Although the staff on the Negotiator course had warned me I would be available for call-out immediately, I hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.
The caller was Chief Superintendent John Southern from Kentish Town Police Station in Camden. I didn’t recognise the name but John was certain he remembered me. As we spoke, a vague memory came back of an articulate and thoughtful detective who had been on the first National Hostage Negotiator course I’d attended back in 1980. I’d then been the token military attendee, a volunteer from the army, there to escape the drudgery of administration work as I recovered from an injury.
John explained there had been an incident in the communications room at the police station. Some underoccupied night-shift officers had taken it upon themselves to subject a new PC to an initiation ceremony. It was the kind of thing that went on in one form or another in all kinds of units, both military and police, and normally it was just harmless fun. But this time, things had gone badly wrong.
The PC chosen to be initiated had been jumped on by several of his colleagues as he walked in through the comms room door. Their plan had been to ‘station-stamp’ him, a potentially embarrassing but normally harmless procedure that involved pulling down the unfortunate victim’s trousers and then using an official rubber stamp to place an ink mark on one exposed buttock.
The intended victim had reacted in a way none of his tormentors had expected. As they had attempted to hold him down, he’d flipped. What started as a game quickly turned into a violent struggle and then an all-out fight. A CS gas spray had been discharged and, in the melee, the unfortunate PC had grabbed hold of a bread knife that one of the others had been using to slice a birthday cake just a few minutes previously.
Two officers had been cut, not badly, but enough to require hospital treatment, and a third was now being held hostage in the men’s toilets on the ground floor of the station.
Something very unusual had happened though, which was the reason I had been called. The victim, now hostage taker, had asked to speak to me personally. John didn’t know why, but what he did know was that I was wanted there as soon as possible. He’d told me the PC’s name – Doug Powell – but again it wasn’t one I recognised. I figured that all would be revealed once I had the chance to speak to him.
I went upstairs to get changed, making sure to move quietly around our bedroom so as not to wake Charlotte. She was lying on her back fast asleep. I leaned into the cot, kissed my new-born daughter on the forehead and then headed downstairs.
It was as I was pulling on my jacket that I slipped my hand inside a pocket and found the tiny listening device Kevin had handed to me the previous evening. I decided to leave it where it was. If I was lucky, I might just bump into someone who could identify it.
Jenny and Becky were waiting for me in the hallway. I picked up my briefcase, gave them both a peck on the cheek and, just five minutes after picking up the telephone receiver to the call from London, I was in the car and on my way back into work.
But not in a direction I had ever driven before. On this morning I took an alternate route, via the local traffic police depot. They had a car waiting for me. It was blues-and-twos the whole way and in less than half an hour, I was being dropped off in the tiny yard at the rear of Kentish Town police station.
From the windows of the canteen overlooking the car park, I saw faces turn to stare. All eyes seemed to be on me, as if they had been awaiting my arrival. A young uniformed Inspector appeared as if from nowhere and opened the rear door of the police car. I stepped out.
‘Mr Finlay?’ he asked, hurriedly.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’ve been asked to take you straight up to the Divisional Commander’s office. Mr Southern is waiting for you with some people from the Hostage Negotiation team.’
‘I had the impression that Mr Southern is the lead negotiator?’
‘No … he’s our local Chief Superintendent. Now, if you’d follow me, sir?’
‘It’s not sir, I’m the same rank as you.’
He didn’t respond but, as we strode across the yard to where a PC was holding a door open for us, he did reveal that two senior officers from CIB, the Met’s Complaint Investigation Branch, were also waiting to see me. In the canteen a specialist firearms team and a dog handler were on stand-by in case they were needed. Every contingency seemed to have been covered.
John Southern was the first face I saw as his office door was opened for me. He was sat behind a large desk and, although it had been more than twenty years, he was familiar. With somewhat boyish looks, he had aged well, even if, on this particular morning, I could see he looked tired, his face drawn and grey.
I was taken aback by the number of people crowded into the small office. Most of those present were standing and the majority were in suits – detectives by the look; amongst them I guessed would be the head-hunters from CIB. There was an air of tension in the room, and the smell of nervous sweat – the kind men exude when under pressure. In the far corner I noticed an Inspector in black kit and body armour – SO19 firearms – and an older, scruffily dressed man I recognised as one of the Met techies. I made a mental note to get his name; he would be a good contact once this was all over, to ask about the bug Kevin had found.
‘Come in, Inspector.’ Southern said.
One of the suits, who had been sat with his back to me opposite the Chief Superintendent’s desk, stood up. Southern indicated for me to take his place.
‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll start with the introductions.’
I was impressed to learn how Southern knew every name. With the exception of three – the techie, Peter Hesp, and the Chief Negotiator, Mike Rogers – I hadn’t met any of them before.
I’d been right about the CIB presence. A Superintendent and a Sergeant. The Superintendent’s name was familiar: Jim Mellor. His reputation was well known amongst ordinary coppers. Mellor had been investigating complaints for many years and had made that many enemies, rumour had it that it proved impossible to end his period of tenure and transfer him back to a divisional posting. Nobody would have him, so CIB were compelled to keep him in post. Most believed that suited Jim Mellor quite nicely.
My eyes rested on his face for slightly longer than the others present. He looked a hard man – rugged face, strong jaw and deep-set eyes. The suit he wore looked expensive, a departmental tie neatly knotted over a crisp, white shirt. As John Southern introduced him he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
Formalities over, the situation and the reason for my presence was quickly explained to me. The hostage-taker, PC Doug Powell, had demanded to speak to me as a condition for the release of the single hostage he was holding. Her name was Carole, and she had been the officer intent on ‘station-stamping’ Doug Powell’s exposed buttocks when things had kicked off.
‘Why did Powell ask for me?’ I asked.
‘We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that yourself, Mr Finlay.’ The comment, or question, if that’s what it was, came from behind me. I didn’t have to guess whose gruff voice it was.
I remained facing forwards and addressed my response direct to Southern. ‘At the moment, I have no idea. I don’t know the name Doug Powell. Have you checked to see if I’ve ever worked with him?’
‘We’ve been talking about little else for the last hour. Let me bring you up to speed.’
I listened as the Chief Superintendent read from some notes, seemingly for the benefit of all present. Powell had only been in the Met for three years. He’d completed a two-year probationary period at Ruislip, a quiet division in west London. As soon as permitted, he had requested a move to a busier station. He’d arrived at Kentish Town about a month before and had settled in quickly. His shift Inspector reported that he was hard working, fit and popular with the lads. He was also ex-army.
Mellor spoke up again. ‘It’s apparent that he either knows you or knows of you. You’re confident you’ve never worked with him, Inspector? Maybe you know him socially, perhaps?’
I shook my head, again without turning. ‘Do we have a photograph?’
Southern’s expression was pensive as he opened a buff folder and turned it around so I could see the picture clipped to the top. The face wasn’t familiar.
‘No … I don’t know him,’ I said.
‘We wondered if he might know you from the army?’ the Chief Superintendent asked.
‘What regiment was he?’
‘Royal Scots. Served from 1986 until three years ago.’
‘I was already in this job in ’86,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps the best thing is for me to ask him?’
‘I agree. Go with Mike Rogers, he’s today’s Negotiation Coordinator. He’ll get you briefed on the layout of the room and the strategy we’re adopting. You’ll be assigned to the negotiator who’s talking to him at the moment. Take your lead from her.’
I heard the door behind me open.
‘We’ll be able to hear everything, Finlay. Just make sure this ends with nobody badly hurt, please.’
I nodded, stood up and then followed the same Inspector who had met me in the yard. I could feel all eleven sets of eyes in the room boring into the back of my skull as I headed into the corridor. I wondered what they must be thinking. Who is this man? What is his connection to the hostage taker? And exactly what had made a relatively harmless prank escalate into such a dangerous scenario? Within a few minutes, I hoped to have some answers for them.
But there was one major issue troubling me, something none of us had prepared for and certainly hadn’t been covered during the training course I’d only recently attended. This time the hostage-taker was a fellow cop.