A Fair Cop. Michael Bunting

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СКАЧАТЬ I won the battle. I buried my head into my tunic, closed my eyes as much as possible and began the journey. I was now faced with a dilemma: did I walk and risk a complete soaking, or did I run and risk splashing the back of my trousers? The scene to any onlooker must have been amusing as we all waddled like ducks in a vain attempt to prevent the splashing. Nevertheless, we all arrived at the lecture theatre seemingly none the worse for our ordeal.

      Once there, I was bewildered by the sight that greeted us. The theatre was a phenomenal size, yet every detail was intricate and minute. Each seat exhibited an elegant nametag in enduring expectancy of each guest. Ten written declarations of the oath were on the front row. I figured that we would be sitting there. Flamboyant silk curtains decoratively circled the entire room, leading to the focus, a large white screen at the front. Alluring velvet strips draped yet another portrait of the Queen. She was looking to the side this time, but her presence was compelling. I thought she could sense my nerves.

      ‘This is bloody posh, innit?’ said Tommy. No one replied. I saw Richard read a copy of the declaration. I did the same. This wasn’t a time for mistakes or tripped words. Several others quickly joined us. Two colleagues felt the need to read mine over my shoulder, yet their own copies were only inches away from them. The nerves had removed all rational thinking. A number of voices speedily whispered the words on the card.

      ‘Does anyone know what we have to do?’ someone asked. Again, there was no reply.

      Then the inevitable came. I heard voices coming from outside, and the sound of high heels on the floor confirmed that the first guests were arriving. Whose family would it be? Tommy grimaced. There was a knock at the door. Whoever it was felt subordinate enough to seek permission to enter and this instantly gave me a feeling of confidence and control. Didn’t they know it was only us in the room? They didn’t need to knock. I realised again that I was a policeman and this was my first encounter with the public as such. I hadn’t changed, but people’s reaction to me had.

      By the time the theatre had filled with our loved ones, we had all taken our seats. My hands were sticky and from time to time I would frantically rub my palms together in order to rid them of the sweat. I puffed out my cheeks and released a long breath through barely parted lips. The others remained still. The magistrates and college commander would arrive any minute. Sure enough, they did: with a ceremonious entry, a mass of grand-looking senior officers and court officials entered the room. The formal opening began.

      I knew this was going to take a while, which exacerbated my nerves. I placed my hands on my lap and tried to listen. I continued to look around the room, but did so with the minimum of movement because each move that I made was the focus of everybody’s attention, or at least that’s how it felt. I began to think of my friends from school. I couldn’t believe where I was. I wondered what they were doing at this very moment. They would never believe this if I told them—Michael Bunting, a police officer? Then my turn to be sworn in arrived.

      ‘PC Bunting, please,’ came a voice, out of the blue. I looked at the front and the officiating magistrate nodded his head and smiled at me. It was as if he sensed my anguish. I stood up and tentatively approached him. I looked over to my mum and dad before taking the oath. My formal acceptance to the service was complete. I had even been given my dad’s old West Riding Constabulary collar number, 451. As a chief inspector of the same force, he looked on with the pride I had expected. I’d done it.

      I spent the next fifteen weeks at the Police Training School in Warrington. On the final day, after having studied law in the classroom, done riot training on the drill square and performed role play scenarios in mock streets, I completed the passing-out parade with hundreds of other recruits from five different police forces. Once again, Mum and Dad came along with my grandma and grandad (Dad’s parents) to join the crowds of proud onlookers as these new police careers began.

       My life’s ambition to become a police officer was complete. I wondered what the next thirty years had in store for me.

       Chapter 2 Rich Man Hanging

      My first memory after my initial police training is the sudden and unexpected death of my grandma. Just two weeks after she had proudly watched me in the passing-out parade, she suffered a fatal stroke, chilling in its timing. All she ever wanted was to see me become a policeman, just like my father had in the sixties. My grandma had enjoyed good health all of her life. Her death seemed cruel, especially to my grandad, who relied heavily upon her as he was partially disabled from a gunshot wound sustained to his right arm during the Second World War. On reflection, and having seen both my grandfathers suffer long illnesses before their deaths, I feel Grandma’s death was a dignified conclusion to her life. She had enjoyed it to the full, right to the end and I now realise that this is something for which we should be grateful. As a result of losing Grandma, the relationship between Grandad and me became even stronger. For the last four years of his life I visited him regularly. For months, he would accidentally call people ‘Lucy’, my grandma’s name. It was heart-breaking. You could feel his loss.

      Unfortunately, it soon became clear that death was a thing that, as a policeman, I would have to get used to. Having almost fainted during a day attachment to the mortuary, I knew I didn’t like dealing with the deceased.

      I remember being sent to my very first sudden death. I was with my tutor constable, Gary, when the call came over the radio. I looked at Gary. It was four o’clock in the morning, and it was cold.

      ‘You okay with this, Mick?’ he asked.

      ‘Gotta get my first one out of the way, mate.’

      Gary began to drive the car. ‘Check to see if we have a Form Forty-nine, will you?’ (A Form 49 is the paperwork used by West Yorkshire Police for sudden deaths. It usually involves interviewing the doctor and family members of the deceased. The mention of this form is guaranteed to make most police officers feel at least a little uneasy.) I found the relevant paperwork and told Gary that we were okay to attend. I tried to imagine the sight I was about to face. I sat quietly in the car. I didn’t want to speak. I had to prepare myself. People at the scene would expect me to know exactly what to do and to be able to handle the situation without showing any emotion at all. After all, I was a policeman. The thought of a dead body was daunting, though. I hadn’t been trained to deal with the emotional side of death; this could only come with experience. I opened my pocket notebook and began to jot down the address.

      ‘What number house is it?’ I asked. My mind was preoccupied now and the relevant information had escaped.

       Gary repeated the whole radio message virtually word for word. He wasn’t fazed. We pulled onto Barnsley Road and saw an ambulance halfway down. ‘That’ll be it, lad,’ said Gary, with a look of concern on his face. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Let me do the talking at this one and you learn as we go. I’ll do the form as well. They’re a nightmare when you haven’t seen one before.’

      ‘Okay, mate.’ My mouth was dry, and I felt cold. People had gathered in the street. We were the sole focus of their attention as we drove towards them.

      ‘Coppers are here,’ I heard one person say.

      I took a deep breath and got out of the car. A young couple approached me and pointed to the house. ‘It’s there, officer.’

      ‘Okay, thanks.’ I noticed they were still wearing their slippers. I found this rather strange. One of the ambulance crew walked out as Gary and I approached the door. He СКАЧАТЬ