Today is #999Day
So where else would I be
But on the county’s meanest streets,
Policing them for free.
So where else would I be
But on the county’s meanest streets,
Policing them for free.
You’ve had Louis Macneice, Shakespeare, Tennyson and now some doggerel I made up on the way in. Spoiled you are. Spoiled.
As is par for the course these days, the whole team was tipped out of briefing for a stabbing.
Three in custody, victim in hospital (only lightly perforated, luckily).
True heroes: the two officers who weren’t dealing with it, and went to every other job that came in.
Three in custody, victim in hospital (only lightly perforated, luckily).
True heroes: the two officers who weren’t dealing with it, and went to every other job that came in.
Now off for some searches.
I’m quite keen to leave the nick, tbh. I appear to have reset the language on the only working photocopier to French.
Merde alors.
I’m quite keen to leave the nick, tbh. I appear to have reset the language on the only working photocopier to French.
Merde alors.
The volume of emergency calls means no one’s been able to get to any of the less urgent (and, lets be honest, less appealing) jobs, which are stacked sky high in the control room.
Night turn are *delighted*. I can see it in their little faces.
Night turn are *delighted*. I can see it in their little faces.
‘That’s Entertainment’ on the radio as we wend our way through the darkened suburbs.
Superb.
Superb.
One of the searches was wrenchingly sad.
The suspect's bedroom was full of the usual stuff: drug paraphernalia, dark hoodies to wear for dark deeds, broken mobile phones.
Then, as I looked under his bed I saw something that was not usual.
The suspect's bedroom was full of the usual stuff: drug paraphernalia, dark hoodies to wear for dark deeds, broken mobile phones.
Then, as I looked under his bed I saw something that was not usual.
It was a small cardboard guitar. Lovingly made, with real care and attention to detail. It was a truly excellent thing.
Written on the fretboard in large, childish letters was 'MADE BY [SUSPECT] YEAR 4'.
Ten years ago. He'd kept it.
Written on the fretboard in large, childish letters was 'MADE BY [SUSPECT] YEAR 4'.
Ten years ago. He'd kept it.
I know he still looks at it, because it was lying next to the release paperwork from the prison sentence he finished last month.
I pictured him coming home and sitting on his bed, holding that little guitar. I wonder what went through his mind.
I pictured him coming home and sitting on his bed, holding that little guitar. I wonder what went through his mind.
We found nothing, and apologised to his mother for the disturbance.
She broke down: 'No! It's not you. I'm the one who should say sorry. I just don't know where it went wrong. I tried so hard.'
She's a nice lady. She works. Her home is lovely. And yet there we were.
She broke down: 'No! It's not you. I'm the one who should say sorry. I just don't know where it went wrong. I tried so hard.'
She's a nice lady. She works. Her home is lovely. And yet there we were.
We had no answers for her, so we left.
I looked back as we walked away.
She was sitting on the stairs sobbing, among the broken remnants of a time when her boy brought home school projects and life was full of hope.
I looked back as we walked away.
She was sitting on the stairs sobbing, among the broken remnants of a time when her boy brought home school projects and life was full of hope.
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