"He's all over the road, MP"

My role in possibly the UK's slowest-ever car chase

Today mainly concerns cars and stuff; in the early 1990s the Met’s ‘Area Car’ was the Ford Sierra, AKA the ‘Jelly Mould’. Replacing the much-loved Rover SD1, it was considered inferior in every way.

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Before today’s story, some news. It’s been an eventful week for UK Policing PLC;

• In Greater Manchester, a Chief Constable dug his force out of special measures by, er, ordering his officers to investigate crimes. Whatever next? I presume GMP’s Macarena team is living on borrowed time too.

• Buoyed by Manchester’s triumph, the new Prime Minister subsequently declared a war on ‘Woke Policing’, despite his party being in charge for nearly 13 years and therefore responsible for the aforementioned Wokeness.

• In another outbreak of commonsense, sixteen Police and Crime Commissioners are rebelling against the new recruit training regime (requiring all coppers to be graduates). As you can imagine, here at the Schloss Adler we’re deeply suspicious of the police apprenticeship / degree scheme, which we suspect is intended to turn policing into a more kinetic version of nursing. Nursing’s a vocation with a degree attached too, right? Remember, a ‘vocation’ is government shorthand for a job where people go the extra mile for negligible pay and crappy conditions.

Anyhow, just when you suspect a Conservative press officer was having a smashing week populating ‘The Grid’ with red meat law and order issues…

• Sussex Police went and fucked everything up by summoning a woman for an interview for offences under modern slavery legislation. Apparently, her Ukrainian au pair took exception to being asked the load the dishwasher.

Am I alone in pining for the days when a sweaty Pc would’ve politely listened to the complainant before radioing the result back as LOB? No offences apparent or disclosed, both parties suitably advised.

Funnily enough, I’m writing a post on Policing and the lost art of discretion. Watch this space.

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Anyhow, this week… a story about a strange car chase I was involved in. There’s no real reason, it just popped into my head the other day when I was pondering my next Substack post. Besides, car chases are cool. Well, perhaps not this one. Incidentally, “he’s all over the road, MP,” refers to the oft-heard phrase you’d hear over the radio when a bandit car decided to go for it. ‘MP’ refers to the Metropolitan Police Information Room at New Scotland Yard, who coordinated car chases.

Now I’m not really a petrol-head, in fact I much prefer tanks but I’m too fat stout to fit inside (I drove a Chieftain a few years back, it was a bloody tight fit). However, given how heavily motorcars feature in the average copper’s service, I suppose it’s inevitable a bit of Top Gear eventually rubs off on you.

For me, the penny dropped after I passed my ‘Level 2’ advanced driving course. This used to be called the Fast Car Course, which is easily the coolest course name ever (it’s even better if you say it in a Clarkson voice). Having spent two weeks being taught to drive very, very fast I began to truly appreciate powerful cars. I’ve also passed anti-hijack training, which was lots of fun. Confession: I went through an unashamed course-collecting phase after a period of limited career development - I even did the specialist arts and antiques crime course, which was brilliant.

I’m occasionally asked what’s the fastest I’ve ever driven (as opposed to being a passenger, which is probably MACH-3). It was on my driving course: 126mph on a long, straight piece of road in Cambridgeshire. The car was a bonkers-fast Skoda Octavia vFS, although most of the training was on BMW 5 Series saloons. The feeling of pure exhilaration as you make a silky single rev gear change, the road opening before you, engine growling like a semi-tamed beast… yes I’ve gone all Top Gear, haven’t I?

Actually, I’m not a fast driver by nature. As my instructor noted on my final assessment, “you’re built for comfort Dom, not for speed.” The instructors really knew their stuff. The Met’s crap at so many things, but for the chunky, safety-critical courses I went on they were on the money.

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Driving status was (and possibly remains) a big deal among uniformed police officers. Area Car drivers were the top dogs, having passed the famously demanding six-week Hendon advanced motor driving course. This was often the most experienced Pc on the team, who’d sometimes sit at a table in the canteen with the other X-Wing pilots. The running gag was Area Car drivers never wrote anything down, as they had an ‘operator’ (the officer in the passenger seat) to do it for them.

Area Car drivers… drove. Some would eventually ascend to Area Car driver Nirvana, which was a posting to the Flying Squad as a ‘Pc Driver’. Detectives back then were seldom sent on advanced driving courses.

Below Area Car drivers came Response Drivers (previously known as the ‘Standard Car’ course, which confusingly also qualified you to drive the station van). Driving the van meant ferrying prisoners around rather than having to deal with them, which obviously appealed to a certain type of copper.

Finally, at the bottom of the pecking order, were Basic Drivers who’d undertaken no training beyond a check test. ‘Billy Basics’ were only allowed to drive Panda cars or unmarked ‘GP’ cars (in my day they were dark blue Astras with no hubcaps) and never allowed to use ‘exemptions’ (i.e. go fast) or use blue lights or sirens. Some did, of course, but were usually suspended or even prosecuted if caught.

Then came the miscreants who didn’t even have a driving licence. Or probationers, who weren’t allowed to drive on my division. They did a lot of foot patrols. If it was raining and the van driver felt sorry for you, he’d pick you up. Then the sergeant would catch you and give you a bollocking.

Police officers occasionally date themselves by the cars at their first station (I really, really hope we get some properly ancient jam jars listed in the comments section). When I joined, the Met had recently phased out the famous Rover SD1 V8, a much-loved police car. It was swapped for the uncharismatic Ford Sierra, which wasn’t loved at all. Unexciting and lumpy to drive, it was the sort of car an accountant would choose for a police force. I suppose it was an apposite vehicle for the John Major era. The Sierra would in turn be replaced by the equally uninspiring Vauxhall Cavalier.

Our ‘Response Cars’ were Vauxhall Astras and our van a Leyland Sherpa. I remember the Sherpa was equipped with a public address system; one van driver used it to broadcast fashion advice to random members of the public as he drove by: “that’s an interesting hat, Sir,” or “blue definitely suits you, Madam”. We once arrested a drunken Polish opera singer outside a tube station (still wearing a bow tie and tails), who we encouraged to perform over the van’s PA. Commuters looked on in confusion as our Met Police Sherpa blasted a live rendition of ‘O Sole Mio’ from its PA.

At the bottom of the police vehicular pile were the Panda cars – utterly bloody horrible Austin Metros powered with washing machine engines. They were used to patrol and attend non-emergency calls. My first call driving one was to rescue a stag beetle someone found in their kitchen. Seriously.

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Anyhow, back to my not-so-epic car chase. Incidentally, if you’re interested in Pursuit Management or Traffic Rattery this is probably the wrong post for you. It was 1994 or thereabouts when things were done differently. Nowadays risk aversion micromanagement is key. Note to self - there’s something else to write about, how risk aversion drives command and control systems, whereby senior officers with zero situational awareness try to coordinate real-time scenarios by remote control (qv Stockwell).

Anyway, back to the car chase. It was Night Duty, which was 22:00 until 06:00; possibly the most fertile shift for a car chase. I was the ‘plainclothes observer’ in the Area Car, driven by a Pc called Steve. Area Cars were equipped with main-set radios linked to Scotland Yard – ‘IR’ (or Information Room) – which meant you were sent to the most urgent 999 calls. Yay! Sometimes, if there were enough officers on duty, a Pc would be assigned to jump in the back of the car wearing civilian clothes. The idea was, if necessary, you could be dropped near an incident to creep up on suspects. Plainclothes observer was, by a country mile, the best night duty posting.

Steve was an interesting guy; he’d been a traffic officer who’d quit in protest at the unfair way drivers were treated at magistrates court. Traffic officers with a conscience? Rare as rocking-horse shit. One day he was giving evidence against a bloke for speeding. The driver, who received a hefty fine and six points on his licence, narrowly avoided losing his job. The next person in the dock was a serial burglar… who got a suspended sentence and a ten quid fine (which is why we called magistrates ‘Muppets’). Steve quit traffic in disgust and returned to division. He was a decent, thoughtful person and an amazing driver. I would go on to attend numerous emergency calls with him – he made ‘The Stig’ look like the bloke out of Driving Miss Daisy.

It was about 03:00 when we saw a Red Honda Accord gingerly jump a red traffic light right in front of us. Steve flashed the blue lights, signalling for the driver to pull over, but the Honda kept going. Steve switched on the sirens. Still the driver carried on.

A chase.

Any copper who says they aren’t excited by the prospect of a car chase is lying. Or studying for promotion, as nobody ever made inspector by chasing cars. Far too risky.

The Area Car operator keyed the mic and announced a ‘fail to stop’ incident, which would draw other police units to our location like wasps to jam - everyone wants in on a car chase. He ran a PNC check to see if the car was stolen. It wasn’t. It was a company vehicle, registered to an address in one of the leafier parts of Ealing. “Will he go for it?” said Steve, anticipating the moment the ‘bandit’ car finally stops tip-toeing around and hoofs it.

At this point, the Honda ran another red light. At about… 15mph.

“He’s sort of going for it,” I said. “Isn’t he?”

“This is a crap car chase,” the operator sniffed. “We haven’t broken the speed limit yet.”

“I reckon he’s pissed as a fart,” said Steve. When it was safe, he drew level with the driver so we could take a look at him. He was a smartly-dressed Japanese man in his forties, gripping the steering wheel like his hands were glued to it. The operator shouted for him to pull over. He refused to acknowledge us, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

We sat on the Honda’s tail through deserted suburban streets, occasionally achieving speeds of nearly 30mph. We tootled past the brutalist-looking Acton police station, where a couple of coppers listening to the chase on the radio gave us a cheery wave. Then we meandered up Horn Lane and towards the A40. Other police cars joined our slow-moving convoy, some making silly comments over the radio (along with a fair bit of ‘twanging’; if you know, you know).

“Wow, we’ve hit 35mph,” said the operator in disgust.

“It’s a 40mph limit here,” Steve chuckled. Eventually, we reached Hanger Lane Gyratory, which is a huge roundabout with a tube station marooned in the middle. The Honda stopped at a red light. It turned green, but the Honda didn’t move. Other police cars began backing up behind us. Strangely, I felt embarrassed. This was our car chase and it was crap. It was like throwing a party with no booze. Steve turned and looked at me. “Dom, I’ve had enough of this bollocks. I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Get out and see if you can open the passenger door. If you can, drag him out. If you see him trying to drive away, forget it. We’ll take it from there.”

“What if the door’s locked?” I asked.

“You’ve got a truncheon?”

I produced the comedy wooden stick we were issued with. “Sure.”

“Smash the window, but be careful. I’m not having this dickhead causing an accident.”

I got out of the car and approached the Honda. The driver sat hunched behind the wheel, a baffled look on his face. Seeing me, he activated the Honda’s central locking. I pushed my warrant card up against the passenger window. “Police. Get out of the car.”

He ignored me, staring glassily over the steering wheel.

Which was when I started battering the car window with my stick. I’d smashed quite a few windows with the bloody thing (yes, I’ve helped rescue a dog from a boiling hot car, one of my proudest moments), although I don’t think I ever hit anyone with it. The driver, looking irritated rather than annoyed, cranked opened the window a little.

Now, a golden rule of stopping cars is never reach into one, in case you end up getting dragged away. However, I decided to grab the driver’s arm. It was stupid, but something about the bloke’s manner convinced me he wasn’t going anywhere. It was as if by ignoring me the situation would go away. Anyway, I was lucky. I wouldn’t try the same trick now.

The Japanese man was only a little fella. I dragged him out of the open car window quite easily, which was when I smelt the booze on his breath. Too drunk to even breathalyse, we cuffed him and put him in the back of our car. Sure enough, there was an empty bottle of Scotch rattling around the Honda’s footwell.

We ended up at Wembley police station, where the Japanese guy blew into an evidential screening device (the drink-drive machine at the station as opposed to the portable device officers carry). His result was over 100 on the ESD (the limit is 35 and you’re charged for a drink / drive offence at 40) which won him the statutory round of applause from everyone in the custody suite (when I was in uniform I remember everyone blowing over a hundred on an ESD got a round of applause).

The Japanese bloke looked baffled. Why were we congratulating him? I don’t know how they do sarcasm in Japan, but I suppose it’s different from our version. Anyhow, he was charged, bailed and we got back on the road.

“Jesus,” the operator grumbled. “That really was the worst car chase ever.”

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About two months later, our sergeant found us loafing in the station yard. “Remember your crap car chase? The Japanese bloke? He’s failed to appear at court. They’ve issued a warrant for his arrest.”

“Best we go and get him then,” said Steve.

The Japanese guy’s address was on the Ealing / Acton borders, which has a sizeable Japanese community. We parked outside the wanted man’s house, a handsome mock Tudor pile with a ‘to let’ sign on the drive. Nobody replied when we rang the bell. Next door, a Japanese lady was pottering in her front garden. “Hi,” I said, pointing at the house. “I’m looking for the gentleman who lives here.”

“He’s returned to Japan,” she replied, eyes downcast.

“Why?” asked Steve.

“He brought shame on his company,” she said. It turned out he was an executive at a big electronics company.

“Well I reckon that’s why we’re here,” said Steve. “I take it he’s not coming back?”

The Japanese lady shook his head. “No, he will never come back.”

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“He will lose his job,” she replied matter-of-factly. “He will lose everything.”

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We got back in the car. Steve shrugged. “Sacked? I suppose that’s worse than anything our courts would do to him.”

“Yes I suppose so.”

“Justice eh? It’s a funny old thing.”

“I almost feel sorry for the poor fucker,” I said.

Steve grinned. “I know what you mean. Although I feel sorrier for you, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“That really was a crappy car chase. Hopefully we’ll find you a better one next time.”

I laughed.

For all I know, the Japanese bloke’s still shown as ‘Wanted / Missing’ on the PNC.

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A quick aside: I hope you’re enjoying my Substack. Please let me know if you’ve any suggestions about stuff you’d like to read. Feedback really is a gift.

Either leave a comment or email me at dominicadlerwriter@gmail.com