Trafalgar Square, London, March 1990
The woman was clearly in shock. She stood less than ten feet away, staring at him or, rather, through him, oblivious to the background roar of the crowd. Still gripping her Socialist Worker ‘Break the Tory Poll Tax’ placard, she was caught in a small sliver of no-man’s land between her fellow protesters and a group of police in riot gear, who were holding small, round shields in one hand and batons in the other. Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, dripped off her chin and splashed on to the road. This being a very English type of riot, both sides politely ignored her. Feeling like a voyeur, Sergeant John Carlyle looked away.
He was on duty, but out of uniform. Over a Combat Rock sweatshirt, he wore a red body-warmer which had PRESS spelt out on the back in black marker pen. An expensive Nikon SLR camera hanging from his neck added to the effect. Working out of Paddington Green police station, Carlyle had been assigned to Counter Terrorism duties for two years now. He had turned up today at the anti-Poll Tax rally in Trafalgar Square to see if some of his charges – a ragbag collection of domestic terrorists, otherwise scumbags who had hitched their wagon to the Animal Liberation movement and the Class War anarchist group – had decided to join in the fun.
Looking out for thirty or so ‘names’ in the midst of this crowd, perhaps as much as one hundred thousand strong, wasn’t the most sophisticated form of surveillance ever undertaken by the Metropolitan Police. But, despite the likelihood that it was wild-goose chase, Carlyle had been curious to see how the day would develop. Everyone knew that not enough overtime had been put on the table to cope with this one, and with too few police available to be deployed, serious trouble was always on the cards.
And so it proved. By the time he had arrived, just before 6 p.m., the rally was well on the way to becoming one of the worst riots seen in the city for a century. Cars had been overturned and set alight; local shops and restaurants had their windows smashed and were forced to close; nearby tube stations were shut; and many streets had been cordoned off. People were milling around with nowhere to go and, since many had been drinking all day, violence was inevitable. The atmosphere was tense.
Standing on a traffic island in the middle of Duncannon Street, Carlyle watched a half-brick come flying through the evening sky, catching one unfortunate constable on the back of the head. Been there, son, thought Carlyle, done that. He watched the dazed officer being helped into the back of the ambulance by his clearly agitated colleagues, already knowing what would come next. Once the ambulance was on its way, the sergeant in charge gave the nod, and police on either side of him waded into the motley collection of demonstrators, with batons flying.
Carlyle saw men, women and even a couple of children go down under a hail of kicks and blows. Some were so close he could almost reach out and touch them as they fell. For maybe five minutes he just stood there watching, feeling a strange sense of detachment. He was finally woken from his daydream by seeing the woman with the smashed face. Picking his way through the melee, he headed away from the trouble, walking north towards Charing Cross Road.
From outside the National Portrait Gallery, he then watched a group of mounted riot police try to clear the corner of Trafalgar Square immediately in front of the South African High Commission. A group of about thirty youths was trying to fight back with wooden sticks pulled from placards, or metal poles extracted from nearby scaffolding. Further down the road, a building was now on fire. Having seen enough, Carlyle turned to leave, just as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Having fun?’ Grinning from ear to ear, Dominic Silver seemed rather overdressed for the occasion. In a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and an expensive-looking jacket, he appeared as though he was on his way to an important dinner party. In fact, he probably was.
Silver took Carlyle by the arm and began walking him briskly in the direction of William IV Street and Covent Garden. ‘It’s quite a show,’ he said, excitement evident in his tone. ‘I hear they’re trashing Stringfellow’s.’
‘So I guess we’re not going to take in a lap dance, then,’ Carlyle deadpanned, allowing himself to fall in step with his mate. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
‘I just need a quick favour.’
Two minutes later, they were standing in Chandos Place, at the back of Charing Cross Police Station. The entire street had been cordoned off. Behind the tape, ten or twelve police vans were parked haphazardly, occupied by a mixture of bored-looking policemen and policewomen, annoyed at missing out on the real action, and some arrested-looking demonstrators whose disappointment looked even greater. Standing on the corner of Bedfordbury, along with a few gawkers and people searching for their friends, Dominic outlined the situation. ‘Two of my guys are inside there,’ he said, pointing to a van parked twenty feet away.
Carlyle sighed. He knew where this was going.
‘They’re holding,’ Dom continued. ‘Quite a lot, as it happens.’
‘That was clever,’ Carlyle scowled. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do about it?’
Dom put on a pained expression. ‘C’mon, John, they haven’t been processed yet. It’ll last forever to deal with this lot, so it’ll take nothing for you to sort this out for me.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Carlyle huffed.
‘Surely you can have a quiet word with one of your colleagues, and then the problem is solved?’ He gestured at the scene in front of them. ‘It won’t make any difference to all this. Your arrest figures today are going to be extremely good, regardless.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle glared at him, struggling to keep his voice down. ‘Do you only hire these types if they are terminally stupid? What the fuck were they doing here, anyway?’
Dom spread his arms wide and laughed nervously. ‘ Mea culpa, mate, mea culpa. I know it’s a big ask. A very big ask. I’ll owe you big time.’
‘Fucking hell, Dominic.’
‘I’ll get you anything you want,’ he said, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Anything.’
Carlyle gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t start that again. How many times
…? I don’t fucking want anything. If I take stuff from you, that’s only going to get me into more trouble.’
‘I understand, of course, I do.’ Dominic stepped closer. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t have to be like that,’ he said, with a slight desperation in his voice that Carlyle had never heard before. ‘You know how it works. I’ve helped you before. I have contacts. I can get information. I can help you again.’
Carlyle started pawing the ground with his right boot. He knew that the smart thing here to do would be to just walk away.
‘C’mon,’ Dom pleaded, ‘this will be a great investment in your future career.’
Carlyle rubbed his neck, not even wanting to think about it. He looked at Dom. ‘What are their names?’
‘Pearson and Manners. Nice middle-class boys, both.’ He gestured at the chaos around them. ‘Fit right in with this mob.’
‘Fucking idiots.’ Pushing his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out his Police ID and ducked under the tape. ‘Wait here.’