When You Are Mine(3)

At Southwark police station, I get changed into my full kit: stab vest, belt, shoulder radio, body camera, collapsible baton, CS spray and two sets of handcuffs. My hair-bun fits neatly beneath my bowler hat, so that the brim doesn’t tilt down and restrict my field of vision. I love this uniform. It makes me feel respected. It makes me feel needed.

Although only five foot five, I’m not frightened of confrontation. I teach karate two evenings a week at the Chestnut Grove Academy in Wandsworth, and occasionally on weekends. I can block a punch and take a fall; but more importantly, I can read a situation and stay cool under pressure. I don’t practise karate because I’m mistrustful of people or frightened of the world. I like the discipline and improved fitness and how it speeds up my reaction times.

Twenty officers gather in the patrol room for the briefing. Our section sergeant, Harry Connelly, has a quasi-military bearing and weight around his middle that puts pressure on his buttons. Certain jobs need to be followed up from the night shift. Crime scenes guarded. Prisoners escorted to court. A suicide watch at a hospital. Outstanding warrants to be served.

‘We had a confirmed sighting overnight of Terrence John Fryer, a violent escaper, wanted for drug use, supply and manufacture. He tried to break into his girlfriend’s house in Balham. You have his mugshot. He’s dangerous. Call for back-up if you see him.’

Paperwork and follow-up calls are the bane of a copper’s life. Every LOB (load of bollocks) from an MOP (member of the public) generates a report and a response. Forms in triplicate. Statements. Updates. Liaising with other services.

‘Morning, partner,’ says PC Anisha Kohli, falling into step beside me.

Kohli gets called ‘Nish’ and is the station heartthrob. Tall and lean with milk-chocolate skin, he was born in East Ham and has never been to India, but he still gets peppered with questions about arranged marriages, the caste system and cricket.

‘Why do people treat me like I’m fresh off the boat?’ he once asked.

‘It’s because you look like a Bollywood star.’

‘But I can’t sing or dance or act.’

‘Yeah, but you got the looks, baby.’

We sign out a patrol car, which doesn’t smell of piss or vomit. I’m grateful for that. Nish gets behind the wheel and I radio the control room. Our first job is a reported burglary in Brixton and a series of cars that were vandalised near Peckham station. Nish and I work well together. Instinctively, we choose who should take the lead in asking questions. Some of the more experienced officers aren’t sure how to treat female PCs, but things are getting better. One in four officers are now women, and the ratio is even higher in management.

The morning is a mixed bag of accidents, burglaries, a bag-snatch on a Vespa and a dementia patient missing from a nursing home. Nobody on patrol ever says, ‘it’s quiet’ because that’s considered bad luck, like an actor naming that ‘Scottish play’.

After three years, I can plot my way around South London based on the crime scenes that I’ve attended. A hit-and-run on this corner. A jumper from that building. Cars set alight on that vacant block. Some locales are more famous or infamous than others; and some crimes are so shocking that the victims’ names are seared into the history of a city: Damilola Taylor. Stephen Lawrence. Rachel Nickell. Jean Charles de Menezes. Most people look at London and see landmarks. I see the maimed, broken and the addicted, the eyewitnesses, the innocent bystanders and the bereaved.

At midday, I’m picking up coffees from a van near London Bridge when the control room radios about a domestic in progress. A neighbour can hear a woman screaming. The address is one of the newer warehouse developments near Borough Market. Nish pulls into traffic and gives a blast of the siren to clear an intersection. He looks at the dashboard clock. ‘This one kicked off early.’

Nish presses a buzzer on the intercom. The neighbour answers and unlocks the main door. She is waiting on the fourth floor, an elderly black woman in a brightly coloured kaftan and slippers. Her ankles are as wide as her toes.

‘Mrs Gregg?’ I ask.

She nods and points along the hallway. ‘I can’t hear them any more. He might have killed her.’

‘Who lives there?’ I ask.

‘A young woman. The boyfriend comes and goes.’

‘Owner occupier?’

‘The owner works in Dubai. Rents the place out.’

‘You said you heard screaming,’ says Nish.

‘And stuff breaking. She was yelling and he was calling her names.’

‘Have there been other fights?’ I ask.

‘Nothing like this.’

‘OK. Go back inside.’

We take up positions on either side of the door. I have one hand on my baton and my legs braced. Nish knocks. There are muffled voices inside. He knocks again. A chain unhooks. A lock turns. A woman’s face appears. Late twenties. Dark hair. Attractive. Frightened.

‘Hello, how are you?’ I ask.

‘Fine.’

‘We had a report of a disturbance. A woman sounded upset. Was that you?’

‘No.’

‘Who else is in the flat?’

‘Nobody.’

Nish has braced one foot against the door to stop it being shut.

‘Can we come inside?’ I ask.

‘You must have the wrong address,’ she says. ‘I’m fine.’