Just the Job, Lad Page 16

  Once the officers had gone out on patrol I was on my own, by and large. There was Phil covering the front office and the CCTV cameras, and from time to time one of the crews would come in for their meal break. There were also regular phone calls from Julie and Brian in the control room over at Northallerton, updating me on jobs I needed to know about, or asking what I wanted to do about particular situations as they occurred. I think Brian and Julie were both pleased that I was acting up, and they offered all the support I needed. Unlike Chris Cocks, I didn’t have to sort out the duties for the entire area, so I was not as deskbound as he had been. This meant that I could take out the supervisor’s marked car when I had some downtime. Other times I could check the computer, make sure that the incidents were updated correctly, finalise the completed crimes, write updates of ongoing cases, check case files for submission to the Crown Prosecution Service, and so on. Occasionally I’d receive a phone call or enquiry at the front desk from a member of the public that required a supervisor, or which the front office support staff needed advice on. You also got other area-based officers – traffic, dog section or ARV teams – dropping in for a brew.

  Whenever one of our own PCs came in it was, ‘Got yourself a good job there, Mike. Steady away.’

  ‘Hey, don’t kid yourself,’ I’d reply. ‘It only looks easy because I make it look easy. You’ve got a top man on the job here. Cool under pressure.’

  The truth was that during the first week or so I wasn’t finding it too hard at all. There really wasn’t anything unusual to deal with. If I didn’t know better I would’ve been tempted to ask what all the fuss was about – or, more pertinently, why had I been so reticent about the idea of putting in for promotion? It was all run-of-the-mill stuff: petty thefts, minor accidents and the odd dispute between neighbours. It was steady, very steady. And so the doubts remained: would I be up to the job when the going got tough – because sooner or later, surely, it would blow up in my face. It was bound to. How would I manage then? At one level, of course, I was happy not to have been tested. Another few days and I’d be done, back on the beat. I would have survived. On the other hand, a part of me really was wanting a challenge. You don’t join the police for an easy ride, and you don’t volunteer to step up to the sergeant’s job so that you can coast. At least, I didn’t. I wanted to stretch myself, see what I was made of.

  What do they say? Be careful what you wish for.

  I’d come in at half-past one for a late turn. It was Bank Holiday Monday. Everyone was on double time – nice for us, but with staffing levels at the bare minimum in order to cut costs I was well aware that if things kicked off we’d all earn our enhancement, every penny of it. The thing with bank holidays is that it can go one way or the other. That’s part of the problem with working in a tourist area like Ryedale: the massive influx of people during weekends and holidays. I had one traffic officer and three PCs, plus Thommo. He came in all smiles, happy to get ‘a bit of plus’, as he liked to call it, and I was glad to see him. He was the kind of old-style copper you wanted on your side if things got spicy, if only for his experience. He’d seen it all and wasn’t one to get rattled.

  The outgoing duty sergeant hadn’t much to report. A few cattle had got out on the road over at Birdsall, and there had been a minor accident on the road leading up to Flamingoland. But it had all been sorted by the time I took over. Otherwise it was a typical summer Monday, with the warm weather bringing out the motorists in their thousands – and the traffic was already causing problems, particularly along the coast roads.

  So everyone went out on patrol in pretty relaxed mood. In the station it was quieter than ever. No calls, no reports, little radio traffic. When it’s like that you always wonder, is it the lull before the storm? It got to about three thirty and I was just flicking through the last of my paperwork when the call came in, the voice jagged with urgency.

  ‘Control to any units. We’ve got a head-on collision – Golden Hill, car versus lorry. Units to deal, please?’

  I was on my feet in an instant. I remember hearing myself say, ‘This is it.’ A serious accident requires the presence of a supervisory officer, and today there was only one of those in the whole of Ryedale: namely myself. I grabbed my hat, radio and jacket and headed for the door, my heart thumping. Fortunately we had the one traffic officer on duty in the district, and he called immediately to say he was making his way over from Helmsley. I could also hear Thommo on the radio. ‘Aye, on my way from Ganton.’ So he could be fifteen, twenty minutes. I knew Ed was way over the other side of Pickering. He’d be struggling with the traffic coming out of Flamingoland. And Fordy was out West Heslerton way with Jayne, so they’d probably get snarled up on the A64.

  I was in the supervisor’s marked car, and driving fast. A lot of things were going through my mind. How bad was this going to be? Would I be first there? How easy would it be to get through once I hit the A64? I’d already had reports of traffic building up in both directions. Some people were making their way to the coast for an evening out, more were coming the other way, trying to beat the rush home. But there was nothing I could do about that. Not a thing. Besides, my head was already grappling with the question you always ask yourself as you head towards the scene of a road traffic accident. What would I find? I realised I was swallowing hard as images from accidents I’d attended in the past flooded my mind. There are things you’d rather not remember, but they’re always there, just below the surface, and I needed to keep a clear head as I sped away from town, two-tones blaring and lights flashing, the line of cars ahead pulling over to the left-hand verge to let me by. So far we’d had no further information, but a head-on on a main road wasn’t going to be good, especially right there on Golden Hill, a notorious black-spot where people were always travelling too fast, despite the warnings.

  ‘Control to 1015.’

  ‘Go ahead, over.’

  ‘Yes Sarge. We’ve taken several further calls on this. Apparently we have people trapped. Fire brigade en route.’

  ‘All received. I’m about two to three minutes away.’

  I shot past the BMW dealer and out towards the bypass. Various things were going through my mind. I was aware that I was going to be first on scene and that the preservation of life was my top priority. The severity of the accident would then determine how I should deal with it. It had to be handled properly, and that was mainly down to me. I was the one in charge, the supervisory officer. They’d all be looking to me: especially the younger officers, Fordy and Jayne. Ultimately I’d be relying on specialist officers, but at the outset I would need to organise the staff available and implement the correct procedures.

  I was about to join the main road now, easing onto the slip-lane where the old road merges with the bypass. Ahead of me the traffic was at a standstill. I didn’t need to be told this was serious: as I drove west on the eastbound side of the road, past the queue of stationary cars, there was nothing, not a single vehicle, coming towards me. Whatever was up ahead had stopped the job completely.

  I swung past the Low Hutton turn-off and started climbing. As the crest of the hill came into view I could see people out of their cars, some standing in the road, some on the verges, mobile phones clasped to their ears, pointing and directing me to the top of the hill.

  Suddenly it was there right in front of me. In the middle of the road was the cab of an HGV. It was dark green. Above the windscreen, which was perfectly intact, was a bank of spotlights. Below it was the haulier’s name spelled out in red lettering with a black border. The trailer was angled across the road behind it, its white curtains barely disturbed by the impact. Embedded in the tractor unit, smack bang in the radiator, was a grey Nissan Micra. When I say it was embedded I mean just that. The rear end was undamaged. The front end was unrecognisable. It had all but disappeared into the front end of the truck. Sometimes it’s as if your body knows what to expect before you do: my heart was racing.

  ‘Control to 1015. Fire brigade and ambulance
just leaving Malton. Should be with you in five minutes, over.’

  Thank God I wouldn’t be on my own. Not for long, at any rate. ‘1015 to control, just arriving at the scene now. We’ve got the road completely blocked. It’s not looking good. Stand by for details on casualties.’

  I pulled up about thirty yards short of the wreckage. Several people were out of their vehicles and standing nearby. A large man in shorts and flip-flops, his chest bare, was right up against the flattened Micra, bending forward to peer inside. A woman – she might have been his partner – was pulling him away, covering her mouth with her hands. I left the blue lights on and the engine running, got out of the car and ran towards them.

  ‘Stand back, please!’ I shouted. ‘Will you stand back from the car?’ I began to brace myself for what I was about to confront. It doesn’t matter how many times you see people seriously injured or dead, it never gets any easier. Behind me I could hear two people sobbing and another whimpering. Somebody was jabbering into her mobile. ‘They just went straight into it – oh Christ, you could see – you could see it was gonna happen.’ Somebody else had a radio on playing music, really loud. As I ran past they wound their car window up.

  There was a man in clean, dark-green overalls, crouched down with his head in his hands by the crushed car. Big fellow, broad chest. Insignia sewn on his top pocket that matched the name on the lorry. You notice these little things. He had to be the driver. I ran towards him as the man in shorts moved away and put his arm round his partner.

  ‘I think they’re both gone, mate. Elderly couple. I think they’re both . . .’ He tailed off. His voice wasn’t the voice of a big man at all.

  This was it now. I knew I had to look in the car to see what we were dealing with and check for vital signs. There was nobody else around to do it. Already I was trying to put my fear of death and the dead out of my mind, fighting my instinct, which was to recoil, close my eyes, run. It’s always been with me, and always will. Ann once said it was a healthy fear. It makes sense that you’re scared, she said. None of us wants to die.

  Liquid from the lorry’s radiator was dripping onto the concertina’d metal that had once been the car’s roof, and trickling down the side of what had been the door. The sun-roof was all crushed, the glass twisted and crazed, a strip of black rubber beading wafting lazily in the breeze. I went to the passenger side. Looking through the buckled frame I could see a lady, maybe in her sixties or seventies. It wouldn’t be right to describe her injuries, even if I could. In any case, what I saw put me into shock. There was no doubt that she was dead, no doubt at all.

  I walked round to the other side, steadying myself with a hand on the tailgate. From the trees I could hear the sound of a pigeon cooing. A man wearing dark glasses was approaching me and looking at his watch. ‘Any idea how long this’ll take?’ he asked, ‘’cos I’ve got a flight to catch.’

  ‘If you’d just return to your car, sir, while we deal with the casualties.’ I put my hand up to stop him coming any closer. ‘Please.’ You get people like that. You learn not to judge. I don’t think they can help it, half of them.

  The driver of the Micra was a man, same sort of age as the dead passenger, probably her husband. The vehicle was badly crushed around him. Mercifully, he wasn’t conscious. His mouth, from what I could see, was closed. I managed to get my hand through the wreckage and held my fingers on his neck. I was shocked to feel a very faint pulse. I realised I was helpless. I couldn’t get in to do anything for him, but there was no way I could get him out.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ The paramedics had arrived.

  ‘Just.’ I backed off and let them reach in with their gloved hands. ‘Thank Christ you’re here,’ I said. In the distance I could hear another police car approaching. Looking up I could see it nipping along the side of the queue in the vacant offside lane. Barely a hundred yards behind it was a fire engine, headlights blazing.

  ‘She’s gone,’ I heard one of the paramedics say. ‘As for the other poor sod, I think he’s about to go.’

  Behind me a bystander gasped. ‘D’you hear that?’

  ‘If you could just return to your car,’ I said. ‘Let the emergency vehicles through, thank you.’

  ‘What’s the situation? What do you want us to do?’ Fordy was there. He’d left his car alongside mine, a few yards away. Jayne got out, and came to stand beside him. They were both looking at me. That’s when it hits you, that you’re in charge. There are two dead or dying people in a car, the road is blocked in both directions, peak time on a bank holiday, the news media will be descending any time now, and the entire situation is yours. You have to stay strong, alert, decisive, and sort it out.

  ‘Right, Jayne. The lorry-driver’s sat over there on the verge. Will you just go and check he’s OK and keep an eye on him until the traffic unit gets here.’ She was looking at me, her eyes questioning. I nodded. ‘It’s a fatal.’

  ‘OK Mike. Will do.’ I could see Jayne take a quick glance into the vehicle as she walked past.

  ‘Fordy, just go and speak to the first few cars and see if any of them witnessed what happened.’

  ‘Will do, Mike.’

  ‘1015 to control, update.’

  ‘Go ahead Mike.’

  ‘I can confirm it’s proved fatal. We’ve got car versus lorry. Female passenger of car has proved fatal, and male driver is likely to. Both elderly. Could you let the duty SIO know and also contact the AIU? I’m going to seal the road off, so can you contact Highways. We’ll need diversions putting in place.’

  ‘That’s all received.’

  In a case like this you’re glad of the procedures that you’re required to adopt. They save you having to think too hard. I knew I now needed to treat this as a crime scene so that evidence could be preserved for the investigation team. The AIU or Accident Investigation Unit are a dedicated team of officers who specialise in serious road traffic accidents. They piece together all the evidence and establish what caused the accident. They would work with the SIO or senior investigating officer, an experienced traffic officer who is trained to oversee or lead the investigation.

  There were still one or two people homing in on the crushed Micra, tentatively but purposefully. One looked shocked, another was frankly gawping. One was holding out a blanket, trying to be helpful.

  ‘If you could please stay back and let the ambulance crew do their job,’ I said, stationing myself between them and the wreckage with my arms out wide. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help, so please return to your vehicles. Meanwhile, there’s a fire engine coming right now so please, for your own safety, stay back!’

  Some of them still looked at me, almost pleading. People do that. They want comforting, they want to be told what to do, they want to know what’s happened – and what’ll happen next. ‘We’ll do everything we can to get you on your way as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, be patient. Be prepared for a considerable delay – and please, stay with your vehicles.’

  As the fire engine pulled up I felt the weight on my shoulders ease. These lads were the ones whose job it was to attempt to cut the victims out of the wreckage. I now had the two most important services on scene and dealing with the casualties.

  ‘Control to 1015.’

  ‘Go ahead, over.’

  ‘Mike, I’ve got Highways on the phone. They want to know where you want the diversions.’

  This was going to prove very tricky, what with the sheer weight of traffic in both directions. Given the location of the accident it was going to be a nightmare trying to re-route them. I needed to give this some thought, but also needed to sort it sharpish.

  ‘If you can stand by,’ I said, ‘I don’t think we have a plan in place for this location. I’ll come back to you shortly. Any ETA for the traffic car?’

  ‘Received Mike. Traffic car is aware of the situation and should be with you shortly. The Scarborough car is also making its way.’

  ‘All received.’

&nb
sp; My job now was to deal with the queue of cars that stretched back towards the coast, and the other one that was backed up God knows how many miles towards York. Every minute we were there the queues were growing as more and more cars joined the tailbacks.

  There was a noise, of metal being cut. Then a smell. Oil on a hot engine block. Or was it the hydraulic cutting gear the firemen were using? Even as I went to ask if everything was OK, they stopped. There was a moment’s silence, then one of the paramedics said, ‘He’s stopped breathing.’

  Jayne and Fordy walked past me. They had the lorry-driver between them and were supporting him. He was trembling now, his head hanging low. He was clearly in shock. They put him in the back of their car and spread a blanket over his shoulders. Somebody was jabbering on the fire-engine radio. The ambulance driver was reporting in on his. A paramedic hurried by, panting, with his bag, on his way to check on the lorry-driver. A big guy like that, in shock, he could easily have a cardiac arrest. I’d seen it happen.

  ‘Glad you’re here, mate.’ Our Ryedale traffic officer had arrived. He was new to our area, but an experienced copper. ‘Right Simon, we’ve got two elderly occupants in the Micra. The female passenger has been killed outright and it looks like the male driver has just proved. The lorry-driver appears uninjured, but is in shock. He’s with Fordy and a paramedic in the back of the police car. Don’t appear to be any other vehicles involved. AIU are en route, as are a double-crewed Scarborough traffic car. Fordy has got names and addresses of a few witnesses and they’re all back with their vehicles. Can I leave this to you now and let me sort out the diversions?’