Acting Up

Chapter One West Berkshire 1970s Police Constable Don Barton had just finished eating a rather large and very tasty bacon sandwich when he received the radio message that was destined to change his life. His wife, Rosemary, had put on a couple of pounds since the birth of baby David, and she was determined to shed this extra weight before it became permanent. As a dutiful husband and father, Don was expected to do his share of suffering in support of his wife, and had been advised, in no uncertain terms, that he was obliged to stick with her through the agony of dieting. This meant eating only “healthy” food. Breakfast, which he’d taken at home that morning during his official meal break, had consisted of some sort of oaty concoction mixed with raisins. Desperate for something more substantial, Don had decided to abandon the pile of paperwork sitting on the desk of his one-man rural police office and, having “booked on” the radio with Headquarters Control Room, he had driven his Ford Escort police van to a transport café on the A34, just off his patch. It was here that he purchased his guilty snack. Being a conscientious officer, he had declined the complimentary cup of tea that had been offered by the lady serving behind the counter, much to her surprise. Coppers always wanted tea didn’t they? Especially if it was free. However, as much as Don may have fancied a cup, drinking tea would have meant being away from his radio — so he had chosen instead to consume his sandwich in his van. He had parked in the large open lorry park that surrounded the café and was casually observing the huge lorries, known colloquially as “trunkers”, as they rolled in and out of the café from the main road. Suddenly, silence was broken as the van’s VHF radio came to life and demanded his attention. “HT for Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, receiving? Over.” “Five Zero receiving, A34, uncommitted, over.” Don replied, letting the Control Room know that he was available to be deployed. “Five Zero, from Foxtrot Yankee, ten-three Chief Superintendent Boxwell at your earliest convenience, over.” Don was confused. Ten-three in the “ten-code” used by the force meant that he was required to attend the superintendent’s office at Newbury in person. Ten-two would have only required a telephone call. “Confirm ten-three, Control, Five Zero over.” Don requested. “Affirmative, Five Zero, please make your way to Foxtrot Yankee, important but not urgent, over.” “All copied, ETA two five minutes, over.” “Thank you, Five Zero. HT to stand by.” Don got out of his van and managed to brush most of the breadcrumbs off his tunic with his hands. He regretted now that he’d not taken the time to press his trousers the evening before. Unfortunately, little David was cutting his first tooth and had been letting the world know all about it. Don, whose turn it was to comfort the child, had eventually managed to get the little chap to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Exhausted, he had finally fallen into bed beside the peacefully sleeping Rosemary at three o’clock. Trouser pressing was the last thing on his mind as he struggled to get back to sleep. Now, driving towards Newbury, he wisely decided not to light a cigarette, much as he needed one. Crumbs were one thing, fag-ash quite another. As he negotiated the surprisingly light traffic conditions on the main road he contemplated the reason for his summons to the “guvnors’” office. The tone of the message “earliest convenience” didn’t make it sound like a bollocking — but one could never really be sure. Perhaps the transfer he’d been requesting for the past year had finally come through. But, if that was it, why did he have to see the big boss? Any supervisor could have told him about that — if that was all it were. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the car park at the rear of the Divisional Headquarters. For once there was plenty of room to park, and Don let himself into the building via the back door. Normally he would have had to use an entry code to go in through this door, however, a delivery of beer to the station’s social club was in progress and the door had been propped open. Barrels were being expertly rolled in by the draymen; ready to be loaded onto the “dumb waiter” that serviced the licensed bar in the clubroom on the top floor. The ground floor corridor was almost deserted, and the few people who were around were busy with their own affairs. They ignored Don as he made his way along to the main reception hall then up the wide staircase that led to the commander’s suite of offices on the first floor. The chief superintendent’s secretary, Phyllis, looked up from her desk and smiled as Don came into the anteroom outside the main office. She pressed a button on the intercom in front of her. “PC Barton has arrived, sir,” she said. “Shall I send him in?” “Yes, please, Phil,” came the reply, “And perhaps you could round up a couple of cups of tea? I think you’ll find Barton takes one sugar.” Bloody Hell! thought Don, what on Earth is going on? “Come in, PC Barton, take a seat,” shouted Chief Superintendent Mike Boxwell in response to Don’s knock on the door. “I won’t be a minute. These damn letters have to be done today, and I’d like to get them out of the way before we have our chat.” “Yes, of course, sir,” said Don as he sat down in the chair in front of the boss’s desk while Boxwell carried on reading and signing forms. A minute or so later Phyllis came in with a tray of tea that she put down on a small table conveniently located close to Don’s chair. She took a cup of tea over to Boxwell who, in turn, handed her a sheaf of papers. “Post these off today if you could, please, Phil,” he said. “They’re quite urgent.” Phyllis left the room and Boxwell turned to Don, “Drink your tea, Don,” he said. “It’ll help wash down the bacon buttie.” Don took a large swig from his cup and looked at Boxwell in admiration. “Everyone knows you’ve been an ace detective in your time, guv’nor, but I admit I’m impressed — you even know how much sugar I take in my tea!” Boxwell smiled at the compliment. “No mystery, Don,” he said. “The smell of bacon and the breadcrumbs are a bit of a giveaway — and it was a little bird that told me about the sugar. Was it Jack’s Café the sandwich came from?” “Yes, sir, my wife’s put me on a muesli diet, and I was starving.” “Well, you can’t beat a transport café breakfast. However, I want you to spread the word on the section that Jack’s is out of bounds for the time being. Quietly, mind, nothing on the air, nothing on paper. There’s an operational reason, that’s all I’m going to tell you.” “Yes, of course, sir, leave it with me. What about Traffic?” “They’ve been told as well, so don’t worry about them. But I mean what I say. Anyone caught using that caff until I give the all-clear will find himself on the nine o’clock bus to the nearest Job Centre before he knows what hit him.” Don’s mind was racing. The chief super was being serious, it was obviously an important instruction, but an embargo on the café couldn’t possibly be the reason he had been called in. A telephone call to the section sergeant could have sorted the cafe out. So, why was Don here? “I take it you haven’t seen this?” Boxwell said, as if reading Don’s mind. He held up a two-foot-long teleprinter message that he handed across the desk. It was a circulation to all stations from Headquarters and headed: The following officers have been successful in the qualifying examination for promotion to the rank of sergeant. The message was in three parts. The first was a very short list of those candidates, under thirty years of age, who had passed the exam first go and whose marks placed them in the top two hundred positions nationally. This small group were the elite who were now qualified to apply for a place on the Special Course at Bramshill, the home of the Police College. Attendance was usually followed by rapid promotion through the ranks. Don didn’t recognise any of the names on that list. The second part was a much longer list of officers who had passed the exam but were not in the top group. Several of the names of that list were familiar. The final group were those officers who had previously failed one of the three papers but whose aggregate score was sufficiently high to allow them a second attempt at the one paper they had failed. There, circled in biro, was Constable Donald Barton, F Division, Brompton Don had passed his sergeants exam. He couldn’t believe it. Boxwell was beaming. “Well done, Don,” he said, standing up to shake Don’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” Don was in shock. “It’ll take you a while to realise it, young man, but that piece of paper will totally change your life. Take my word for it, nothing will ever be the same again.” “No, sir.” “Right. Well there’ll be some boards coming up in a few weeks. I hope you’ve been doing your homework?” To gain promotion, passing the exam was only half the battle. A candidate still had to undergo the traumatic experience of convincing a trio of senior officers at Headquarters that he or she was ready to take on the responsibility of the higher rank. Promotion boards were notoriously difficult to pass, and many said that the exam, hard as it was, was actually the easy part. “I’ve started having Police Review delivered, and I’ve been studying some of the recent developments in government. But I’m not overly confident of my knowledge, to be honest with you, sir.” “PC to sergeant is the biggest jump of them all, and there’s a lot to be done to convince a board that you’re ready for it, that’s for sure. So, to help you, I’m organising a spot of Acting Sergeant for you for here at DHQ — if you want it.” The chance to prove oneself as an acting sergeant was almost a pre-requisite to being taken seriously by a promotion board. Don knew he would be a fool to turn it down. “That would be great, sir. Thank you.” “Good man. There’s a month’s acting starting next week. You’ll be working B Shift with Inspector Collier. Do you know her?” Don couldn’t have been more pleased. Sally Collier was known and respected throughout the force area. Long before the s*x Discrimination Act, as a young WPC, Sally had broken out of the glass cage of the Women Police Department and had gained a fearsome reputation as a detective on CID. She had then progressed slowly through the ranks and, at the age of thirty-nine, had recently been promoted to uniform inspector at Newbury. “I actually know her husband, Graham, better than I do Mrs Collier herself — but I’m delighted to be working with her.” Don replied. “And so you should be. Sally’s one of the best coppers I ever worked with. You’ll learn a lot from her.” “Yes, sir. I know I will.” “B Shift are on rest day today; they’ll be starting Early Turn on Saturday. You’ll be joining them on Monday. Reckon you can get up on time?” Don hadn’t worked the three-shift system (known as “strict shifts”) for some years. The early shift, which began at 6 am, would mean his leaving home around 5.15 in the morning to get in on time for briefing. “We’ve got a baby who’ll see to that, Guv’nor!” he replied cheerfully. “The little sod wakes us up at four, every day without fail. That reminds me, can I hang onto my van? I’ll need it to get in to Newbury rather than use my own motor. I really don’t want to have to leave the missus out in Brompton with no car.” “You can organise that with Sergeant Whitbread. He’s expecting you in Admin after you leave me. He’ll get all the other paperwork, expenses, et cetera, sorted out for you at the same time. Any further questions?” “No, sir. I’ll pop along and see him straight away.” Don stood up to leave. “One more thing, Barton.” “Yes, sir?” “Tell Sgt Whitbread to give you an extra couple of uniform cleaning tokens. We don’t want you turning up on your first day as a sergeant looking like a sack of s**t tied up in the middle with a piece of string, now do we?” “Er, no, sir, sorry, sir.” Thank God he was smiling, thought Don, as he beat a hasty retreat. With all the admin sorted out, Don couldn’t wait to get home and give Rosemary the news. If he could secure promotion they would be guaranteed to be moved to a new area — and they would finally have the opportunity to get out of tied police accommodation and purchase a house of their own. Don knew Rosemary wanted this more than anything. However, when he got home, he was afraid the glad tidings had somehow preceded him. The first thing Rosemary said as he came indoors was, “Did Mr Boxwell get hold of you? He phoned here this morning, and I told him you were out on patrol.” “Did he tell you what it was about?” said Don, thinking the boss may have stolen his thunder. “No. It was odd really. He just asked if you took sugar in your tea.”