In his early days in the police, Sergeant Dale Scott would have been somewhere near the foot of anyone’s list to be the friendly face of the war on drugs. A former county-level weight-lifter, he spent most of his PC years in riot vans. He almost never got into a fight, as his mammoth presence was more than enough to subdue the most truculent of crowds.
Since promotion he’d flitted between the response and neighbourhood teams before Phil Cooke, the former divisional commander, created the Street Community Policing Team, put Scotty in charge and vowed to keep him there. He even allowed him to handpick two PCs and a PCSO to work alongside him.
In the five years since Scotty’s unit had been running, they had built up an encyclopaedic knowledge of the toings and froings of Brighton and Hove’s homeless and begging population. His only flaw was that he rarely committed much of this to paper so, when one of his clientele was murdered – as happened all too frequently – one of his officers would be seconded to the Major Crime Team to share all they knew.
Dodging the traffic as he crossed Grand Junction Road, heading for the arches by the Palace Pier, Scotty felt a gust of wind sting his face. ‘There 15better be the mother of Indian summers coming to make up for this,’ he grumbled to PC Saira Bannerjee. She threw him a look, tinged with a half-smile.
‘Am I allowed to say that?’ he asked.
‘Bit late now if not.’
‘I can’t keep up,’ he said, pacing ahead.
They reached the other side and headed to the steps that led towards the lower promenade.
The area beneath the pier had used to be rich pickings for drug users and dealers but since the council blocked it off, they nestled in whichever arches hadn’t been taken over by arty gift shops or boutique cafés. Scotty spotted a pile of rags nestled by the door to a vegan ‘seafood’ restaurant. He prodded it.
‘All right chief?’ he called out. ‘We’re police. Stand up for me, will you?’
‘Fuck off. You ain’t Old Bill and I ain’t got nuffin you can rob.’
Both officers reached for their warrant cards while Saira said, ‘Surprisingly we are. You’re not in any trouble, we just want to see who you are and what you’re up to.’
‘I’m sleeping.’
With that they held out their credentials and Saira illuminated them with her torch. ‘PC Bannerjee and Sergeant Scott from the Street Community Team.’
The man shuffled to his feet and Scotty and Saira took a precautionary step back.
‘I’ve heard of your lot. They say you’re the only pigs I can trust.’
‘Nice,’ said Scotty, almost gagging at the stench of urine and pound-a-pint cider. The man could have been anywhere from late teens to mid-thirties. His matted hair was dragged into a ponytail held in place by a knot of twine. His stubble had long since abandoned any designer pretence. The parka coat that hung off him might once have been green but now was mottled with grime, vomit and unrecognisable foodstuffs. 16Same with his jeans, although there might have been some other bodily fluids added to the mix there.
His complexion had an all too familiar pallor.
What surprised Scotty most though was that he didn’t recognise the man. That meant he was new to town, and newbies brought challenges; never in a good way.
‘What’s your name fella?’
‘They call me Spanners.’
Scotty and Saira looked at each other.
‘Why Spanners?’
The man said nothing.
‘Righto. Where are you from?’
‘Originally from York but I was in Winchester nick up to a couple of weeks ago.’
‘You been here since?’ said Saira.
‘Nah. I went to Eastbourne, then Hastings. Shitholes.’
‘Hold up. I’m from Hastings,’ lied Scotty.
‘No offence.’
‘Listen chief. Obviously we’re Old Bill but we are here to help. By the look of it, you need a bloody hot shower, a change of clothing and to score. Not necessarily in that order. Am I right?’
Spanners shrugged.
‘Now you’ll forgive us if we can’t help you with the last one – our boss is funny like that – but we can find you somewhere to get cleaned up and some food.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘’Cos you’re killing the tourist trade looking like that. No, honestly, we’re the opposite of your average drug dealer. We woo you with hot water, shower gel and clean clobber. Fill your belly with McDonald’s—’
‘Other fast foods are available …’ Saira interjected.
‘Indeed,’ continued Scotty, ‘then we have a little chat about all the wonderful things we can do if you go into drug treatment and all the 17horrible things we’ll do to you if you don’t.’
Spanners looked at each of them in astonishment. ‘Is this some kind of wind-up?’
‘Not at all. We call it Operation Eradicate. In a nutshell, you go into treatment while the dealers go into prison. We’ll even speak up for you in court if you fall off the rails. You do have to play ball though. There’s a limit to our benevolence. What do you say?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Always, but that involves iron bars or a wooden box.’