Tears and Laughter

We were both on a high having had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and it wasn't until we got closer to the nick that I began to have some concerns about what reception awaited us there. We had gone against force policy by becoming involved in a pursuit in an unmarked car. We had disobeyed a lawful order to abort the chase. We had driven off road in contravention of everything we had been taught during our driving courses. We had completely blown the cover of the covert vehicle fleet. We had deliberately rammed a vehicle, written off a police car and been indirectly responsible for damage to two more. I had attempted to choke one of the suspects, who was already talking of making an official complaint and we weren't entirely sure what offence, if any, they had committed. Hmmmmmm. Where did I put that bit of paper with the address of the Foreign Legion Recruiting Office.

Conceived during the late 1800's when Britain was at the height of its colonial power, Warrington Police Station sits majestically on the edge of the town centre, next to Bank Quay Railway Station. As the world's first global super power the country had an image to live up to and even a provincial police headquarters had its role to play. No expense was spared during the design and construction of the building and although by the late 1980's this grand old lady was starting to show her age, she could still turn heads. A cross between the Palais de Versailles and Castle Greyskull Warrington nick is, to this day, a place that any well bred gargoyle would be proud to call home. She was not, however, looking her best that rainy Autumn evening as Owen and I made our way across the yard, in through the back door and across the vast expanse of the parade room. Warrington's parade room was a cavernous hall that was big enough for the force football team to train in during inclement weather. In fact, it was probably big enough for the Red Arrows to train in.

Owen and I had been summoned by DS Lloyd for a meeting in the CID office and I was not anticipating a pat on the back and a commendation. We made our way up the stairs trying to remain as upbeat as was possible under the circumstances.

“Well, whatever happens they can't reduce us in rank” said Owen reassuringly.
“No, just sack us” I replied.
“She's waiting for you in the DI's office” said DC Smith. “I suggest you put this down the back of your pants” he added, handing me a copy of the Warrington and District telephone directory.

As we approached I could see DS Lloyd silhouetted against the tall arched window, back towards us and arms folded. We stopped in the doorway and I coughed apologetically to announce our presence. After what seemed like an eternity she turned around to face us and, without a word, beckoned us closer. I smiled like some kind of subservient puppy as we walked towards her. If I had had a tail I would have wagged it - even fetched a stick or two if necessary. As we got closer I could plainly see by her facial expression that she was not actually angry. She was not annoyed, nor mildly upset. She was incandescent with rage. She was beside herself with fury. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bulging and both her fists were clenched. Like Mount Versuvius, she was clearly about to blow and there was no way that we were going to be able to outrun the lava flow. She took a deep breath and then, in a voice that could probably be heard throughout the building, began to list the breaches of policy and regulations which we had committed during our little afternoon out. I stopped counting somewhere around twenty. Then, suddenly, she stopped talking and fixed us both with a stare which was unsettling in the extreme. By this time I would have gladly accepted fifty lashes and a substantial term of imprisonment with hard labour just to get out of that room.

“Well. What do have to say for yourselves?” she asked.
We looked at each other then looked at her.
“Sorry Sarge” we said in unison.
“Sorry Sarge!” she shouted. “SORRY SARGE! Not half as sorry as I am.”
She looked at me and I did the pathetic puppy thing again.
“Well, it's Friday night, we've had a long week and I'm not going to waste any more time on you two idiots. I want your statements and a duty report on my desk by 9am Monday so you're going to have to get your thinking caps on over the weekend. Now get out of my sight” she said.
“DAVID!” she shouted as we reached the door.
“Yes Sarge”
“Mr Morgan wants to see you at HQ Chester first thing Monday” she said, rather worryingly.
Detective Superintendent Morgan was the senior officer responsible for postings to CID and was not the sort of chap to invite the likes of me to his office for tea and biscuits. He was the kind of man who could intimidate by his very presence and, frankly, I expected the worst. To make matters worse I had the entire weekend to look forward to our little tete a tete.

“Do you know what he wants Sarge?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.
“I suggest you ask him on Monday” she replied.

Deep down I knew exactly what he was going to say to me. He was going to tell me that incompetent hot heads like me are not wanted on the CID and that I was being removed from the list of those qualified for appointment to the department. There is a tradition in the CID that failed detectives are sarcastically advised to 'Apply for Traffic' but given my antics that day I doubted that I would be welcomed with open arms to that department either. Things were not looking great.

I felt that the Prince of Wales check three piece suit made a bold statement and I had no hesitation in adding it to my wardrobe in anticipation of becoming a detective constable. Beautifully cut with hand stitched lapels it was, I felt, the height of sartorial elegance. Now, however, waiting outside Det Supt Morgan's office I was resigned to the fact that this would probably be its first and last outing. The little traffic light on Mr Morgan's door turned to green and I knocked and entered.

“Good Morning Sir” I said, breezily.
“Come in Gittins. Sit down” he said.
We're off to a flyer here, I thought.

Dilemma time straight away. Do I correct a Detective Superintendent or do I just answer to the name Gittins?

“Right. You're qualified for CID and you've passed the promotion exam to sergeant. It says here that you got trough your promotion board interview a couple of months back. Is that right?” he asked. “That's correct Sir” I replied.

“So what's the aim – promotion or CID?” he said.
“I'm not in any hurry for promotion. Ideally I'd like to get a few years CID experience first” I replied.
“Well Gittins” he continued.
“Actually, it's Griffin sir” I interjected.
“What is?”
“I is. I mean I am. Griffin that is. Not Gittins. Sir.”
“Whatever” said the super.
Gittins it is then.
“There's a vacancy for a DC at Ellesmere Port and I'm putting you forward for it – OK?”

This was more than OK. This was fantastic news. I had presented myself at the Detective Superintendent's office fully expecting to be measured up for a traffic warden's uniform and now I'm being offered a DC's post. Despite the Keystone Cops catastrophe of the previous Friday I was going to become a full time detective and the great British public were to get the benefit of the Prince of Wales check. Everyone wins.

“Yes sir, that's great. Perfect. Thank you” I said gushingly.
Mr Morgan picked up his phone.
“Get me DI Holt at the Port” he barked.
“David. I've got Gittins here with me. I'm posting him to you from next Monday to fill that vacant DC's spot.”

I backed out of the office bowing, scraping and wringing my hands in an unintentional Uriah Heap impression. I was a little concerned about the Gittins thing in case it was a case of mistaken identity. But no, that was definitely my file he had