Spinning Drums

Bashing doors open is fun... until it isn't

The ‘Big Red Door Key’

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Spin (Metropolitan Police slang) - to search

Drum (Cockney rhyming slang) - a place of residence (as in ‘drum and bass’ / place)

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“The CID have asked for our assistance on a spin,” our sergeant announced, eyebrow arched. He reminded me of the comedian Jack Dee, speaking in a sort of sneery deadpan when he mentioned the CID. “We’ll send the van and the area car. Sean, you can do the honours with the door.” Back in those days - circa 1993 - the early turn for a semi-inner London subdivision would have a van, an area car, and two double-crewed panda cars. You’d still have enough officers left over for foot patrol.

“Blimey,” said Sean, the Pc driving the station van. “CID are in before six on a Saturday morning?”

It was a sunny early turn. CID officers (who usually worked one weekend in six) often executed search warrants on a Friday – spin a drum at six, breakfast at eight and bugger off home by twelve. Most local searches involved half a dozen crime squad officers and a knock on the door. No battering rams or dogs or riot cops in tactical gear. The haul might be enough cannabis to support a PWITS charge (possession with intent to supply) or stolen stereos or video recorders (for HSG, or handling stolen goods), enough to keep the magistrate who issued the warrant happy. It also kept our local villains on their toes - not knowing if your door’s going in at silly o’clock is an effective sort of PsyOp. The modern police service has forgotten one of its key roles is to scare the shit out of criminals.

Anyhow, a CID job on a Saturday morning was significant. The sort an informant might call in. Something involving something meatier than the average Friday morning spin. I sat in the van with Sean as he drove our battered Sherpa along deserted streets. The area car, driven by a burly Pc called Mark, followed us onto a local housing estate. Mark was, like Sean, a big rugby player (which, as you will see, is relevant to the tale).

It was just after 0600, when the majority of residents were still asleep. The two detectives stood outside a tower block next to the world’s most obvious unmarked police car – a dark blue Vauxhall Astra with no hubcaps and two aerials. One was dressed like Damon Albarn in a Fila tracksuit top, the other in a hideous lemon Lacoste polo shirt. “They think they’re Crockett and Tubbs, don’t they?” Sean sighed. Sean had fifteen years in uniform. He had no intention of ever joining ‘The Filth.’

The first detective, whose name I forget but shall call Damon, waved. “We got the warrant late last night,” he explained. “We’re looking for a shit-load of puff.” Younger readers might be surprised to learn police officers were once permitted, out-of-hours, to approach magistrates directly for warrants. I’ve sworn out an ‘information’ and obtained an urgent warrant in a magistrate’s kitchen at two in the morning. Now, of course, a snotty clerk triages every last detail over the telephone before even allowing you a sniff of a magistrate. When I started my career, search warrants were executed almost daily. By the time I spent a mercifully brief spell back at a main office in the mid-2010s, it was down to one or two a week.

“Are you expecting anyone home?” asked Sean, getting out of the van and reaching for his trusty sledgehammer. Sean was a six-foot three prop forward who enjoyed bashing down doors.

“Dunno,” Damon shrugged. “I hope so.”

“You ready?” said the second detective, who I shall call Lacoste.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the briefing and risk assessment complete.

There’s a reason why the police got rid of sledgehammers as a method of entry tool

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Inside, the block smelt of piss, cannabis and old cooking. We trooped up the stairs. Nobody trusted the lifts to work, and even when they did they were prone to breaking down. Community relations were fractious - no copper wanted to be trapped in an elevator at the mercy of the estate’s menagerie of feral youths. Even worse, you’d be rescued by the fire brigade, who’d ruthlessly take the piss.

Finally, Damon and Lacoste stopped outside a flat on the sixth floor. Lacoste was so out of breath he was forced to extinguish his cigarette and take a deep breath before lighting another. “This is it,” Damon whispered. He clutched a white search book, a search warrant and a sheaf of evidence bags.

“You sure?” said Sean, stepping forward. We'd all heard of coppers smashing in the wrong door.

“Look here,” Damon replied, showing him the search warrant.

“Okay,” said Sean. We knew every specification of door on the estate - which ones you could kick in, which ones you could rock open with your toecap and which ones you needed to hammer the fuck out of. Sean sucked his teeth. “Three locks,” he whispered, nodding at the top, middle and bottom of the door panel.

“It’s a fucking drug dealer’s drum,” Lacoste shrugged. “What did you expect?”

Rolling his shoulders like a boxer, Sean hefted the sledgehammer. We shimmied away, lining up along the corridor. When the door went in, Sean would step aside and we’d bundle in. No body armour. No shields. Just three blokes in shirtsleeves carrying truncheons. I felt the adrenaline popping in my brain. You never knew what was going to be behind the door. That was all part of the fun. It was one of the reasons why I joined the police.

Sean took a swing, the sledgehammer’s head dull in the gloomy light. “Oh fuck,” he said, as the hammerhead detached from the shaft, tumbling back down the corridor towards us. I ducked. But Mark? Unbelievably, he help up a hand to catch the lump of steel as if it were a rugby ball at a lineout.

With a sickening crunch, Mark’s fingers broke like a bundle of twigs. I heard them snap. “Shit,” he said, looking at his ruined hand. His voice was calm. “What a stupid cunt I am. That was muscle memory, that was.”

“Fucking lids,” said Lacoste.

Then we all started giggling. Even Mark, who was leaking claret all over the floor. Sean passed him a handkerchief. “D’you want a run up to the hospital?”

“Nah,” Mark winced, wrapping up his hand. “I want to see what all the fuss was about.”

How much effort is spent stopping people from enjoying spicy cigarettes? I’d ban skunk, which is brain-rotting shit, but old-fashioned herb? Probably not

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Sean ended up hoofing the door in with his size twelves, as we’d lost any element of surprise. Anyway, we were six floors up so there was nowhere for the occupants to go. We were after cannabis, which we knew from previous raids was a pain in the arse to flush down the toilet. We dashed inside, Mark still trailing blood.

“There’s nobody here,” I said, checking all of the rooms. Damon headed to the kitchen. Looking back on it, I suspect his informant had told him exactly where the drugs were. Inside the oven were six fat ‘soaps’ of herbal cannabis, probably half a kilo each.

“That’ll do,” said Lacoste. “Shame there’s no prisoners, though.”

Damon pulled a face. “The information was good.”

Mark was pale-faced. “I think I’d better get myself to casualty.”

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Mark’s hand healed nicely and I was posted to the divisional crime squad, taking part in the Friday morning spins I’d heard about.

Our cheery Geordie Dc, a bloke called Kev, kept a roster of low-level informants who’d happily grass on criminal competitors for beer money. Back then most CID officers had informants, which was considered a bread-and-butter skill for a detective (you wouldn’t even get a sniff of a CID board if you hadn’t recruited a few). Kev would meet a snout in a pub off the manor before scurrying off to the magistrates’ court. He’d lay down ‘an information’ on oath and put the warrants in his drawer. He had three months to execute them. He’d leaf through them like Top Trumps cards. “This bloke’s always at it,” he’d say. “We’ve got three weeks left before it expires. Shall we scoop him up on Friday?”

The crime squad sergeant would nod. Why not? Just let the duty inspector know. We’d knock on the door at seven (most of our customers seldom rose before noon), politely explain we had a warrant then give the drum a spin. Most of the time the suspects were stoic, seeing the occasional raid as an occupational hazard. I can honestly say we tried our best to conduct searches with as little drama as possible - we let the occupant decide the level of grief involved. If we found anything we’d arrest, charge and bail any prisoners, book in the drugs or stolen gear then head off for breakfast at our favourite greasy spoon. Officers who were late or made minor infractions would have to pay for everyone else. It ensured promptness.

Then, just after lunch, we’d go for a pint. Everyone was happy - prisoners on the charge sheet and contraband recovered, all in time for sausage, egg, beans and chips. It was how I learned my trade. I loved it. At that stage in my service I couldn’t wait to go to work, but I was young and deeply, deeply stupid.

As you move on in policing, the stakes can escalate. To the point where you don’t even set foot in a drum unless this lot have spun it first

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We raided brothels, scrap yards, travelers sites, warehouses and pubs. Even a houseboat. We found guns in cobwebbed attics, drugs hidden in door panels, escaped prisoners, stolen jewelry and even dangerous dogs. I moved onto terrorists, bent coppers and even intelligence officers (I once received a sniffy complaint for allegedly smashing up a rogue MI5 officer’s flat, which you can read about here).

Then, finally, shit got real.

One morning in September 1996, I found myself sitting in a Land Rover in Hammersmith. The antiterrorist branch, SO13, were about to raid a hotel where members of a Provisional IRA active service unit were in hiding. With information the PIRA men were armed, SO19 officers led the raid. The details of what happened next are a matter of public record, so I’ll refrain from commenting on the shooting itself. My job was search liaison, meaning my role was to carry out what the Americans call ‘Site Exploitation’ to identify any fast-time intelligence opportunities after the arrest phase.

I remember hearing the gunshots. “Oh fuck,” I said to the POLSA guy driving the Land Rover. Despite what some might think, most coppers agree a successful raid is one involving no gunplay. I saw three SO19 officers running by, the shooter being escorted away from the scene. We drove around the corner to see a pale figure laying at the bottom of a flight of stairs outside the redbrick hotel, SO19 officers and ambulance crews frantically working on his wounds. Other prisoners were being led away to arrest cars, one of them glancing at the body of a young, red-haired man called Diarmuid O’Neill.

It was a long way from Sean’s wonky sledgehammer and Mark’s broken fingers. It really was like a scene from a movie - the crackle of radios, wash of blue lights and officers in white forensic suits. I joined one of my fellow special branch officers, a detective sergeant, on the pavement. “Are you okay?” he said.

I shook my head. I was speechless. I’d seen many dead bodies, of course, but I’d never been involved in an operation where someone had been shot dead by police. By us. I felt, in some way, culpable. I’d watched the guy from different OPs for weeks. He was a Londoner, like me, and of a similar age. Up until that point I thought he was my enemy. O’Neill was an IRA volunteer. He was gathering weapons and explosives. He was prepared to kill for his cause. And he was prepared to die for it too.

Yet still I felt nauseous. Then I felt bad that I felt… bad. Shouldn’t I be tougher? Shouldn’t I feel a sense of grim satisfaction? All I felt was an immense sadness. Like an anvil crushing my soul.

I knew, at that moment, I had to harden my heart. To get over myself. This was the trade I’d chosen. It was possible I’d be involved in other operations where people might die. I had to accept my part in the machine, even if I never pulled a trigger. Or I should leave and do something else instead.

That realisation was what lay behind the door for me that morning.

“Silly bugger,” said the DS sadly.

“Who, me?”

“No,” he replied, nodding at Diarmuid O’Neill. “He was a true believer, that one.”

“I feel sick.”

“That’s no bad thing,” the DS replied. “Then again, I suppose he’d have blown you and your family up quite happily.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I replied, hardening my heart. I don’t think it ever fully softened again. It’s not something I’m terribly proud of, but it is what it is.

As the terrorist threat shifted to Islamist terrorism, the stakes changed. There were more bombs and more guns. Many people would die, mostly at the hands of the most callous of terrorists.

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Towards the end of my career, washed-up and pretty much broken, I found myself deskbound. Nonetheless, one day I was ordered to make up the numbers on a raid. I joined a hastily-assembled team of long in the tooth coppers, shooed out of dusty corners to help on a series of raids coordinated by the NCA.

We met in a police station car park in the small hours, cursing our bad backs and lost sleep. Someone mislaid their car keys and was fined breakfast. Then we all laughed. At the search site the DS in charge decided she was going to knock on the door. “We’re too old for that smashing things up palaver,” she wisely announced. Inside, there was no sign of the suspect, but his partner and child were there. We arranged for one of her friends to pick up the child so she could witness the search properly. It was a POCA (proceeds of crime act) job, so you get to seize anything that looks shiny. It’s like ‘Supermarket Sweep’ in someone else’s house. The absent suspect (ostensibly on benefits) had a large collection of luxury watches (including a Rolex Daytona) and as I’m a watch nerd I lovingly boxed, bagged and tagged every single one. Yes, the Daytona was real.

We were scrupulous about not making a mess. We were thorough. We ran a money dog around the house (they’re trained to sniff the ink they use in banknotes) and found fifty grand in cash, vacuum-packed and hidden inside the sofa. We all made a fuss of the doggo, who was the bestest girl.

Nothing cheered up my day like working with a police doggo. I absolutely love them

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As we finished the search, I realised it was the best day I’d had in the Job for many years.

Although I was relieved we’d moved on from sledgehammers.