A Fair Cop

The last remaining prisoner looked hard-featured. He was stocky and had a mass of tattoos all over him, including a picture of a dagger stabbing into his neck with blood dripping from the blade. He intimidated me just by his appearance. I dared not think of why he was in prison. I was trembling uncontrollably. It was cold and I already felt weak and I added to the stench of the place with the remnants of vomit on my jacket. The man stared at me, ignoring questions from the prison officer at the desk. He looked disgusted by my presence.

He took a pace towards me, meaning we were about an arm’s length apart. His eyes were piercing. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, making a panting noise as he did so. He smelt of alcohol. He screwed his face up in another look of disgust and edged even closer. He began making noises with his mouth as if he was accumulating saliva. Before I had chance to retreat, he spat in my face, and phlegm landed right on my cheek. I immediately began to wipe it off with the vomit-ridden sleeve. The officers made no reaction; in fact, they stopped asking him questions as if they were happy to let him do as he pleased. I looked towards the one behind the desk and, using facial gestures, expressed my bewilderment at the situation. The officer looked wary. I was completely baffled by what was happening, as it seemed like the man had taken control of the area he was occupying. Just as I finished wiping my face, he spat again, this time towards my feet. He opened his mouth and, with a flick of his tongue, removed his top set of teeth. I stepped back. As I did this, he raised his arm and with a swift movement punched me in the face, causing an immediate popping sensation in my nose. He laughed in my face. I felt a salty taste in the back of my throat and blood started to pour from my nostrils. I stumbled back, too scared to react other than to put my hands in a defensive position over my face. The man laughed again and said something under his breath, I don’t know what, then he turned away and walked off. With no fuss, a prison officer quietly led him away.

I bent over at the waist to prevent the blood getting onto my shirt. It dripped onto the floor and splattered onto my shoes. One of the officers approached me and unceremoniously gave me some toilet roll. My nose was riddled with pain and tears streamed down my face. I daren’t even complain to the prison officers. I hadn’t worked the place out and I didn’t want to make more enemies than I already had in there. There was seemingly little concern, though, and no repercussions for the man who had assaulted me. I saw the custody sheet on the desk. He was in for manslaughter. I wiped my nose and looked for a reaction from the staff. There wasn’t one. The next four months were going to be hell.

‘Right, Bunting. Clothes off !’ came the order from the officer at the desk. His attitude took me aback. I began to get undressed, but I found it rather embarrassing as there was no screen, and I was in full view of all of the officers in the area. There were also two cleaning ladies present, but they didn’t seem to take any notice. I guess they had seen it all before. I carefully placed each item of clothing onto the desk: my tie, my dirty jacket, my shirt, my trousers, my socks and my blooded shoes. In contrast to the care I had taken with my clothes, a prison officer then crammed them into a small box, wearing medical gloves. I wanted to ask him to be more careful with my property, but that might well have been counter-productive. This was prison, and I was an inmate.

‘I thought I said take your fucking clothes off,’ he said again.

‘Sorry?’ I asked. He pointed to my underpants, which I had left on. Surely they would allow me to remove these in private?

‘Off,’ he said. I couldn’t believe it. Another prison officer approached him and whispered something. I don’t know exactly what he said, but it instantly transformed his attitude towards me. ‘Oh, you’ll find a robe in that box,’ he said quietly. His behaviour generated a large amount of sympathy in me towards other prisoners, something which I never thought I would feel.

I placed my underpants into the box with my other clothes. The prison officer gave me a name board with my details and prison number on it: Michael E. Bunting. d.o.b. 7/9/73. DK8639. That number would become my identity for the whole of my sentence. I held the board up to my chest and, with a blinding flash of light, an officer took my photograph. Following this, I had my fingerprints taken. It was a terse task and the officer didn’t speak to me as he grabbed each finger and rolled it into the ink and then onto the paper. When he’d finished with me, I was covered in ink up to my wrists. I felt like a piece of meat. He told me to wash my hands, and I was sent to the supply room where I was given my prison clothing. The boxer shorts I was given were bloodstained. I cringed as I put them on. The T-shirt was so tight it seemed to almost squeeze the air from my lungs, and the jeans were so loose I had to hold them up to prevent them falling to my ankles. I remember there was a large drawing of a penis on the front of the left leg, drawn in ink by a previous inmate. The jumper had HMP ARMLEY written across the front of it. I wasn’t exactly likely to forget where I was, but this served as a constant reminder. One of the inmates working in the storeroom then gave me my bed pack, which comprised two blankets and a pillowcase. I clutched them under one arm, as I held my jeans up with the other. It was hard to accept that just minutes earlier I had been wearing my smart suit. Now I was wearing a degrading prison uniform, which already had splashes of blood on it from my injured nose.

A prison officer then took hold of my shoulder and led me away. He was younger than the others and seemed far less robotic. He spoke to me as we walked through the door to the main prison, telling me I would be placed in a cell in the hospital wing, the wing where inmates with severe health problems were detained. I was being sent here because I was a policeman and therefore posed a security risk to the prison due to inmates’ reaction to me. I wasn’t sure whether this was being done as a result of what had just happened.

Armley Prison is huge and our journey to my cell was a long one. Every corridor was secured with a locked door and the officer would keep reaching for the keys on a chain around his belt to unlock and then re-lock each one. Prisoners stared at me as I walked through each wing. They were all going about their normal business of cleaning out their cells or reading newspapers, nothing much more. I had already been warned by the officer not to look back at them. That, in his words, would result in my first ‘kick in’. I corrected him and said it would be my second. I tried to keep my head down, but this wasn’t easy, as I thought that at any moment someone else would realise who I was and try to hurt me. I got the impression that if that happened, the officer wouldn’t intervene, as this would result in him being attacked, too. I was relying purely on the fact that word had not yet got around that I was a policeman. I didn’t know either way. I was petrified of an immediate attack, but tried to blend in as if I was a normal inmate. I felt my heart thumping in my chest, and I felt breathless.

Several corridors and many hard stares later, we arrived at the hospital wing. I was placed in my cell. It was tiny and mundane. There was a small desk and chair, a bin, a metal sink and, of course, the bed, which was more like a thin mattress on legs. My hopes of a lively ward of caring people faded fast. This cell was as bad as the other two I had been in. The moment I stepped into it, the door slammed shut behind me. ‘You’d better settle down for a bit, mate,’ said the officer, as he peered through my cell hatch. I was still clutching onto my book. I sat on the bed and gazed straight ahead. I knew that once word got around that there was a policeman in the cells, my safety was in jeopardy but I lay back and tried to calm myself down, as the thudding in my chest increased. I had officially started my prison sentence; the next four months were going to be a game of survival for me. I didn’t know what was going to happen. One thing I did know, though, was that it was not a case of if I got my next beating, but a case of when.

I looked up to the ceiling and began my first ever plea to God.

Mum and Dad—You went through hell, and words can never describe my eternal gratitude.

Helen and Stuart, Adam and Oliver, and Nan.

And my girl, Rach—When no one else would listen, you were always there, night and day—I love you, babe x.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

The Beginning

Epigraph

Part I

Chapter 1 Early Days

Chapter 2 Rich Man Hanging

Chapter 3 Summer Madness

Chapter 4 The Monkey Man

Chapter 5 Football Crazy

Chapter 6 Carried by Six or Tried by Twelve?

Chapter 7 ‘Not Guilty’

Chapter 8 Trial and Sentence

Part II

Chapter 9 My Mate Tony

Chapter 10 Silver Service

Chapter 11 I Need the Doctor

Chapter 12 A Pig in the Zoo

Chapter 13 Big Boys Don’t Cry

Chapter 14 Game On

Chapter 15 On the Bins

Chapter 16 Anyone for Cards?

Chapter 17 Watching the Clock

Part III

Chapter 18 Life on the Out

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

Part I

Chapter 1 Early Days

29th March 1993 (six years earlier)

’Take that smile off your face, Bunting!’

It was, I have to say, not as I had expected. I had waited all my life for this moment and I was finally here, standing motionless in my brand new uniform on a freezing cold and wet drill square with ten other recruits. I certainly wasn’t smiling. My first day at West Yorkshire Police training school had started.

He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his smart appearance was dominating. The crease in his trousers appeared to be razor sharp and his boots shone like glass. His flat cap was placed so far down his forehead that you couldn’t see his eyes. Every step he took echoed around the square. I knew that I would have to look like this one day, and soon. I still dared not move. I was intimidated by his presence, but this feeling temporarily subsided to relief, as occasionally Sergeant Wright would allow his emotionless face to show a smile. He walked behind the line in which I was standing and as he went out of sight, I closed my eyes tight. I felt his pace stick thud down onto the top of my helmet. The noise was deafening. ‘Stop smiling!’ he bellowed as he came nose to nose with me. I couldn’t understand this; I wasn’t smiling. I tried not to move, but I felt my helmet falling from my head and so I instinctively tried to catch it. ‘Bunting, stand still!’ His voice was penetrating and I immediately rose to attention as my helmet bounced off into a puddle. I had only had it about an hour and already it was filthy. It would be spotless again by the following day; it would have to be.

The initial training period was to be residential. One bed, one wardrobe, one sink and one metal bin were all that filled my tiny, lifeless room. I noticed a Bible purposefully placed on the pillow. I sat on the bed. My suitcase filled the only remaining floor space. I stood up and I saw myself in the full-length mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. I was only nineteen years old and the uniform seemed to highlight my tender years.

One of the other recruits walked into my room. Richard was older than me but we’d queued for our uniform together and we were already relying on each other for support. ‘Do we go to lunch in full uniform?’

‘I think we’d better,’ I replied cautiously. I had one final look at myself and then looked down to each button on my tunic. I had to make sure that the Queen’s crown was perfectly upright on them all. It was the very first thing that Sergeant Wright had told us and I wasn’t going to forget.

Richard approached me and pinched my back. ‘Hair,’ he muttered, as he held his index finger and thumb up to the window for a closer inspection of a stray hair.

‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied, knowing that he had just saved me from another reprimand from Sergeant Wright.

We all congregated in the television lounge on the landing. There was an uncomfortable silence, but that was only to be expected. We didn’t know each other and we had all just spent four hours on a cold and wet drill square. This had come as a shock. After all, we had been on ‘civvy street’ at breakfast time. I had felt the effects of this massive change the moment I put on the uniform. I can’t describe the feeling; it was just surreal.

The silence continued as we walked across the yard to the canteen. I thought we all looked immaculate. Before today, I had only seen groups of police officers like this on the television; now I was part of one. I smiled. My dream was coming true. This was all I’d ever wanted since seeing my dad in his uniform for the first time when I was about four. I remember he’d come home for a few minutes on Christmas Day to see my sister and I open our presents. Letting the neighbours see that you were a police officer wasn’t as much of a problem in the seventies.

As we walked into the canteen, I immediately noticed the noise of the clanging cutlery. I joined the back of the long queue. No one else was wearing a tunic or a helmet. I noticed several groups of officers looking over and laughing. I realised that tunics and hats were not required in the canteen, yet I dared not remove mine. I looked into the eating area. It was full. I noticed a raised platform with tables on it. There were neatly arranged flowers, jugs of fresh orange and baskets of bread on these tables. A dominant picture of the force crest hung precariously on the wall. I figured that this was the area for senior officers, as the other tables simply had a jug of water on them. With extraordinary curiosity, my eyes wandered around the room. I saw a large portrait of the Queen. This was strikingly significant. She seemed to be staring at me even when I moved. It was as if the picture had been put there deliberately to make me realise where I was. I was now a servant of Her Majesty. A large gap had developed in the queue as the person in front of me strode on. I had to make a conscious effort to close my mouth. I was in awe of everything. I was living my dream, and it was impossible to hide the fact that this was my very first day as a policeman.

When I sat down to eat, I noticed that even the serviettes proudly displayed the force crest. I opened mine out and stared fixedly at it. I noticed that one or two others in my group were doing exactly the same. I began to eat and contemplated the forthcoming afternoon. We were due in the classroom at 1.30 p.m., but I didn’t know what to expect. It was only twelve o’clock so I wanted to take advantage of the bit of free time. I needed to unpack my suitcase, the one my mum had packed. Mum seemed miles away now. I was on my own, about to enter the real world.

Despite these intentions, I didn’t manage to do my unpacking. The free time was consumed by my stupefaction at my surroundings. I also knew that I needed to ‘bull’ my boots and press to perfection my trousers and tunic sleeves. I had already realised that impressing Sergeant Wright wasn’t going to be easy, especially at seven o’clock in the morning, which was when we were next due on the square.

I sat in my room and carefully took off my uniform. The aloof authority around the place made me feel wary of creasing it, even when I was on my own with no one looking. I opened my boot polish and put some water into the lid. I took my cloth, wrapped it around my finger, dipped it into the water and the polish so I could shine my boots. As I did so, I listened intently to every noise. I could hear distant laughter from other rooms and, at this moment, hearing it was very daunting to me. How could anyone dare laugh here?

Richard knocked at my door and came in. ‘We’re all in the telly room, Mick. Doing our boots together, mate.’ I picked up my boots and polish and walked the short distance down the corridor to join them. I was a shy nineteen-year-old and had been out of school for less than a year. The others were older than me, and just joining in with their conversation was unnerving. I would have preferred to stay in my room but that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. I had to make the effort; I wanted to fit in. I sat down. Everybody was doing exactly the same thing. Each had a cloth covering the index finger in one hand, working in a circular motion on the toecap of the boot held in the other. Occasionally, someone would raise the boot to their face, then open their mouth and breathe heavily onto it. It felt like the army to me.

‘It’s gonna take bloody hours, is this.’ Diane was a slender young lady who was clearly frustrated as her boots were still dull. She kept going. I sighed. My boots were dull, too, despite almost an hour of continual ‘bulling’.

We all began to talk, and spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted. This was interrupted only by the occasional gripe about the task in hand. I soon felt more comfortable as I learned that I was in the company of a wide range of people, from a former professional footballer to a check-out operative at a supermarket. One of the guys had been an undertaker before he joined the police and his stories about the situations he’d found himself in helped to pass the time. He’d been involved with the Valley Parade Football Ground disaster in Bradford in 1985, which I found disturbing, as some of my friends had been killed in the fire.

By about 9 p.m. there were ten pairs of pristine boots on the floor. My finger was stained black, and it appeared pruned from the damp cloth. Everybody looked tired but the atmosphere was more relaxed and the talking continued. The boots remained untouched for the next few hours. We had been driven only by the fear and anticipation of Sergeant Wright. Who would bear the brunt of his annoyance tomorrow? Not me again, I hoped.

The next few days consisted of much of the same. I soon realised that none of us would ever satisfy Sergeant Wright. One of the recruits had been told off for tying his laces using the wrong type of knot. It was his job to find fault, but I was determined to make his job as hard as possible. He was going to get the best from me. We all had to look flawless by Thursday. This would be the swearing-in ceremony to be held in front of our families and friends. Perfect appearance would be essential.

It was an early finish on Thursday and so there was no excuse not to get it right. I returned to my room at about 4 p.m. I had got used to its size and its inanimate aura. There was just three hours to go. I tried to visualise Mum and Dad watching me being formally accepted into the police service. My stomach knotted with nerves. I laid on my bed, put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and I felt cold. I could smell the dirty burning odour: the same smell I had noticed every evening as the heating system started. I could hear some men playing a game of football outside. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world, not like me. Somehow, I dozed off.

The distant sound of a radio and the sound of hurried footsteps on the corridor were audible as I began to wake up. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt heavy. I was irked that I’d fallen asleep. I reached onto the floor for my watch. It was ten past six. I’d been asleep for two hours! Panic-stricken, I leaped from my bed and opened the door. I looked down the corridor and saw my colleagues nervously pacing up and down in full uniform as if they were rehearsing for later. I slammed the door. ‘Shit.’ I must have said this quite loudly as I heard a few chuckles from the others. The sound of the footsteps got louder.

‘Get a move on, Mick, we’re going in twenty minutes,’ someone said.

‘No probs, I’ll be right along.’ I tried to sound convincing, but as I said this I was hopping around the room, hurriedly taking off my trousers. Loud bangs rained onto my door. The others seemed to be enjoying my predicament. I ran out completely naked, clutching only a small towel and a bar of soap. The laughter was inevitable, as were the mocking wolf whistles. Fortunately, there was no time to think of the embarrassment. I didn’t have long but I would make it. I had no choice, and by 6.30 p.m. I was standing in front of my mirror again. The work was already done on my uniform and it hung exquisitely. My boots gleamed. I placed my helmet on my head slowly and precisely. I looked at myself for one last time, took a long, deep breath and walked out onto the corridor. I felt contented but still very nervous.

The television lounge swarmed with anxious-looking new police officers. Everyone was on his or her feet and moving around, seemingly without purpose. Periodically, someone would pat themselves down with their hand bound with inverted sticky tape, in a frenzied attempt to remove the last remaining bits of fluff from their tunics. Richard looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he was feeling. These silent exchanges continued for a few minutes. The awkward silences were interrupted only by the reverberation of an object being repeatedly blown by the wind onto the metal flagpole just outside.

Phil, the ex-footballer, pushed the button for the lift. Being recruits, we were on the top floor and descending by the stairs would have been both time-consuming and tiring. The bell rang and the lift doors parted. One by one, we squeezed into the tiny space. I entered last. The doors closed and everyone looked downward. It was a game of skill not to stand on anyone’s perfectly polished boots. The silence remained unbroken. I desperately wanted to speak. I didn’t know what I wanted to say but I felt oppressed by the silence. I glanced across at Phil. He was a tall, solid figure of a man and was known for his sharp wit as the class joker. He spoke with a gentle Irish accent and could have the class in hysterics with just a couple of carefully chosen words. He had done this all week. Phil’s humour was certainly needed now and he responded to my glance.

‘Tommy, what the hell is that?’ Phil thrust his finger into Tommy’s hairy nostril and pointed to something quite horrible. Everybody laughed. Tommy produced a handkerchief in an instant and wiped away the source of our amusement. This jovial moment had temporarily diverted my mind from the forthcoming reality. The bell rang and the doors opened.

The lecture theatre, which was being used for the ceremony, was a short walk away. We had to go outside. There was driving rain and a howling gale, conditions which threatened the appearance of our uniforms. I pushed against the door. It was, for a time at least, a test of strength: me versus the wind. Eventually, I won the battle. I buried my head into my tunic, closed my eyes as much as possible and began the journey. I was now faced with a dilemma: did I walk and risk a complete soaking, or did I run and risk splashing the back of my trousers? The scene to any onlooker must have been amusing as we all waddled like ducks in a vain attempt to prevent the splashing. Nevertheless, we all arrived at the lecture theatre seemingly none the worse for our ordeal.

Once there, I was bewildered by the sight that greeted us. The theatre was a phenomenal size, yet every detail was intricate and minute. Each seat exhibited an elegant nametag in enduring expectancy of each guest. Ten written declarations of the oath were on the front row. I figured that we would be sitting there. Flamboyant silk curtains decoratively circled the entire room, leading to the focus, a large white screen at the front. Alluring velvet strips draped yet another portrait of the Queen. She was looking to the side this time, but her presence was compelling. I thought she could sense my nerves.