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65 pages

English

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This gritty and thought-provoking novel reflects the underbelly of the 1980s West End. The vibrant glamorous tourist-filled streets by day harshly contrast with the shady, violent and hedonistically driven nights on these same London streets. We are plunged into the dramatic life of WPC Kath Peters, as she embarks on her night shift.'Night Duty, West End' depicts in dramatic detail how policing in the West End of London in the 1980s was a trial by fire for probationers. Night duty gave a deep insight into humanity at its worst and best. This book looks at prostitution and probationers, property and policing, and shines a spotlight on the fascinating and intriguing world of 1980s policing. This is a gripping and deeply moving novel, which takes readers through the experience of policing a single night duty week in the West End.

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Publié par	Distributed by eBookpartnership
Date de parution	01 octobre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781839783036
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Night Duty, West End
David O’Kane

Night Duty, West End
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: +44(0)1227 472 874 www.theconradpress.com info@theconradpress.com
ISBN 978-1-839783-03-6
Copyright © David O’Kane, 2021
The moral right of David O’Kane to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Disclaimer:
No one character is based on any one individual, though composite characters have been formed. Events are based on myth and composite incidents and may factually bare some resemblance to events in the past.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

Prologue
K ath Peters was due for promotion in the next few weeks, and she had taken a few minutes to look back over the pictures and the collection of paper she had in her desk as she cleared everything out. As she moved through the drawers, she had uncovered a few more memories and this in turn had prompted her to allow herself the luxury to drift for a few moments and recollect her probation. She reflected on how much the job had changed over the years since then and the changes that she still felt were needed to move the Met into the 21 st Century.
Squashed in the bottom drawer was her soft white hat from her probation. They wore hard bowlers now, health and safety, well at least that was better a move forward. The golden ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ age, was it real? Did the 1980s hold the key to the policing of the future? As far back as she could remember the 1980s was a different time and it was a time when the policing reflected the population’s needs. She delved deeper into her memories and she still came up with the question; did the police reflect what the people deserved? If that was the case what did the people deserve now?
The day-to-day policing had remained the same. The police officers she had entered the police service with, that is service now, not force, as it was in her day, were older and wiser most if not all retired or retiring. They were still the police officers from the past. They were still the ones who had been accountable for policing actions that in today’s policing would see investigations yet in those times were what the police did and how they did it. It was also what was expected from the public too, the get the job done regardless of the consequences worked then but looking back it created many more problems when examined with today’s lens. In fact, she mused, the investigations of the present were very much about the solution, the policing solutions, of the past. Were they appropriate and were they a reflection of the needs of the times?
Policing the 1980s had been about miners and strikes as well as about the day-to-day policing of the West End of London. It was about the bombs and the hoaxes and well as the shoplifters and the drug dealers. Somewhere in there in her initial posting area was the prostitutes and the peep show too. Nowadays policing was similar, it was about the latest terrorist ordeal or threat, and the impact parochially and internationally of incidents across this capital.
She reshaped her white hat and put it onto her head, turning towards the mirror on the wall and looked at how old she had become. On her shoulders was a variety of rank generated insignia that showed she has progressed up the ranks. But the face that stared back at her was still the one that had started her policing career way back when she was a youngster. Soon she would be Commissioner. She would never have even considered this all those years ago. Now it was a conclusion she had striven for over the last few years, aspiring always to improve on what she had done before. Her mind came back from the past as she sipped her tea. She had a few more hours before the car came to collect her for the dinner. She sipped her tea again and allowed herself the luxury of remembering those first days as a police officer.

Chapter One
Night duty
I t was cold, very cold. The wind seemed to find its way into every gap of the uniform and bite into the skin beneath. The winter night’s discomfort was made worse as the probationer felt she could not call for the GP car, the ‘General Purpose’ car, to pick her up and take her around her beat. She felt she would be ridiculed by the old sweats because she was weak, a woman and a probationer. She had heard what they called WPCs, ‘slit arses’, and it made her skin crawl with contempt that these people were so brutal with their language. She could not hide away as she was bound to get caught. The skipper had said as much; ‘I will be watching you, just give me an excuse, I don’t like plonks and I don’t like probationers, so a plonk probationer, God help the relief’.
She turned the corner, and she was in a small alley away from the hustle and bustle of the night-time Mayfair traffic. She had heard that the posher ‘Toms’, prostitutes, took their clients here. She again remembered the street duties skipper telling her last week that the Toms were out of bounds for probationers. She had only weeks in the job and she would not be allowed to arrest them until she had her ‘Street Duties 2’ course. She would have to have eighteen months in before she was taught about the finer points of Toms. The old sweat PC on her street duties had said, ‘plonks, property and prostitutes were the downfall of PCs’ she was not in a rush then to get to grips with the Toms.
Curiosity had her peering into the corners in the alleyway. She had a sheltered upbringing, well it seemed so, and compared to other people she had met at Hendon training school. She found she was curious about how women could take ‘clients’, she laughed to herself, no pun intended, in the alleyways. How could men pay for sex? In an alley? So, she looked, half hoping to see, half worried that she might find someone. She would then have to nick them, and to be truthful she had no idea whatsoever as to what to do.
Even this excitement could not make her feel warm, she shivered and walked faster. The alley was deserted, the streets were deserted, and she was freezing. There was nothing to do. The bank around the corner was lit up again. She could see the cleaner making his way around the ground floor. It would take him at least an hour more to get to the first floor, she had found that out two nights ago. So that would be a good place to go to after her ‘refs’, her refreshment break, when it was really dead, to get a tea and a warm-up. Could it get any deader? At least three more hours, what could she do now?
Park lane was bustling with cars going North and South. There was an expectation that she got at least one body, an arrest, per shift, or three processes. Processes were summons; ‘No seat belts’, ‘defective lights’ or better still, more complex summons would get her brownie points with the section skipper. She flushed again with embarrassment, ‘plonks and probationers!’ It was not what she expected when she signed up for the police.
Kath Peters, aged just eighteen and a half, had joined the Metropolitan Police at seventeen. She had been a police cadet for nearly a year before being attested to Hendon as a WPC. The studying had been hard for her. She was not particularly academic and learning it all, ‘star’ reports or ‘A’ reports, was extremely hard for her. Star reports were word perfect, rote learning reserved for the most important legislation. ‘A’ reports were learnt just the same but they did not have to be exactly word perfect, though to be frank most were learnt that way anyway.
The cadets had prepared her for this style of learning. Star reports and ‘A’ reports were old hat to her now. The first she was asked to learn was, ‘The primary object of an efficient police force is the prevention of crime the next that of detection of offenders...’ this had been drummed into her. She was preventing crime; she was trying to detect crime too. She realised that she had not ‘pulled’, stopped a car yet, no process, no arrest her record of work would be sparse, and she would have to make it up another night. Kath walked to the edge of the road, facing the oncoming traffic. She peered hard at the tax discs, the seat belts, the lights and even at the A.T.S, the traffic lights, to get her first process of the night…Nothing.
The time dragged on and she realised that it was running out too, she had to get back for her refs, back to the station. Moving across the road to face the oncoming traffic she peaked at the street name and tried to recall the route back. It wouldn’t be good to be seen by the public reading her map book. She could not picture the route back. The more she tried the more confused she became. Oh blast! She moved to the side of the road, propped her back against the door to the shop and used the little light there was to look at her map.
With the route firmly fixed in her mind she walked, briskly, back to the station. For the first time since she had left the parade room and her hot tea, she was warm again. The tea she had made of course, ‘plonks were only good for two things’ a PC had said, ‘tea and…’ he had left that bit open. The rest of the relief had laughed, again her face burned with shame. This time the brisk walk would cover the glow as she walked through Berkley Square.
The back door to West End Central police station was open as the Area car had just pulled in, thankfully meaning that she didn’t need to fumble for the door code, another embarrassing moment avoided. She watched as the Area car drove to the bottom of the ramp. The driver, an old sweat of many years, neatly swung the car around to leave it pointing up the ramp in case a decent call came in. Decent enough to pull him away from the inevitable tea and card