it worse, but I wanted to pass so much. I needed to, not just for the station but for me, so that I could go into surveillance because you had to have the driving skills for that kind of work.
I could see the instructor laughing in the front passenger seat. Bastard!
Rhys got out of the car. ‘He was out of order. I’ll back you if you want to make a complaint,’ he said.
I was heartened. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m not getting back in that driver’s seat. Not with him.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll drive.’
We stood a few minutes longer. Rhys climbed into the front seat and I took his place in the back. Frank said nothing and neither did we.
Once back on the motorway, Parrot looked at me through his rear-view mirror. ‘Over your little tiff now?’ he said.
I ignored him and looked out of the side window. I was still flushed, still furious, and determined never to drive with him again.
When we got back to the training school I gathered my things. I had to carefully consider my next move. I was young in service. I couldn’t and didn’t want to refuse to go back. My shift needed me to pass this course because we were short on drivers. And I wasn’t a quitter.
I went back the following morning and asked to see Sergeant Thomas, the officer in charge. He was also an instructor and his team were getting ready to go out.
I told him what had happened the previous day and on other days during the previous five weeks. He listened, nodded, made sympathetic noises. I had the impression I wasn’t the first person to complain about Mr Parrot.
Sergeant Thomas told me my instructor hadn’t given me good weekly reports. He said he was surprised because he’d seen me driving on various days and thought I was doing okay. He was a man down in his car because one of his students had gone off sick with chicken pox so he said I could go with him.
I had the best drive ever. Sergeant Thomas said he was impressed and there was no reason why I should fail. Yes, I was a careful driver, but I didn’t hesitate or hold back.
The next morning Sergeant Thomas took me to one side before setting off for the drive.
‘Rhys came to see me last night. He’s backed up what you said. You’re in my car for the rest of the course and I’ll be taking you for your test. You can make a formal complaint if you want to, Ash.’
I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t because it would be difficult. I’d be branded a troublemaker, labelled as a grass, someone who couldn’t take a joke. I’d been allowed to change instructors and was beginning to believe I could pass the course. If I complained it would mean internal discipline for Parrot. He would deny it and then what? Perhaps naively, I hoped this would be enough for him to not do it again. I didn’t want to drag Rhys into it either. I had no idea what Laurie would say but I had a feeling he wouldn’t want to get involved.
‘I spoke to Frank Parrot,’ Sergeant Thomas said.
My body slumped.
‘He said he was putting you under stress, making you drive under pressure, because on the streets you have to be able to keep calm while driving fast police cars with the blues and twos on. You might have to deal with an urgent assistance, or a robbery in progress, or something high tension and he said he wasn’t sure you could handle it.’
‘Really? You really think that’s what he was doing?’ I said. ‘He knows nothing about me or how I do my job. He’s plain nasty. He was doing it because he could, because he thought he could get away with it. Is that how you teach your pupils, sarge?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Err … no.’
Nothing more needed to be said. We both knew the truth of it.
I didn’t make a formal complaint. Today, I probably would, but I’m older, wiser and less intimidated. Back then, I was just grateful to pass the course. And I did. One up to me and one down to Parrot. I guess I was triumphant because it wasn’t just about passing the course: it was a turning point. Sometimes you have to fight to realise that nobody has the right to make you feel like that but they will if you let them. It was good for my confidence to win that round and move on.
I wasn’t the first and I wasn’t the worst affected. Lots of women, and some men, had it harder, harsher and it wasn’t fair. Thankfully the police service has come many miles since those days.
After a couple of years working in the heart of London, I was beginning to think it was time to move on. I loved it very much but six years into my career, with experience of two very busy districts, it was time for the next challenge. It was almost Christmas and each day was hectic with shoppers, partygoers and tourists, with an added dash of criminals looking for rich pickings. It was a great place to work with a vibrant atmosphere, sparkling Christmas lights and the ambience of good will to all men. It would be a shame to leave my uniformed colleagues but uniform street patrol wasn’t something I wanted to do forever. I didn’t have time to think too deeply but having made the decision, I decided to see what the New Year would bring in 1992. January was always a good time for change.
With three and half days left of the year, the prisoner count stood at 9,800. The superintendent returned to work after his jolly Christmas break in festive spirits and good humour. He laid down a challenge. The person who brought in the ten thousandth prisoner of the year would receive a decent bottle of Scotch. He was confident that 200 prisoners wouldn’t pass through the doors between then and the chimes of Big Ben bringing in New Year.
Everyone wanted that bottle. How far it would go on a shift of perhaps twenty or thirty officers, or an office full of CID detectives, was a moot point, but it was a sharp tactic to get everyone working over the usual lull between the festive bank holidays.
CID scoured the crime books for outstanding arrests and warrants. Street Crime Units were extra vigilant in arresting street entertainers, those selling knock off perfume and other goods on the crowded pavements, plus the prostitutes and rent boys. The crime squads worked hard at the pickpockets and van-draggers (people who steal from the back of delivery vans) and drug dealers. Each uniform shift cleaned up Soho, arresting vagrants and druggies, and fought over calls for shoplifters, breach of the peace and other miscellaneous fights and disturbances. A three-day initiative on drink driving was implemented around Mayfair and St James. More cars than usual were pulled up for minor offences because you never knew when a regular stop would lead to something more. Between now and the end of the year everyone was working hard. Instead of warnings and cautions and let-offs, we operated a zero-tolerance approach.
You could say the period between Christmas and New Year that year was one of the most productive ever recorded in the West End. The prisoner count crept up. By the time my shift came on night duty on 29 December it was 9,852.
There was no way we’d be able to arrest more than a dozen miscreants between us because there were only six of us on the streets that night. With the usual calls to deal with, unless there was a big incident, even a dozen would be pushing it.
When we came back on duty the following night, the station had been busy and the count stood at 9,966. We knew the early-turn relief would nab that bottle if we didn’t, so in our parade briefing we devised a plan of action. We needed thirty-four prisoners booked into custody. We had ten officers on duty. The area car was double crewed and could deal with the 999 calls and anything else they could fit in. The two vans could lose their escort, which gave us six-foot soldiers. We prayed nothing major was going to happen. If it did, we’d be done for, and and those bandits on the other shifts would get the booty.
Come mid-shift the world would have settled down and that’s when our plan would kick in.
By 2 a.m. we were up to 9,972. Everyone agreed to forfeit their refreshment