Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘No, sir.’

‘But none of our people were injured, you say. Were they fired upon?’

Another hesitation.

‘That’s not entirely clear at this stage, sir.’

‘But these dead people were armed? Tell me that at least.’

‘That’s not entirely clear either. Sir.’

It does me no credit to say that I immediately went into containment mode. I was sorry these people were dead but I wanted to protect my force, minimize the fallout. And, if I’m honest, I wanted to protect myself.

‘Get hold of Jack.’

Jack Lawrence was my chief press officer. He was experienced at dealing with high-profile cases after a long stint with the Met.

‘Jack’s on the scene already.’

‘With journalists?’

‘I believe so.’

‘They were bloody quick.’

‘With respect, sir, you have been encouraging a more open relationship with the press. Jack thought the raid would be a good story for journalists to be in on.’

‘OK. They were in the house?’

‘Not in the house, no, sir.’

I found myself staring at a small porcelain figure of a Chinese man on a plinth directly in front of me. His head was slowly nodding.

‘Get Jack to call a press conference for noon tomorrow. I want a full report on my desk by nine in the morning.’

‘Sir, you might want to wait a little-’

‘I don’t want anyone to accuse us of closing ranks-’ I caught Macklin’s tone. ‘Why might I want to wait a little?’

Macklin cleared his throat again. He was driving me nuts.

‘Yes?’ I said sharply. ‘Tell me there isn’t a way this could get any worse.’

I waited out the silence.

Finally:

‘It seems we might have raided the wrong house.’

When I had taken over the Southern Police Force three months earlier I had walked into an organization in need of a major shake-up. Macklin, who had gone for my job after years as Assistant Chief Constable, was on my list of people to sack. And overhauling the ramshackle way the force’s tactical firearms unit operated was one of my priorities.

However, although I hit the ground running, I’d been sidetracked by the fallout from a mishandled child murder and a load of other stuff that needed sorting. I’d also been hindered by Macklin and others on my Force Command team, as well as lower down the hierarchy.

I guess I’d hoped that we could muddle on as we had been doing until I could really get to grips with the situation. After all, Gatwick Airport Division was part of my command so I had the elite Gatwick tactical firearms unit to fall back on. Plus firearm incidents in our area were relatively rare, even with the increased threat of terrorist outrages.

Clearly I’d been unduly optimistic.

‘When did this happen?’ I said to Macklin.

‘Thirty minutes ago.’

‘I’m on my way. Give me the address.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. There’s a situation developing.’

‘What kind of situation?’

‘The pubs are emptying, there are a lot of people on the streets. Some stones have been thrown.’

I laughed harshly.

‘Oh, great. So now we have a riot.’

‘It’s not got to that stage yet. But you know Milldean at the best of times. And with the drink…’

‘Get police in riot gear down there. I want this containing before it does get out of hand.’

I was obliged to go now, although I didn’t relish being doorstepped by journalists asking questions about an operation I had no fucking clue about.

Macklin seemed to read my thoughts.

‘There was no need to bother you with it, sir. I have the authority and from the briefing notes I received it all seemed pretty clear cut.’

‘I’m sure it did, Philip. I’m sure it did.’

My driver already had the address. En route I tried to get hold of William Simpson, the government adviser who had been my friend since childhood. He had been a spin doctor until the government had banned the term (though not the spinning). I left messages for him at home, at work and on his mobile.

The Home Secretary and PM would need to be informed. I had the ear of the current government over my sincere belief that British policemen should be armed. Indeed, the government secretly favoured this policy, keen as it was to be seen as tough on crime – the tough-on-the-causes-of-crime part of the rubric of the previous government was long forgotten.

I had consistently argued for the increased safety of the community if the police were routinely armed, even after the debacle on the London tube. I had become the government’s poster boy on the issue. I knew the fact I was a liberal on all other police matters made my view on this issue all the more powerful.

It was a sultry evening so, although the car was air-conditioned, I lowered my window as we drove up the London Road and out towards Milldean.

My phone rang as we passed under the high railway viaduct, which I always regarded as the boundary between the city proper and its outskirts. I recognized the number. Rupert Colley, Leader of the Council, a man who prided himself on his grass-roots politics. However near his ear was to the ground, I didn’t believe he could have heard so quickly, although he would have seen me leave the dinner. Not that it would have made any difference. I would still have ignored the call.

Traffic was light so we sped past Preston Park then swung right on to the estate. We followed the labyrinth of pitted streets until I saw a large crowd of people. Milldean was a typical fifties council estate: low-rise but with many of the problems a decade later associated with high-rise.

Wide avenues, cheap houses but a lot of them. In one part of the estate there were a couple of hundred prefabs still in use. When they’d been put up at the end of the Second World War they were only meant to be a short-term solution to the housing shortage.

The mood was unpredictable. We edged by the crowd and pulled up in front of a set of steel barricades.

The divisional commander for the area came over to the car as half a dozen uniformed officers cleared a way for us. He slid into the car beside me.

‘We’ve got to disperse these people,’ I said as we passed through the barricade. I could see more people milling at the far end of the street.

‘I’ve got two dozen officers in riot gear on their way,’ he said. His name was Lewis. He was a by-the-book officer, competent enough but lacking in originality. And he was rattled. He spoke in staccato sentences. ‘There are a few troublemakers among this crowd. People heard the shots, of course. Mostly when that happens round here people know to stay indoors. There are wild rumours. The police have shot a pregnant woman. A ten-year-old girl.’

‘And did we?’ I hissed.

‘No ten-year-old girl,’ he said quietly. I looked at his pinched face. He looked back at me with sad eyes.

‘We don’t know at this stage if the woman is pregnant.’

I clenched my fists and tried to control my breathing. I have a tendency to rage. It’s not something I’m proud of, although it has served me well when I’ve been in physical jeopardy, as I often was during my army service.

Jack approached the car, neat as ever in a lightweight blue suit. He held the door as I got out.

‘Sorry about the hacks,’ he said, nodding towards a middle-aged man and an attractive young woman standing in the street some twenty yards away. The man was looking nervously at the crowds gathered behind the barricades then scribbling in a notebook. The woman – bespectacled, hair twisted into a knot, vaguely familiar – was talking intently into a microphone.

‘Not your fault. Bad timing. Who are they?’

‘Just locals so we shouldn’t have a problem. The guy from the Argus – Vince Proctor – is solid.’