Just the thought of the frail seven-year-old wandering Devil’s Dyke naked, scratched and frozen evoked fury in everyone. I had abandoned any thought of my furniture fraud investigation while others were swiftly bailing prisoners they had left languishing in the cells. The decks were being cleared to catch whoever this bastard was.
None of us realized that today was the third anniversary of Nicola and Karen’s funerals and, while we were rushing around, the Fellows and Hadaway families were making the sombre journey home from their gravesides.
Baz was farming out fast-track actions based on seniority and experience. I was bottom of the ladder, several rungs below the exciting tasks that would, hopefully, crack these harrowing events. I felt as if I had been picked for the Cup Final, knowing I would only be warming the substitutes’ bench. My time would come, but I wished it were now.
‘Research likely suspects,’ I was told. Suspects for what? We don’t even know what we’ve got yet.
It was years before computers could serve up all we ever needed, so I sloped off towards the shadowy Local Intelligence Office on the ground floor, dreading the hours ahead of me flipping through thousands of index cards hoping a name might pop out. I could only imagine the adrenaline rush those picked for more exhilarating assignments were experiencing.
Spotting my disappointment, Baz grabbed me as I passed his office.
‘Graham, two things. First, there is no such thing as a crap job on enquiries like this and second, it’s not always the glory hunters who crack the case. What you are doing is crucial. Do it well.’
Wise words, which I would repeat to many a rookie in future years.
Wading through index cards but still unable to locate the needle in the haystack, I was relieved when a tannoy boomed, ‘All CID to the detectives’ office. Briefing in ten minutes.’
During the 1980s, Brighton CID was a bit of a closed shop. Who you knew, rather than what you knew, seemed to be the predominant entry criterion. The competition to win a place in the department was fierce and youth was sparse. Relationships with uniformed officers were strained, leading some to malign what they unfairly saw as a culture of hard play – time spent apparently cultivating informants in local pubs – interspersed with a few hours of work. No one could have accused the CID of that during the Babes in the Wood or Grand Hotel bomb enquiries though.
Then, at the end of the decade, Detective Superintendent Gordon Harrison, a former rugby league professional and a wise veteran of over fifty murder enquiries, brought in the flamboyant, hard-drinking DCI Tim O’Connor to take over the city’s detectives. Known as ToC, the proud Irishman, sadly now dead, did not look good in suits but his sartorial awkwardness was overlooked given his career in surveillance units. His infectious personality, passion for grass-roots policing and his inability to complete a profanity-free sentence won the hearts of the purists who would normally berate such an unconventional route into CID. His love of Jameson’s whiskey did not mean he was going to acquiesce to a drinking culture. He knew there was a job to do in Brighton and he was determined to draw in the sharpest talent to help him do it.
One of his earliest and most inspired appointments was an ex-drug squad officer who had recently been promoted to uniformed inspector, pounding the streets of rural Hailsham.
Unlike ToC, Malcolm ‘Streaky’ Bacon was dapper and immaculately groomed. His pencil-thin moustache and ramrod posture gave him the air of a formidable yet affable Regimental Sergeant Major. ToC snared him just days before Eastbourne CID pounced and soon he was ensconced as the detective inspector for West Brighton.
Bacon’s respect for ToC, and Gordon Harrison, was immeasurable and he relished the move back to Brighton. By the time I started my CID attachment, ToC had reformed it into a hardworking, dedicated squad of men and women who were committed to getting the scum off the street. Streaky’s welcome to me was warm, but to the point:
‘We want young blood in the office, Graham, but you will work harder than you ever have before and you will be judged on results.’
Mountains of files rose from my desk. Frauds, burglaries, robberies; all bread-and-butter enquiries to cut my teeth on. While a little overwhelming, I was in my element. As my sergeant, Baz provided me with a grounding that would last my whole career. To this day, when serving and former senior detectives gather, we still thank Baz for his tough love that made us the investigators we became.
My place in the pecking order was made clear though. Any potentially fruitful jobs would go to those who already bore the qualified detective status that I craved. I quickly immersed myself into this new world, loving the ramshackle working environment, each battered and bruised piece of mismatched office furniture resembling a boot-sale bargain. Every desk appeared as if the occupant had abandoned it in haste and would return shortly. Each, however, was the nerve centre of dozens of investigations into man’s appalling inhumanity to man.
Despite the new house and impending wedding, Julie knew CID was the job I craved even though it would mean long, unpredictable hours of hard work. She was no stranger to that herself. She had been promoted to check-in supervisor at Gatwick Airport. Sixteen-hour shifts juggling multiple flights, anxious passengers, last-minute delays and stressed staff was just another day at the office for her. Her support and encouragement kept me grounded and confirmed that, in her, I had landed one in a million – someone who would understand and tolerate the crazy hours my career would demand.