Issuing an FPN...

I was sat parked up with my driver Alan, tucked down a long driveway which came off a main road.

The early morning shift was dragging slowly and the radio was unusually quiet. Hidden from the view of motorists, we sat to eat our lunch while watching for any drivers, unaware of our presence, to give us an excuse to stop them.

Seatbelts, using mobile phones and even speeding would be our green light to shoot after them and pull them over.

“We’re the petty police today really,” Alan said amusingly as he studied the wrapper of a chocolate bar he’d just consumed.

“Do you know how many E numbers this thing has,” he asked me in a tone that told me I was about to find out. “That’s unbelievable,” he added, still staring intently at the small writing.

I saw a car shoot past along the 30mph road travelling at least 50mph.
“That flew past us,” I said.

“All the food I’ve eaten has got weird stuff in it,” he continued, picking up the empty crisp packet on his lap.

“Al, did you see that car that flew past,” I tried again.

“Mono… monosodium glutamate,” he stumbled. “What the hell is that? Wheat Malto… maltodextrin? That sounds like a poison.”

A blue Micra with four young lads in drove slowly past, the occupants looking at nearby houses.

“Wonder what they’re up to,” I said more to myself than anyone else.
“There’s garlic powder in my peperami,” Alan said, sounded disgusted. “Why would they put that in there, that’s just wrong?”

As I looked up, I saw a young male speed past while holding a mobile phone up against his right ear.

“He was on the phone,” I said.

Alan’s head darted up so quickly I thought his neck my snap and within a split second the car keys were being turned in the ignition.

“That’s just taking the piss,” Alan snarled, spinning the car around and catching up to the offender. “I hate mobile phones.”

We shot after the car and pulled it over a short distance up the road.

“Do you have any idea why we’ve pulled you over,” I said to the young driver who was now standing beside me on the pavement.

“Mobile,” he said sheepishly.

“Correct. That’s three points for using your mobile. It’ll push your insurance up and cost you more money,” I warned. “That’s a good result though for you,” I added. He looked at me confused.

“The bad result happens when you’re talking on your phone and don’t see something and end up killing someone and then go to prison. And I guarantee you won’t kill yourself, it’ll be an innocent person. The fact you didn’t see us behind shows you weren’t aware of what was going on around you.”

“Sorry”, he mumbled apologetically.

“On this occasion, take it as words of advice, but you were very close to getting a ticket there,” I said sternly.

He got back into his car and drove off slowly, probably thankful we had let him off. I’d never had an intention to stick him on for the offence; he’d been honest, was polite and I didn’t feel like ruining his day.

Moments later we were behind another car whose driver was idly chatting away on his phone.

“Give him a tug, he’s got no idea we’re here,” I said somewhat annoyed.
Standing next to the offender on the pavement, I began my usual routine.
“Why do you think we’ve pulled you over?”

He looked at me blankly, and shook his head.

“You’ve no idea whatsoever why we might have pulled you over?” I asked in disbelief. He was talking himself into a ticket nicely. “Just be honest with me.”
He again shook his head, so I helped him out.

“Mobile phone perhaps?” I said.

“Nope,” he said defiantly.

“There’s no point in lying mate, we followed you for about a quarter of a mile and you were completely unaware we were behind you.”

“I wasn’t on the phone, check it,” he said pointing at his car. Alan leant into his vehicle and retrieved the phone and brought it over.

“It says you last received a call five minutes ago,” Alan said cheerfully.
“I wasn’t on the phone,” he said once more.

A genuine apology and politeness and he’d have driven off with no more than a ticking off, providing our routine checks had all been okay. Instead, he’d talked himself into three points and a fine.

“Have a seat in the back of our car,” I said mischievously. “We’ll sort it out in there.”

Once I had filled out the ticket, our man was still defending himself.
“You can either pay the fine and accept the points,” I said. “Or challenge it and take it to court, and we’ll all have a nice day out, it really doesn’t bother me,” I said.

“I’ll see you in court then mate,” he said before walking off.

He knew we’d caught him in the act, we knew we’d caught him in the act, but for some reason he’d insisted to play the silly game that ended up in him getting points. On the whole I dislike giving tickets out to motorists because the majority of them are decent people who’ve never committed a crime. I would suggest that every driver has at once stage committed traffic offences, and I am fully aware of that. But getting caught and then deciding to lie to the police is a silly way in getting an easy ticket.

“What an idiot,” I said. “If he hadn’t have lied I wouldn’t have bothered giving him a ticket.”

I looked up to see Alan studying the back of my sandwich packet with a deep frown.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

If You Stand Still, The Dog Shouldn't Bite

I was kneeling in ankle high grass which was wet from a heavy down-pour that had occurred only moments earlier.

Feeling uncomfortable from the length of time I had remained in the same position, I shifted my weight onto my other leg and popped my head above the fence I was shielded behind. I could hear a dog on the other side of the fence in a garden, sniffing strongly and moving about. I looked behind me at the live electrical railway line which was just a number of feet away from me.

Its low humming got louder as a train in the distance approached me. Feeling slightly concerned that I might be spotted from the train and mistaken for a trespasser, I pulled my coat back in the hope that any sharp eyed passengers would see my handcuffs. I also grabbed my radio and pretended to listen into it, hoping that if the handcuffs didn’t reassure anyone that I was a genuine police officer, the radio might. As the train passed me, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the garden and decided to take a peak through the crack of the fence.

Looking through I came face to face with an eye looking back at me. I frowned, wondering how long someone had been staring at me without saying something and stood up to look at them. As I did so the eye disappeared and was replaced with ferocious barking, and a shaking fence as the dog tried to scramble over to reach me. I stood up fully hoping that the police dog would recognise my uniform as that of a police officer. It seemed that it did not, and continued to try to get to me, its teeth flashing just yards in front of me as it reared it’s head. I had an angry dog in front of me and 25,000 volts behind. And I couldn’t remember covering this role-play at training school.

I was working a pretty mundane early shift which had produced a couple of calls but nothing major when we heard a colleague come out on the radio. It’s easy to tell when a colleague is stressed or in trouble because of the tone of their voice, often they’re shouting or sound panicky. In this instance, a female officer had been driving down a residential road when two young men who had been walking down the street spotted her car and began running. One of them was detained by her, while her colleague chased after the second man. The female officer directed other units in using the radio and we arrived at a street where her colleague had last been seen chasing the suspect. We tried to contact him on the radio but got no reply.

“I think they’ve gone into the train station,” the female officer shouted across the street at us while she dealt with the man she had managed to catch.

Myself and a colleague went down onto the platform to look for our colleague.

Passengers stood waiting for an imminent train looked at us with surprise but none offered any insight into the whereabouts of our colleague.

“They can’t have come down here,” I said to my mate. “They would have told us which way they’d gone.”

As soon as I had said the words, we spotted him walking down the side of the railway line with his baton out which he was using to search bushes.

“Do you want a hand James?” we shouted. He looked up and nodded and gestured for us to come down.

“Should we walk down the side of the line?” I asked gingerly. “If the bloke running wants to get electrocuted then we should just let him.”

“It’ll be fine,” was the reply I got. “Just keep an eye out for where you’re standing and don’t go anywhere near any of the lines.”

We reached our colleague further down the track and I could see that either side of the line backed onto people’s gardens.

“He went over that fence,” he said. “I’m certain he went in there. I’m going to go in and have a look.”

“I’ll come with you,” my driver said. He turned to me with some instructions.

“Stay here and keep a look at down the line in case he pops out of another garden and carries on running.”

“Yep, no problem,” I replied, knowing full well that there would be a problem if he did re-emerge. No way was I going to get into a roll around with a bloke inches from a railway line. For all I cared he could run, I wasn’t going to go after him.
I watched the two disappear into the long garden and began to feel slightly lonely when I could no longer hear their voices.

My radio was in constant use as other units were directed around the area in the hunt for this mystery man. I wondered if he could be hiding somewhere near me. He might even be watching me and take his chances; the odds were better with just me to fight rather than three of us. I tried to show a facial expression that would indicate to him if he was watching that I was quite casual about this job and would let him go without a fight.

Suddenly my radio began ringing and I saw it was my driver private calling me.
“Bill, just so you know, stay out of the garden, they’re letting the dog in.”
With that he was gone and I was left wondering if the mutt might flush the hiding man out. Suddenly I realised that I was standing where my colleagues had told the dog handler the man had disappeared from. The dog would catch my scent and could potentially come after me.

I crouched down to remain out of sight while I wondered what to do. I thought about making my way back along the track to the platform but decided not to in case the dog ran after me. I was sure I had been told that running from a dog would make matters worse. What if I walked backwards so it didn’t think I was trying to escape? I didn’t fancy that idea, on the basis that I would be inches from the live rail. I looked at my radio and tried to private call my driver back for some advice. As I switched channel, I could hear another radio from the garden. I looked over the fence and saw the handler coming in with a huge German shepherd which was off its lead. I thought about calling out before realising that the dog would also hear me so quickly crouched down again, sweat now running down my forehead.

It was at this point that the train came past me and I decided to have another look through the fence, coming face to face with the dog as I did so.
Standing up, the dog became even more excited and I saw the surprised expression on the handler before she started shouting at her dog.
“Get back,” she screamed at him, unable to quite reach him herself as he scrambled to get to me.

I stood still, from fear rather than instruction.

“Get back here now,” she shouted at the dog again. He finally crept back enough that the handler could clip him back onto his lead, giving me the opportunity to climb over the fence.

“That gave me a bit of a scare,” I said to her as I walked back through the garden warily, as the dog kept staring at me.

“To be totally honest,” she said, “you gave me a bit of a fright. I thought you were our man.”

“Sorry about that,” I said sheepishly.

“If ever that happens, the best thing is to just stand still and the dogs shouldn’t bite,” she said casually. “Although this one is a bit disobedient at the moment,” she added in a strained voice, as she pulled the dog back on the lead once more to stop him going for me one last time.

Why Do Some Prisoners Always Fight?

“Be careful when you do your checks on him. He flashes violent, weapons and drugs and has really hurt some people in the past.”

I was posted in custody as the gaoler looking after the prisoners and the words of advice were from my sergeant. My duties were to assist the custody sergeant in basically keeping the prisoners alive; I was a glorified babysitter. In between that, I would keep them fed and watered, let them out for phone calls and interviews and fetch them other items such as blankets or magazines.

A young lad called Pete had just been brought in for a violent assault on somebody which had left them unconscious in hospital. Pete was well known in custody – he was always in and out and for a 17-year-old he had an impressively long criminal record.

He was placed in his cell and I went to see him in case he needed anything.

“Pete, do you want anything to eat or drink?” I asked him through the wicket.

“Would it be possible to get a cup of tea please mate?” he asked politely.

“Yep, no problem, anything to eat?”

“Yeh, can I have the chilli con carne please mate?”

I went and prepared the food and returned with it, opening the cell door and taking it to him.

“Cheers mate for that,” he said again. “I’ll have this and then probably get some sleep, can you dim the lights?”

I knew that I would be unable to because of a fault and told him so.

“Ah go on,” he pleaded with me.

“I’m not being difficult,” I said, “it genuinely doesn’t work.”

“But I won’t be able to sleep.”

I disappeared and had a chat with my skipper before returning to Pete’s cell.

“Right, the skipper has said I can move you to another cell with a light that does dim,” I told him. His face lit up into a smile.

“Ah cheers mate, that’s great,” he beamed. He picked up his food and blanket and trotted off down the corridor into his new cell.

“Mate I really appreciate this, thank you so much,” he said as I shut the door.

I began making my way back to the custody desk and saw that another male about 35 years old was being booked in for a public order offence.

“I don’t give a f*** who you are,” he slurred loudly at the skipper booking him in. “Do you not have a f****** clue who I am? I own a multi-million pound company.”

He was over six foot tall and well built, wearing expensive looking clothes and was leaning over the counter glaring at the sergeant.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you some questions that I ask everyone…”

“Oh f*** off,” he replied.

The sergeant attempted again to run through the risk assessment questions before he was interrupted again.

“I pay you’re f****** wages don’t forget, so just remember that,” he shouted angrily. “I’m an innocent person and I’m going to complain about all of this.”

“Sir, you’ve been arrested to…”

“Oh f*** off, Im quite clever” he slurred at the sergeant again. I winced, wondering how much patience the sergeant had left.

“Take him to a cell,” my skipper sighed.

The arresting officer tried to lead him to a cell, when the male began struggling.

Other officers became involved and moments later I was also on the floor struggling with the man.

It turned out he was indeed the owner of a multi-million pound company. He was well educated, completed university and was now living in a decent part of town. He had only been in trouble with the police once before for a public order offence a few years back and on paper should have been easy to look after. Yet he was determined to argue and fight with us.

Then there was Pete who has a huge criminal record, is violent, conceals weapons and can put people in hospital. Yet whenever he is in custody he is as good as gold. He knows the score and realises that being rude won’t help him. He is polite and civil and so is treated with respect. He knows that treating us properly means his life is more comfortable and he is more likely to get out quicker. I think I know who the clever one is.

Police Also Have High Pressure Targets

Watching the news last week I found it amusing to see a report on traffic wardens who give tickets to motorists simply because they have targets to hit.

People were outraged that fines were being issued instead of a bit of discretion, purely on the basis that the wardens had figures they were aiming for. Sitting in the police canteen at work, I raised an eyebrow. Sadly the police is not too dissimilar in that we also have high pressure targets to hit.

Although results are a way in which the police can be measured, unfortunately I see it every day having a negative effect on the genuine victims of crime. When an incident happens, the first police unit should head for the victim, make sure they are okay, obtain as much information as possible and circulate it to the other units. The officers could spend a lengthy period of their shift depending on what they’re dealing with, consoling the victim, taking statements and looking after their wellbeing. While this is happening, another officer could breeze in, arrest the suspect and get the points which go towards their personal target. Suddenly, going to help the victim doesn’t seem so appealing anymore, when everyone knows it won’t help them hit their quotas.

The other day a call came out that a shop had been robbed by a number of males who were armed with weapons. The surrounding area was flooded with patrol cars searching for the suspects who had been seen nearby. As vehicles began sweeping roads and officers on foot patrol started checking front gardens, calls continually came in from other informants stating they had seen suspicious males jump through their garden. Each time one of these calls came in, pandemonium would occur with cars passing each other in a desperate bid to collar the crooks.

I happened to be in one of these cars and had my belt off, ready to get out sprinting after anyone that I happened to see hiding somewhere. Twenty minutes had passed since the original call came out and we needed more information.

“Officers with the victim,” I said into my radio. “Do you have any more descriptions on the suspects?”

The radio went quiet so I tried again. Suddenly our control room crackled over the airwaves informing us that they had no reports that anyone had gone to the victim. On hearing that at least one suspect had been arrested by a nearby unit, we dashed to the victim and found them alone and upset.

I then spent the next four hours gaining information and writing a painstakingly detailed statement from the victim which I had no problem with doing. I knew that my behaviour would have a direct impact on how the victim felt and how they portrayed the police. What I did not get however, is any recognition of my work and more importantly in the eyes of the management team, any points for the arrest which could make me appear a lazy officer.

I have seen cases where units deliberately take a longer route to get to the scene of a crime in order that they are not first on scene and so do not have to deal with the victim – instead cracking on with their hunt for the valuable points.

I think it is sad that officers are now under so much pressure to get results that they will avoid dealing with the victim in order that they can get an arrest instead and therefore get the management team off their back. It’s a shame that senior officers become politicians and forget about real policing. But if better statistics is what they want rather than best policing practices, then that is what they shall get.

It Sounded Like An Interesting Call

One of the reasons I joined the job was to help genuine innocent victims of crime and to make sure that justice was served on the crooks that make people’s lives a misery.

A large percentage of the time though is wasted by people who misuse the police to score cheap points or to get something done.

The other day a call came out that the informant’s neighbour was in the street armed with a machete. It sounded like an interesting call and we took it. As we raced along busy streets my mind thought to what would greet us when we arrived on scene. Either it would be a machete-wielding maniac that could need CS spray or use of batons to comply with our instructions, or it would be all quiet on our arrival.

In typical fashion, it was the latter so decided to approach the door of the house where the neighbour with the alleged machete lived. Holding my baton covertly in my hand, I was surprised to see an elderly woman answer the door.

“I’m just unlocking the door,” she shouted through the glass pane as I heard the noise of a key clicking into the lock.

I took a step back from the door in the unlikely event that she would suddenly spring out armed with some sort of weaponry and was almost disappointed when I realised she wouldn’t. She looked confused to see us and I explained why we had been called.

“My neighbour came to my door threatening me,” she said. “But I never unlocked it and I most certainly was not waving a machete about,” she added almost indignantly.

I began making my way next door when the door flung open and a young man, about 22 years old age appeared looking quite excited.

“I called you,” he said as he pointed at the elderly female my colleague was talking to. “She’s crazy, let me show you what she’s done.”

He began walking down the side of his house into his back garden and I followed somewhat confused.

“What I need to do is find out why you’ve called us,” I started to say.

“Yes, I’m showing you,” he snapped.

He took me into the back garden where I could see there was no fence between their adjoining gardens.

“I put up a line of string across the length of our garden to mark out where a new fence would go and look it at,” he pointed, almost disbelievingly.

I looked across and saw a limp bit of string attached to one stick. I looked back at the man confused.

“Sorry, what seems to be the problem?” I asked politely.

“She’s cut my piece of string,” he said glaring at me. “Can’t you see? That’s criminal damage, I want her arrested and charged please, it cost me £7 to buy that ball of string.”

I nearly laughed out loud from frustration. Whenever a police officer responds to an emergency call, there are always risks involved. Driving through the streets with blue lights and sirens can be somewhat dangerous, to us and to other members of the public. I accept that everything is done to minimise the risks, but there is still a risk and sadly sometimes people do get hurt when mistakes are made. I don’t mind risking my safety to help a genuine victim in an emergency. But what I cannot stand is timewasters who risk lives by abusing the 999 system.
“You called 999 because she’s cut your string,” I said slowly.

“Not just that,” he said annoying. I was beginning to dislike him more by the second. “She’s cut it three times now. I want her arrested.”

“She’s an 80-year-old woman,” I said.

“And?” he said, his tone of voice getting higher in pitch as he became more agitated.

“You said she had a knife…”

“It was a machete.”

“Ok machete. But she didn’t open her front door, she hasn’t committed any offences.”

“I see,” he said angrily. “You’re not going to do anything. Well thank you very much for your help,” he said sarcastically.

“What I advise you do is don’t put any more string up if it’s winding her up and let the council do it when they plan where the boundaries are.”

“Fine, I’ll take your shoulder numbers and report you.”

I left the property feeling confused and frustrated. Technically I could have arrested her. But there was no way I was going to arrest an 80-year-old woman for a bit of string. It most certainly was not in the public interest and I like to think I applied common sense. Whether or not I now get a complain out of it remains to be seen, but I await it with humorous anticipation.

Welcome To Officer Safety Training...

“Get back,” I screamed pathetically as the well aimed punch caught me on the side of the shoulder. I moved my feet to try and stabilise myself but it was no good. The punches were coming in at me too quickly and I was unable to prevent myself from being pushed back. I was just about clinging on to any dignity I had left when the punches changed to powerful kicks, the first of which knocked me backwards. It was a humiliating defeat and for a second I wondered what on earth I was doing. I then heard a voice from our trainer and was quickly reminded: “Welcome to Officer Safety Training folks.”

Throughout training school and every scenario or role play we would do, the same message was drilled into us.

“What’s the most important thing on the streets?” a trainer would ask. “You are. Your safety is the most important thing. Then it’s your partners. And then it’s the public. If you’re hurt, you can’t help anyone.”

I instantly warmed to this idea and was comforted by the fact that such an emphasis was put on keeping officers safe, regardless of how much trouble someone else could potentially in. My fellow recruits would spend hours talking about how they would put themselves in between an armed robber and innocent children. I on the other hand had spent weeks biting my lower lip, anxious that somebody might realise that I instead would probably take the uniform off and hide. Surely I would be rumbled eventually? But until I am, I was expected to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability and that involved regular officer safety training.

I had heard various reports about the training day which ranged from the wild claims that it was “the most punishing day I have ever had,” to “it really isn’t that bad” so was unsure what to expect. But half way through, I was struggling to keep up the façade that I was relaxed and that my composed expression was genuine. I was starting to tire and pain was beginning to set in. I looked around the room and was disappointed to see that nobody else seemed to be struggling. I was completing circuit after circuit, press ups, squats, sit ups and both I and my body knew that I wouldn’t be able to continue for much longer. I began taking short cuts on the circuit, took twice as long to complete a press up and wondered if I just laid on the mat without actually doing a sit up whether I would be noticed. The session came to an end and I was a quivering wreck, my body screaming at me that it couldn’t continue any further.

The trainer’s voice boomed throughout the hall we were in.

“That’s the warm up complete, well done.”

Warm up? Was he serious? I looked around and saw nobody laughing, they just accepted it. Surely that wasn’t the warm up? I was exhausted and didn’t know how much longer my legs would support me.

“Get some handcuffs and protective equipment please,” the voice boomed again. I felt sick and wondered whether I would have to produce actual vomit to be excused from the class.
Twenty minutes later I was being attacked by various members of my team. I was holding a mat in front of me to cushion the punches, kicks and baton strikes but it did little good.
While standing sideways on so a colleague could hit me with his baton, I turned my head to see when he was going to strike. He did so as I turned and the mat was pushed into my mouth.

“Well done,” I said cheerfully as I felt pain rip through my tooth. Was it broken? Had I inadvertently swallowed my own tooth?

“Wasn’t hard enough,” he replied.

You just nearly broke my tooth, I felt like screaming. Instead I smiled and said, “Have another go then.”

I was seeing strange behaviour in the room. Fellow colleagues had turned and they were trying to outdo each other in a weird macho display of strength. Why we were practising painful moves on each other anyway I didn’t know. But surely we shouldn’t be getting too carried away?

“This is what they want,” I tried telling a partner. “We shouldn’t be hurting each other, we’re on the same side.” My pleas did little good.

As I was thrown across the room for the third time I landed at the feet of a passing trainer. I felt sure he might have a word with the brute that had nearly destroyed me. Instead he began offering him advice.

“The power comes from the hips, turn with the hips,” I heard him say as I scrambled to my feet, praying I would survive until the end of the day. “You’ll deliver a much more powerful blow if you turn like this.

As I was turned into a human bunch bag, I noticed some began smiling as they delivered incredible kicks and punches to my torso and I became concerned for their mental health. I gasped for breath and realised it could be much easier to let a suspect escape rather than risk getting this pummelled.

The following day I was aching in places I didn’t even know I had muscles. Getting ready for work my colleagues all seemed blasé about the whole experience.

“How was officer safety training,” I was asked by a friend who had not yet completed it.
“Nothing to it mate,” I shrugged. “You won’t have any problems.”

The words came out before I had a chance to think. Why I said it, I’m not sure but already dread has set in for the next round of officer safety training.

Haunted Nick?

I was sat on a grassy bank in streaming sunlight sipping a cool drink with a friend who worked in the front office of the police station I was attached to.

“It’s haunted you know,” he said seriously.

I used my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, only half listening to what Michael was saying.

“I’m not joking," he added, seeing my sceptical expression. "I’ve seen it. He freaks me out.”

I looked up at him and became concerned at the resolute expression plastered across his face. Maybe he genuinely believed it. Would that mean he was mentally unwell? Surely he hadn’t actually seen a ghost.

“When I’m there on my own throughout the night, I see things happen,” he said.

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of what he was saying.

“I’m serious,” he went on. “Ask anyone. It’s alright for you, but when you’re there on your own all night, it’s creepy.”

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“Our station officer is off sick,” my sergeant declared in our briefing before we started our Night Duty. He paused as he looked around the room, his eyes falling on me. “Bill, can you cover the front office tonight please?”

“Of course Sarge,” I replied, compensating myself with the thought that at least I could watch some telly.

An hour later I was settling down to a night in front of the television, praying that nobody would wander in halfway through the night and thus ruining my night of chilling. I watched the response vehicles pour out of the yard on the bank of CCTV camera screens I had in front of me and suddenly realised how quiet it was.

I turned the TV onto a music channel and started cranking up the volume, listening to my personal radio whenever it crackled into use.

As I sat there, I heard a noise in the corridor. I paused for a second, straining to hear. If it was my skipper still wandering around, I’d prefer for him not to catch me with my feet up. Hearing nothing, I relaxed, remembering I had watched him drive out only minutes earlier. I relaxed back into my chair and thought about getting a bit of sleep until I heard something else that sounded like footsteps.

I picked up the remote control and muted it quickly hoping I would hear the odd noise. I couldn’t and began to worry that I was not alone.

“It’s haunted you know,” Michael’s voice sounded in my head. “Someone died at the station years ago and his ghost haunts the station.”

I realised I was being foolish and tried to relax, my heart still racing furiously. I was a police officer, in a police station and was getting spooked by a few noises. I didn’t for one moment believe it was a ghost, but was concerned that there could be intruders.

Feeling thirsty and knowing that the lights on the top floor were not working, I was unsure about venturing to our canteen.

“This is ridiculous,” I scolded myself, wondering what people would say if they could see me. I was probably in the safest building for miles around and was also probably the most scared.

I reached for my torch from my body armour which was lying on the floor and undid my baton from my belt in case I needed it. I half thought about putting my body armour on, but decided against it on the basis that ghosts could probably penetrate stab vests as easily as walls.

Fumbling around the canteen with torch in one hand and baton within easy reach, it was a complicated tea-making process but I managed it and retreated straight into my office, keeping the television volume low so that I could hear any strange noises.

For the next six hours, I sat alone, with just the noises for company and myself fast becoming a dishevelled nervous wreck. Once the sun began to rise and Early Turn units began turning up, I looked stressed and tired.

“Busy night?” my relieving station officer asked as he dumped his bag under the desk.

“Not too bad, never a dull moment here,” I smiled cheerily.

“Really?” He sounded surprised. “Normally it’s dead.”