary pair of cops, they shared a number of things, a quick wit, deep inquisitiveness and the same surname. Dave’s tutor was a Cooper too, Geoff Cooper.

In those wretched early hours where everything is either kicking off or dead as a dodo, the Coopers were trying to make their own luck. Drunk drivers were always fairly easy pickings on cold Monday night shifts. For some reason irresponsible motorists feel less vulnerable when the streets are deserted, unaware they stand out like sore thumbs.

Suddenly as the Coopers inched eastwards along Eastern Road towards the Royal Sussex County Hospital, a car behind them flashed its headlights. Geoff pulled over and the other car followed suit.

Both cops stepped out of the patrol car and strolled to the vehicle behind, a Ford Escort. Geoff approached the driver and, true to his training, Dave engaged the passenger in conversation. Immediately both officers realized from their chirpy accents they were dealing with two Scousers — Liverpudlians.

‘All right, mate, where’s Newhaven?’ asked the driver, clearly lost.

As Geoff chatted to the driver Dave succumbed to his natural distrust of just about everyone. Firstly, he decided to carry out a Police National Computer check to find out who owned the vehicle. He edged out of earshot and radioed the control room, giving the registration that started with an E.

In no time the radio crackled back. Not good news. There was no record of the number Dave had read out. With his military training he doubted he had got it wrong so he took a closer look at the registration plate.

Despite the pervading darkness, broken only by the glow of sodium from the street lights, Dave spotted something odd on the plate. He rubbed his fingers over the E and, rather than the smooth surface he expected, the bottom bar was raised. He picked at the imperfection and soon found that black masking tape had been stuck across the letter. Peeling it away he saw that the real registration started with the letter F, the tape creating the illusion of an E.

He re-ran the check and was delighted when the call came back; the vehicle had been reported stolen. Dave was elated, but needed to hide his glee for just a moment longer.

He stepped over to Geoff who was by now boring the two Scousers describing the large collection of cars he had restored. They looked relieved that Dave was about to interrupt his colleague’s monotony until he proudly announced, ‘Right, you two, you’re nicked!’

As the cuffs were slapped on, Dave could not help but mercilessly rib the two hapless thieves. Exactly how stupid do you have to be, when driving a stolen vehicle, to stop a marked police car to ask for directions?

Back at the police station, Dave and Geoff summed it up when recounting the story for the umpteenth time — Papa Oscar Charlie; meaning (and I have provided the cleaner version) Pair of Clowns.

Christmas is a time for families, a season of goodwill to all men. It’s also a great time to catch elusive fugitives as, like homing pigeons, they can’t help but migrate back to their kith and kin.

One December DS Julian Deans was becoming exasperated hunting down a particularly slippery suspect.

Deansy, as he is affectionately called, is one of the drugs investigators in the city. He is a man’s man. His passion for golf and football slightly exceeds his ability but, nonetheless, he has a competitive spirit that permeates every fibre of his being. His tendency to say what others only think is not always popular with his bosses, but I found his frankness and his disdain for bullshit refreshing and sobering in equal measures. He has an intense sense of right and wrong and always takes the battle to the villains.

Yet again, he wearily rapped on the door of the flat where he knew his prey lived.

‘Fuck off. He’s not here,’ yelled the delightful wife, in tones reminiscent of Evie Preece when she was raided by police in Dead Man’s Grip. ‘You’re wasting your fucking time!’

‘Well you won’t mind me coming in to have a look then, will you?’ implored Deansy, sensing as he gently wormed his way in that this was going the same way as every other visit he had made.

‘Help your fucking self.’

As he walked into the hall, Deansy was met by a five-year-old girl, dressed in all her festive finery and looking like a little angel. Her sweetness and innocence seemed to be in spite of, rather than a consequence of, her upbringing. She stared up at him with her bright blue eyes, smiled and gently asked, ‘Are you looking for my daddy?’

‘Yes, I am, sweetheart,’ replied Deansy, feeling faintly optimistic.

As if giving away a game of hide and seek, she pointed and her voice dropped as she giggled, ‘Oh, he told me not to tell you but he’s hiding in that cupboard.’

The look of fatherly love was distinctly absent as the runaway was dragged unceremoniously from the under-stairs closet and off to the cells.

Gus Chiggers was a careful chap. He knew that crime was everywhere and opportunist thieves were not terribly choosy who they targeted. He also knew, despite being from South London, that Brighton had a certain reputation. If you didn’t want to become a victim there, you really couldn’t be too cautious.

One Monday lunchtime in late July 1990, PC Paul Norlund was enjoying a reasonably peaceful shift, riding shotgun in the city centre response car. The usual band of shoplifters, nuisance beggars and domestics had been dealt with and dispatched with relative ease. He and his colleague Sam, a gentle fellow whose quiet manner thugs often misread to their cost, were parked in a police bay close to the main shopping mall, Churchill Square. Both had the end of the shift in their sights and were hoping to catch some rare summer sunshine in just over an hour’s time.

Paul was one of those sickening people: tall, athletic, an all-round accomplished sportsman and far too handsome for his own good. Add to that his natural skill at picking out wrong’uns in a crowd, his innate easy style with all manner of people and the fact he was great company, humbled us lesser mortals.

‘Any unit for an armed robbery Lloyds Bank North Street?’ crackled the urgent call over the radio.

‘Bloody hell. I suppose that will be us then,’ he remarked to Sam. ‘Yep, Charlie one zero one, we are just by the Clock Tower now. ETA about a minute. Have you got any more details?’

‘Not much but it seems that the offender has been detained by staff,’ came the controller’s reply.

Sam put his foot to the floor and they raced towards the iconic Victorian memorial that marks one of the busiest road junction in Brighton. As they crossed it, lights flashing and sirens wailing, the more astute pedestrians and motorists cleared a path for them. All except a startled French student, equipped with language school rucksack, frozen astride her pushbike in their path. As Sam swerved to her left, saving her from certain death, Paul bellowed something less polite than ‘Please give way to emergency vehicles with their sirens on.’

They hardly got out of second gear as they raced the short distance down the hill to the bank in question.

Partly frustrated that their afternoon plans had been scuppered they were nevertheless fired up with the adrenaline now surging through them in expectation of the drama that lay ahead. Leaping out of the car milliseconds after it came to a halt, they sprinted for the half a dozen steps that led to the banking hall.

As they did so Paul privately cursed the selfish cyclist whose bike was locked to the lamppost as he clipped his leg on its back wheel on his way past.

Bursting into the public area, the scene that greeted them was surreal. It was packed, not wholly surprising given it was a summer lunchtime, but business seemed to be carrying on as normal. Was this a hoax call? They had said Lloyds Bank, hadn’t they? Their finely tuned ears had never before misheard a location, even in the heat of the moment.

Having quickly closed the bank’s doors to prevent any witnesses or suspects slipping away, Paul became aware of a bundle of bodies on the floor close to the quick tills — the unscreened counters where people could make transactions up to £200.

As he made his way over, he heard a plaintive cry of ‘Help’ coming from somewhere near the bottom of the pile. ‘Help me. Get them off.’

‘Let me through,’ Paul ordered in his lilting Geordie tone.

As the heap of people started to untangle, he realized that at the bottom was a very frightened-looking young man.

‘OK, what’s going on?’ Paul enquired as Sam, guarding the doors, watched on.

‘This bloke just tried to rob us,’ a suited gentleman wearing a Lloyds Bank name badge replied.

‘What, him?’ Paul queried incredulously.

‘Yes, he tried to rob one of the quick tills. We jumped on him as he walked away. He had this.’ The gentleman suddenly brandished what was clearly a toy gun, the red stopper in the muzzle giving it away. Paul grabbed it.

‘Bloody hell,’ Paul muttered as he pulled the crushed robber to his feet.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, sensing he was not dealing with a top-level gangster.

‘Gus Chiggers,’ came the frightened reply.

‘Well, Gus Chiggers, I’m arresting you on suspicion of armed robbery.’ Following the caution, the hapless gunman was handcuffed.

By now back-up had arrived and Paul’s colleagues had started to identify witnesses, close off the till area and secure CCTV. Paul took the opportunity to search Gus and the holdall lying at his feet.

The bag was heavy and from the feel of it contained an object that seemed to have a long barrel-like structure.

Cautiously, Paul unclipped the flap and peered in. Firstly he saw a Tesco carrier bag that seemed to contain a few handfuls of 1p and 2p pieces.

‘Whose is this?’ asked Paul.

‘It’s what they gave me,’ said Gus.

‘Who?’

‘The bank.’

‘Is that it?’ queried Paul.

‘Yes, they said they didn’t have any more money as they had a rush on.’

Paul held Gus’s gaze in disbelief then gently removed the structure he had felt from the outside, still not guessing its identity.

‘That’s my bike seat,’ volunteered Gus just as Paul was inspecting it.

‘Your bike seat?’ asked Paul, now aware that he could be the target of an elaborate Candid Camera stunt. ‘Why is your bike seat in your bag?’ he continued, fearing a bizarre answer.

‘It’s off my getaway bike,’ Gus explained.

‘Your getaway bike? You’ve got a getaway bike? Why isn’t the saddle on this getaway bike, then?’

‘It might get stolen.’

‘What, the saddle?’

‘No, the bike. There’s a lot of crime in Brighton and it’s a nice bike. I’ve padlocked it outside and taken the saddle off so no-one nicks it.’

‘Won’t that slow your getaway down?’ Paul could hardly believe he was having this conversation.

‘Not as much as if it was nicked,’ came the obvious response.

‘Right, out to the car, you,’ demanded Paul, tightening his grip on Gus’s arm.

As they emerged into the blinding sunlight, watched by dozens of onlookers, Gus pulled back slightly.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Paul, fearing an escape.

‘That’s my bike,’ announced Gus proudly, indicating the very machine that Paul had nearly tumbled over on his way into the bank. ‘Can you look after it? I don’t want it stolen.’

‘For God’s sake. Yes, yes, get in the car,’ muttered Paul, realizing how bad he must have been in a previous life to deserve this.

Back at the police station, DC Peter Smith and I were the only detectives available as there had been a major incident in East Sussex and everyone else had been seconded over there just hours before. We were gutted that we had been told to stay back and hold the fort.

Word had reached us about an armed robbery at a major bank in the city centre. We were salivating with excitement, hoping this would help us get over our disappointment at being left behind. With an arrest already made, this was not only looking interesting but also, with luck, a nice little overtime earner.

Paul, who would later become a fine detective in his own right, was usually able to talk up any job to get the CID to take it over but, for once, the look on his face took the wind out of our sails.

The fact he was starting with an apology didn’t bode well and as he recounted the whole story a feeling of ‘why us’ engulfed me. I was still in my first year in CID but even I knew this was never going to be an investigation to tell my grandchildren about.

Reluctantly Smith and I took the job on and sloped off to the bank to take some statements and seize what evidence there was.

Despite the seriousness of the offence, Gus’s modus operandi just got more comical the more people we spoke to.

Gus had entered the bank about ten minutes before he struck. It was, as we had already established, incredibly busy. The queue for the quick tills was almost out of the door. Not wishing to upset anyone, Gus did the British thing — he stood at the back of the queue and patiently waited his turn.

As he shuffled his way towards the counters he drew no-one’s attention. After all, he was behaving like everyone else, quietly queuing in line.

As he reached the front the tannoy announced that cashier number five was now free. So, with his hand in his bag he stepped up to the counter. With no hint of drama, he slipped his red-stoppered pistol from the satchel and pointed it at the young man waiting to serve him.

Terrified, wondering what was going to happen next, the cashier discreetly pressed his alarm button under the desk and waited for the demand to be bellowed at him.

Silence. Gus just stood there.

The young man sensed this was not the normal type of stick-up he had been trained for.

‘Are you robbing me? Would you like some money?’

Gus nodded.

Recognizing the dissipating threat, the cashier took a chance.

‘I haven’t got very much left. I’ll give you what little I have. Have you got anything to put it in?’ he asked, spotting some senior colleagues closing in. A scrunched-up Tesco bag was placed on the counter into which he put some small change. Gus stepped away, still not having said a word, whereupon he was pounced on by the waiting crowd.

Back at the nick, we were so looking forward to the interview. Surely Gus had a reason for being such a cautious, considerate, polite robber. Perhaps this was some kind of social experiment, albeit one which would certainly see him jailed.

Peter, being the more senior detective, took the lead. With a wicked personality, he was a vivacious joker. Having a sense of humour drier than the Gobi Desert and being infinitely better than me at keeping a straight face were two other reasons why he was best placed to ask the big questions.

We implored Gus to get a solicitor but he thought we were a nice couple of blokes and would help him if he got stuck — we were and we would, of course.

Any chance he had of finding a psychiatric excuse for his peculiar behaviour was dashed by his incredibly lucid, detailed and consistent explanation. He said he needed some money, treasured his bike, didn’t want to upset anyone in his native London so came here and then wanted to make as little fuss as possible. On hearing this, despite his eccentricity, no doctor would have certified him as mentally ill.

We had no choice but to charge him with robbery and a number of other linked offences and let him take his chances in court.

True to form, in front of His Honour Judge John Gower, a fearsome but fair man I had crossed previously, Gus pleaded guilty at the first opportunity. Peter and I did not feel the need to attend court as there seemed nothing contentious about the case, but word soon reached us that our presence would be required at the sentencing hearing a few weeks later.

‘I want the officers to bring the gun along so I can determine a proportionate sentence,’ the judge commanded.

Well, this should go in Gus’s favour, I thought as I entered Lewes Crown Court on the day the prisoner would learn his fate. He was a poor excuse for a robber, he had admitted the offence at the very first opportunity, he had stolen just pennies and no-one really believed he would harm them. Although armed robbery was very serious and attracted long prison sentences, Gus must pose a comparatively low risk.

As the judge entered, I duly handed the toy gun up to His Honour. He examined it carefully from all angles, paying particular attention to the red stopper. I wished the ground would eat me up. Surely I was in for another roasting, this time for bringing charges against this inept villain.

‘Stand up, Mr Chiggers,’ ordered the judge.

Gus stood.

The judge then went through the horrors that befall people faced with armed gunmen and how some never recover. He took into account the early guilty plea, the crackpot getaway strategy, the paltry amount gained and the robber’s demeanour throughout. He then turned to the gun.

‘I can clearly see that, by this red stopper, this gun is nothing but a toy; incapable of harming anyone.’

Here it comes, I thought. I put on my best sheepish look.

‘However neither I nor you know how other people would react when such a weapon is pointed at them. You are lucky that the person you chose to rob did not fall for it. Others might have. Therefore I judge this to be a most serious offence carried out in a crowded place in the middle of the day. Despite all the mitigation, I have no option but to sentence you to four years’ imprisonment. Jailer, take him down.’

I saw the confused look in Gus’s eyes and the whispered apology as he went down the steps. I spared him some sympathy, conscious that only then had he grasped the stupidity of his actions.

Farcical as Chiggers’ escapade was, Judge Gower was right of course. Not even a highly trained firearms officer will claim to be able to determine a fake gun from a real one at a glance. Sometimes they have to make a split-second decision whether or not to shoot someone brandishing a weapon.

At the New Scotland Yard Crime Museum, the curator, an ex-detective himself, put Peter James through a test. Standing just ten feet away he pulled a gun from inside a box on Peter, calling ‘Real or fake?’ There was a one-second pause. ‘You’re dead.’ No time to decide. No way of telling. That was play-acting, but cops have to decide in real life. And they take no chances.