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89 Bags and Counting
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89 Bags and Counting My long haul to OR Tambo International and the mystery of the pilfered baggage
Steve Chart
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First published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd in 2013 10 Orange Street Sunnyside Auckland Park 2092 South Africa +2711 628 3200 www.jacana.co.za Š Steve Chart, 2013 All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-4314-0770-5 Also available as an e-book d-PDF 978-1-4314-0771-2 e-PUB 978-1-4314-0772-9 mobi 978-1-4314-0773-6 Cover design by publicide All photographs taken by Steve Chart Set in Ehrhardt MT 11.5/16pt Job no. 001974
iv See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za
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OwadsomePow’rthegiftiegieus Toseeouzelsasothersseeus! Itwadfraemonyablunderfreeus, Andfoolishnotion. – ‘To a Louse’, RobeRT buRns (1759–1796)
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Contents
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix 1
The thief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
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What did I know about baggage pilferage? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
3
New Year’s Eve 1986 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
4
A sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
5
First impressions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
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Leaving and arriving . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
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The new kid in town . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
8
The long haul to OR Tambo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
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Tell no lies… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
10 Early dealings with the South African Police . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 11 A brush with the ANC . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 12 Diamond City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 vii
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13 Was it abduction? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 14 New horizons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 15 Preparing for take-off. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 16 Initial thoughts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 17 The next step. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 18 Consulting and ACSA management. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .105 19 We are led to believe… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 20 Baggage operations – The technical bit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 21 The baggage sorter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 22 The airlines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 23 “Lost” and “tagless” bags . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 24 The South African Police at OR Tambo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 25 The Baggage Protection Unit (BPU) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 26 Sleeping on the job… and a rather strange claim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .157 27 A shopping spree
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28 Eighty-nine bags
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29 Just the right shoe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 30 The Central Terminal Building and the FIFA World Cup 2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 31 Ghosts, kitchen sinks and the SA Post Office . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .183 32 Facilitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .189 33 Straws and camels’ backs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 34 Full circle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 35 All is not lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .199
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Preface
Preface
Preface
Twogiantswereonholiday,onawalkingtouraroundtheworld.Their hugestridesenabledthemtocrossvastoceansandeasilynegotiatethe tallestmountains.Astheyarrivedineachcountry,onewouldlowerhis armthroughthecloudsand,byfeel,telltheotherwhichcitytheywere in.Onaparticularlycloudyday,onegiantreacheddownandtoldhis companionthattheywereinJohannesburg.Infact,tobemorespecific, theywereatORTamboInternationalAirport. “Howdoyouknowthat?”askedhisfriend. “They’vestolenmybag,”hereplied. – (oRigin unknown, buT adapTed fRom a sToRy ReLaTed To me by
scoTTish fRiend, Jock opRay)
by 2007, i had Lived in souTh afRica for 20 years and was enjoying all the good the country had to offer. My line of work, however, meant that I also inevitably rubbed shoulders with the bad and in 2006, despite my fondness for the country, I started to make plans to return to the UK within the following five years. Hopefully, I could retire to the county of Wiltshire in the South West, which on rare ix
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sunny and cloudless days, bears quite a resemblance to parts of South Africa. In the same year, however, fate brought me together with the Airports Company South Africa and, over the following four years, my time and energy were consumed by the baggage-theft problem at Johannesburg’s OR Tambo International Airport. After just one week at the airport, it became clear that theft from baggage, or “pilferage” as it is known, was as serious a problem as was being reported. The perception was indeed reality. So many had tried to find a solution but none had succeeded. An influential businessman confided that he had offered ACSA’s MD a deal. He would put R10 million on the table if ACSA would do the same. If, after one year, he succeeded in stopping pilferage, he would keep ACSA’s money and if he failed ACSA would keep his. I met him again a couple of years later and he admitted he was relieved that ACSA had not taken up his offer. The problem seemed insurmountable. Considering that the airport is a National Key Point, it came as a surprise to find so many holes in the security system in general. If it were a boat, it would probably sink. When my contract ended in 2011, I returned to the UK and decided to write a short article about my experience of baggage pilferage at OR Tambo. Once I’d started writing, however, it became clear to me that after 20 years of dealing with all manner of crime, the emphasis at OR Tambo was still on the treatment of symptoms rather than dealing with the cause. The airport is, arguably, a microcosm of South African society and it cannot be denied that crime is a real issue in the country. I dealt with the symptoms and was able to reduce pilferage by around 75 per cent, but when I broached the subject of “cause” with those who had a vested interest in baggage, my suggested solutions fell on deaf ears. Unemployment, low wages, poor working conditions, a lack of job security, overbearing management, corruption, the pursuit of profit to the exclusion of all else and a history of denial at all costs, combined with an absence of real conscience, contribute to the cause. x
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Perhaps just as significant – if not even more so – if the cause of the issue of pilferage is not dealt with, OR Tambo International Airport will remain vulnerable, not only to theft, but to the real possibility of someone putting something into a passenger’s bag with catastrophic consequences.
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The thief
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The thief
he puTs The ipod, camera and bottle of expensive perfume to one side, together with the very handsome designer-label shoes he has taken from another bag. With a deftness developed from opening and closing so many different pieces of luggage, he casually pulls the zip closed before sending the bag on its way to be loaded into the aircraft. It will be hours before the passengers discover the thefts and by that time he will be long gone. One of many employees at OR Tambo International – baggage handlers, maintenance staff, security officers and police – he is merely taking advantage of a porous security system that provides them with the opportunity to steal from one or more of the 50 000 pieces of passenger luggage processed daily at the airport. He is employed as an assistant technician by one of the three companies contracted by Airports Company South Africa (ACSA) to maintain the baggage system at the airport. Back in Tembisa, he pays the owner of a one-bedroom house an unreasonably high rent for the use of a corrugated-iron shack in a dusty back yard long devoid of any plants, shrubs or trees. 1
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Tembisa is a sprawling township adjacent to an industrial area midway between Pretoria and Johannesburg. It started as a settlement for migrant workers during the apartheid days and is within easy reach of the airport. It is, therefore, a popular recruiting ground for staff required by contractors providing services at the airport. He draws no attention as he arrives at work on time each day, and sets about his work. Management knows nothing about his house, the double-cab bakkie and grocery business at his family home in Bushbuck Ridge, Mpumalanga. All these assets have been paid for with the proceeds of his other activity at the airport – stealing from passengers’ baggage. Saturday and Sunday nights present the best opportunities, because International Departures is inevitably and predictably busy and managers are thin on the ground. He enters the Baggage MakeUp Area, commonly called the “Basement”, where checked baggage from the International Departures hall above is loaded into containers. He simply walks through the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Basement, exchanging friendly greetings with the guards on duty. They remain sprawled on rickety old chairs and orange plastic milk crates, making no effort to get up and carry out a thorough search. He places the tools he carries with him onto a broken black plastic tray and places it onto the conveyor belt at the X-ray machine. The guard monitoring the screen presses a button and the tray moves slowly through. Continuing a conversation with her colleagues, she hardly notices the image appearing on the screen in front of her. The tools are not inspected because they are required for his routine maintenance work. And he is not searched, so the blade of the Stanley knife wrapped in duct tape and hidden in his safety boots is not discovered. He then makes his way to the north side of the Basement, and enters a caged area housing an X-ray machine used for screening bags to be transferred to interconnecting flights. Oversize and fragile baggage is also screened here. It is supposed to be a secure area restricted for use by maintenance staff and the operators of the X-ray machine. The 2
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turnstile, which requires an ID card and fingerprint to operate, is broken. A gate fitted with a magnetic lock also operated by a card reader stands wide open, secured to a fence post by a length of steel wire. Three bored operators sit at the X-ray machine. One eats a greasy meal from a polystyrene container just heated in a filthy microwave, its electric cable bared at the end and the wires pushed into a plug hanging off the dusty wall. The floor has not been swept or mopped and a rubbish bin overflows. He climbs a ladder leading to a walkway between two declining conveyor belts. One of the belts originates in the Oversize Baggage Room, known as “Out of Gauge/Fragile” and used for transferring checked-in golf bags, baby buggies and fragile items. The other line runs from the check-in counters in International Departures to the Basement. Settling himself on a small ledge next to the conveyor belt, he selects bags from the check-in counters as they pass. He picks out only those that are wrapped in plastic shrinkwrap. Passengers pay R50 (approximately £4) to have their bags wrapped to protect them against pilferage – a waste of their time and money. It is dark, the fluorescent light tubes having been intentionally removed months before. By the time the bags reach him, they have been automatically X-rayed and passed as clear of any item that could present any danger to the aircraft and passengers. Using his Stanley knife blade, he carefully cuts and removes the plastic wrapping. He clips the padlock securing the zip lugs using a pair of pliers, part of his official tool kit, opens the bag and sifts through the contents. He searches quickly and efficiently, knowing exactly what he wants and what can be easily sold: iPods, laptops, cameras, money, jewellery, perfume and shoes, especially trainers. When he has completed his search and taken what he wants, he places the plastic wrapping and padlock into the bag – he doesn’t want to leave behind any evidence or indication of his activities – zips the bag closed and places it back onto the conveyor belt to continue its journey to the Basement, where it will be loaded into a container. 3
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After no more than about 40 minutes, he gathers all the items he has taken from the bags and makes his way to the top of the declining conveyor. He clambers through an opening through which staff in the Oversize Baggage Room put items onto the conveyor, greets the operator, walks out of the room and heads for the Departures hall. From there he takes the escalator to the basement car park and leaves his haul to be collected later. He will sell his stash to one of the many willing receivers of stolen property who ply their trade in Kempton Park, a busy commercial and residential suburb conveniently close to the airport. Then he returns to the Oversize Baggage Room, climbs through the opening and makes his way down the walkway between the conveyor belts to the Basement to continue his maintenance work. He has effectively bypassed all landside/airside security screening procedures. And, had he been so inclined, or been persuaded by threats or the promise of money, he could easily have inserted an explosive device into a randomly selected piece of screened and cleared luggage.
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WhatdidIknowaboutbaggagepilferage?
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What did I know about baggage pilferage?
noT much aT aLL ReaLLy. When I was asked, in March 2007, to tackle the baggage pilferage problem at OR Tambo International Airport I had not considered the subject of “aviation security” per se. In my opinion, there are a few basic principles which, if put in place, can help to prevent theft. I had applied these so often and in so many areas that it did not occur to me that the airport problem would be any different. My knowledge of airport baggage systems was limited to personal experience of handing over my bag at check-in prior to departure, and jostling with other passengers, so that I could drag it off the Arrivals carousels before it disappeared for another rotation. And, of course, every time I waited for my baggage, I was reminded of a Monty Python sketch about some poor sole being “so worried about the baggage retrieval system at Heathrow”. But that was it. Naturally, I’d heard stories about the huge crime problem at OR Tambo International, but the problem was not unique to the airport. Everyone, not only airline passengers, seemed to be 5
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affected. Social conversations inevitably led to heated discussions about the ever-increasing crime rate, the violence associated with it, and the inability of the police and government to deal with the issue. It seemed that we were all victims or at least knew victims and I’d made a living from the situation over the past 20-odd years. Although I was born in England, I had lived in South Africa for most of my youth. Then, in December 1967, as soon as I had completed my matric exams, I returned to England. My ambition was to pursue a career in accountancy, but was shocked and bitterly disappointed six months later to find that my matric certificate was not worth the paper on which it had been printed. Looking back, I believe it was meant to be. I’d signed up as an article clerk and was thoroughly miserable. I spent my days adding up column upon column of figures in an office that would not have been out of place in a Charles Dickens novel. I had no option but to abandon accountancy and I took the first job I saw advertised in a local newspaper. I then spent a fun-filled year and a half as a car salesman with a firm in Weybridge in Surrey. My bosses were ex-British Army, had interesting double-barrelled surnames and spoke with rather plummy accents. Being used to “Howzit?” as a greeting was rather different to being greeted each day with, “Good morning, dear boy. How are we today?” Apart from developing a rather plummy accent myself, I enjoyed travelling most weekends with the dealership motor-racing team to meets at various racetracks around the country. But my career in crime prevention and investigation only began when I joined London’s Metropolitan Police Force, known worldwide simply as “The Met”. My decision to sign up did not stem from some idealistic calling or long-held ambition to be a policeman. I knew that the English “Bobby” was revered and that Scotland Yard was synonymous with brilliant detectives who were beyond reproach and always solved their cases. However, like many policemen, I was attracted by the security and variety the job offered. 6
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Meeting and talking to local officers who often came into the dealership, it seemed an exciting career with prospects to transfer to one of the many departments in the force. At the time, I was particularly interested in dog handling. But I received yet another shock when I attended my interview: my South African matric certificate appeared to be just as worthless here. As a result, I had to sit an entrance examination that comprised a combination of 10 addition, subtraction, division and multiplication “sums” and a short essay about a movie I had seen. I would have liked to have pointed out to the invigilator that the matric subjects I had studied for and passed in South Africa were of a considerably higher standard than the test I was faced with. However, I knew that any such comment would have disqualified me immediately so I put my head down and got on with it. The exam was simple and basic, and yet a number of other examinees failed. Like police forces across the world, The Met attracts people from all walks of life, representative of the society it serves. My fellow applicants included university graduates and tradesmen, and some had not achieved even a basic standard of education. I was very happy to be told that I had been accepted and could expect to start in three months’ time. I seized the opportunity to spend those three months hitchhiking around Europe before finally walking through the gates of Hendon Police College on 20 October 1969. I graduated in January 1970 and started my two-year probationary period at a station in South London. And it seemed that I had found my niche. I progressed quite well and within 10 years I had made Inspector. I was transferred to the CID as a detective inspector and, in 1986, was put forward by my area detective chief superintendent to attend a promotion board at Scotland Yard for Chief Inspector. The bearer of bad news called me in early 1987. He was solemn when he said, “Steve, I’m sorry to have to tell you that you didn’t pass the board.” “But,” he continued encouragingly, “there is always next year so don’t give up.” 7
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Then he went on: “There is some good news, however. The chief superintendent and superintendent at the Fraud Squad at Scotland Yard have asked for you to join them at their offices in Holbourn.” I had worked with both men previously and liked them very much, so I wasn’t entirely averse to the suggestion. I suppose these days it is called “headhunting” and I should have felt flattered, but I was still smarting from the disappointment of failing the promotion board. I was also sorry that I had let my area detective chief superintendent down. He’d had faith in me, and if I’d taken up his offer to prepare me for the promotion board through a series of mock interviews, the outcome may have been very different. One of the reasons given for rejecting me was “his appearance was less than immaculate”. That hurt. I thought I had good dress sense and took pride in my appearance. I would have understood had the Board commented that I was too young or that I lacked experience at senior level in the CID, that it wasn’t my turn or I just wasn’t good enough. I could have accepted these observations and dealt with them. But poor dress sense? I did not fancy joining the Fraud Squad and the prospect of travelling into central London every day. And my other option was to transfer to another station as Detective Inspector or return to uniform as an inspector. It was then that a seed that had planted itself in my thoughts on New Year’s Day, 1987, started to germinate.
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NewYear’sEve1986
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New Year’s Eve 1986
ceLebRaTions To see in The new yeaR often end in tears. Police tend to get mauled by inebriated revellers wanting to shove their tongues down their throats, or attacked by drunken aggressive louts who want to fight. It is a stressful time, although it must be said, a lot of police officers do join in the revelries. I was the senior CID officer on duty in my area on New Year’s Day 1987 so I decided to have an early night on New Year’s Eve, as I was bound to have to deal with some or other major crime the next day. But I had no sooner shut my eyes when the phone next to the bed rang. It was 11pm. A detective sergeant from my office, who had a peculiar thing for waistcoats that appeared to be made from floral curtain material, said in his deep Welsh accent “’Allo, Guv. Hope I didn’t disturb you. Do you want the good news or the bad news?” The “good news” was that an allegation of rape had been reported. Clearly, he was an old-school detective and a committed chauvinist. He had no understanding of – nor did he particularly care about – my strong feelings concerning any offence relating to the abuse of women. I waited wondering what the “bad news” could be if he considered 9
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what he had just told me “good news”. The “bad news” related to a death under suspicious circumstances. These were apart from a few serious assaults, domestic disputes and the odd burglary or two. I showered quickly, dressed and set off for work. It was clearly going to be a long night. The first thing I did when I arrived at the Putney police station was talk to a detective constable, who was accompanied by a uniformed police constable trained to deal with and help victims of rape. Both women had spoken to the victim. The young woman and her mates had intended to see in the New Year at a local pub. There she hit it off with a guy and they ended up in the pub car park, where “snogging” led to “groping” and, despite her pleas to stop, intercourse over the bonnet of a Ford Cortina. According to the constables, her newfound soul mate – who clearly had a great future as a charmer – then said thanks and returned to the pub to finish his pint. The victim hadn’t caught the fellow’s name and her description of him was not that helpful. Her friends had found her sitting beside the car crying. She told them what had happened. “The bastard mustn’t get away with it!” they rallied and dialled the emergency 999 number. The detective constable then introduced me to a bedraggled and worried youngster who could not have been older than 18 or 19. Wearing the humiliating white paper jumpsuit given to rape victims so that their clothing could be preserved and examined for evidence, she looked forlorn and vulnerable. She sat on the divisional surgeon’s couch in the Rape Examination Suite. Her bagged and tagged clothing lay in a corner ready to be taken away for forensic examination. I spoke quietly and reassured her that everything possible would be done to help her. She looked unconvinced. She did not want her family informed and asked if her friend, who was in the waiting room, could sit with her. “Of course she can,” I said and it was arranged. The young woman had no visible injuries, but that was not to say that the divisional surgeon would not find internal injuries when she 10
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was examined. Apparently, she had not mentioned forced intercourse or used the word “rape” when her friends found her, so we could not use evidence of first complaint, which was such an important element in the investigation of these offences. I had investigated and obtained convictions in a number of so called “date rape” cases using this vital piece of evidence. The woman’s allegation that she had been raped was starting to look a little tenuous from an evidential viewpoint, and although I could see the scepticism in the WDC’s eyes we agreed that we would pursue the allegation, have her examined by the divisional surgeon and wait for what seemed the inevitable retraction. It was actually easier to continue the investigation, arrest and charge the suspect and let the court decide than it was to submit a report justifying no further action and classifying the allegation “no crime”. Nevertheless, I felt sorry for the victim. She would live with the guilt and the “scroat” would be boasting to his mates about another conquest. With the rape claim dealt with, I left the station and drove to the scene of the suspicious death, arriving at a grey Victorian house situated in the middle of a terrace of similar houses. I was met at the door by the detective sergeant. The house, which nowadays could probably sell for close to a million pounds, was in a poor state of repair. It had been divided into four bedsits, the occupants having to share the only bathroom and toilet. The linoleum-covered floor in the entrance hall made clicking noises as I walked across it, the soles of my shoes sticking to the grimy surface. I would have to find a puddle to walk in when I left the house, to remove whatever clung to my soles. The stench of sweaty feet, stale cigarettes, cheap beer and vegetable soup was overwhelming and seemed to cling immediately to my clothes. This was not going to be a good experience. I followed the detective sergeant up the dark stairs, taking care to avoid touching the chipped and filthy banister. The bedsit was on the first floor and took up what would have been the main bedroom at the 11
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front of the house. A single light bulb hung from a wire attached to a hook in an ornate rose in the high, panelled ceiling. A small table and two chairs took up the space within the bay window. Empty and unopened beer cans covered the table and competed with full ashtrays for space. Seated self-consciously in one of the chairs was a scruffy individual aged anything between 30 and 50. His straight, mousy brown hair was greasy, with several strands stuck together. He was unshaven and when he spoke, he revealed uneven, broken and brown-stained teeth. He wore a jacket that resembled a warehouseman’s brown overall. He looked embarrassed rather than concerned, his eyes straying occasionally to the bed pushed close to the wall opposite the door. On the bed a grubby, stained duvet was pulled back, revealing a very large woman with a mass of black hair. She had a rather pretty face spoilt by petechial haemorrhaging around the lips and both halfclosed eyes. A thin red line crossed her throat. It appeared to be a sweat line in the folds of her chin but I was not qualified to make that call. Also, I was worried about the haemorrhaging, which could have been the result of strangulation. She was naked, and an area of particular interest to the voyeurs amongst us was a large silver ring through her left nipple. Her bowels had evacuated. There is no dignity in death. The vagrant sitting at the table explained quite calmly that he had met the lady – he didn’t know her name – earlier in the day. They had spent the afternoon in a local pub and returned to her flat where they continued to drink large quantities of particularly potent beer. He thought they may have had sex but wasn’t too sure. They both fell asleep in her bed and when he woke, dying for a pee, he could not wake her. He used the phone in the flat to call an ambulance. As far as he was aware, no one else had entered the flat while he and the deceased were together. I tried to close my mind to the vision of these two lonely, unhappy people trying to offer each other some sort of comfort and pleasure as 12
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they saw in the New Year. I decided that, despite the thin line across her throat, her death was probably not suspicious and asked my detective sergeant to arrange to have the body removed to the mortuary and to contact the coroner’s officer to arrange a post mortem later, on what was now New Year’s Day. The red line across her throat may – or may not – have been caused by something used to strangle her. Only the pathologist would be able to confirm that possibility. The witness/suspect was detained and taken to the station pending further questioning and the result of the post mortem. I asked the night-duty Inspector to arrange for one of his officers to remain at the scene and effectively secure it. At the time, CSI was a thing of the future, and there was no way I would be able to get a scenes of crimes officer and photographer out on New Year’s Day. As long as the scene was secured, all that could wait. So when the young uniformed officer arrived, I gave him instructions to make sure no one entered the room, thanked him and wished him a happy New Year. We returned to the station, where I was informed by the WDC who was already writing her report that the young “rape” victim had withdrawn her allegation and had declined to be examined by the divisional surgeon. It was 2.30am on New Year’s Day, 1987, when I entered the charge room. And it was heaving. Two sergeants and the duty inspector were processing prisoners. Then the door of the charge room flew open and a tall constable entered carrying a sheep’s carcass on his left shoulder, his right hand attached firmly to the arm of a prisoner whose features resembled those of a ferret. He slapped the carcass onto the desk in front of one of the sergeants and, instructing his prisoner to stand up straight, said, “I saw him walking down the road carrying the sheep under his arm. He said he nicked it from a butcher in the high street.” The prisoner squirmed. “That’s right,” he said, “the back door was open. Honest.” A sudden crash interrupted proceedings. A short, stocky, wellbuilt prisoner with long blonde hair, who had been arrested for being 13
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drunk and disorderly, was writhing on the floor wrestling with two constables who were trying to restrain him. During the struggle, the prisoner’s trousers and underpants ended up around his ankles. A woman constable gave a gasp, and there was a brief silence as everyone stared at what had surely only ever been seen on a mammal with four legs. His pants were hiked back up and comments such as “I feel sorry for his missus” and “He must faint every time he gets a hard-on, the amount of blood needed to fill that thing” were heard. Our suspect for the suspicious death slept soundly in a cell. Happy New Year! At 8am, I made my way to the hospital mortuary and found the pathologist in his office. I had attended post mortems conducted by the quietly spoken professor before and I liked and respected him a great deal. He was sitting at his desk, a Tupperware lunch box and Thermos flask in front of him. He offered me coffee in a spare cup as he ate his ham roll. A crumb lodged itself in his beard and stayed there. We went into the mortuary, where the body had been prepared by the technicians and the professor started his work. I could not stop myself looking at the crumb on his beard, thinking that at any minute it would fall into the cavity he had created. The crumb remained and he determined that the poor woman had choked to death on her own vomit. There was no “foul play”. There was no evidence of strangulation or any attempted strangulation. The hyoid bone was intact and the line on her throat was indeed, as I had suspected, a sweat rash. The case was subsequently handed over to the uniform branch to deal with further and locate family or friends. And the suspect would have been released had it not been for the numerous outstanding arrest warrants for fines he had failed to pay. I left the station and returned home at around midday. My family tried to show sympathy and understanding, but I could see that 14
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they weren’t happy. It wasn’t just New Year’s Eve. I was working longer and longer hours and seeing less and less of them. The job was becoming an all-consuming addiction. I showered and slept for a couple of hours. When I woke, we took the dogs out for a walk in the cold and damp. It was then that it occurred to me that there had to be more to life than this.
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