Pubdate: January 24, 1999
Source: The Guardian Weekly (UK)
Page: Page 27
Contact:  Guardian Publications 1999
Author: Nancy Banks-Smith

DOPES IN THE DRUG SQUAD

Television - Nancy Banks-Smith

The new head of the Merseyside drugs squad was paying tribute to the
retiring head. Like all impromptu speeches it had clearly been written out
several times in his own hand. "Why", he asked rhetorically, "are we happy
when someone of Derek's experience and glamour -- not only locally,
regionally, nationally but internationally -- is leaving this
organisation?" He paused for breath or dramatic effect. Unwisely.

"Because you've got his job," said a voice from the floor of the bar.

Derek shook hands warmly with the heckler. His retirement cake was iced
with a razor blade and a scattering of pills and poppers.This is Mersey
Blues (BBC2), a documentary series which sounds like a drug itself. Mike
Culverhouse, the new head of the drug squad, had a reputation for balancing
the books. As he told the troops, "I am not prepared at any price to
overspend the budget. We will end this financial year with a penny in
credit." If there were any cries of "Good old Mike!" I missed them.Money
was already so tight that drug squad detectives were working overtime for
nothing. In their wry phrase, for the Queen. Access was unusually good and
with reason. They had a sore point to make.

Drug pushers were not strapped for cash. A dawn raid seized (GBP)150,000,
(GBP)10,000 of it hidden in a hat. (What sort of hat was that, you wonder,
skidding distractedly to a stop like a terrier seeing two rats.) The squad
badly needed a boost, so Det Insp Paul Matthews was delighted to have
intelligence from London that a heroin courier was driving to Liverpool.
Matthews has a big and affable face with a big and manly moustache. "He's
not going to carry Class A drugs into my city because I'm gonna have him."
It was, you felt, the moustache speaking.

The whole squad worked without pay, reinforced by three uniformed officers
of the Operational Support Division. These were an entirely different kind
of cop to the back-chatting drug squad. Silent bulky men, built to carry
firearms and handcuffs and assorted menacing ironmongery as though
magnetised.The suspect was bombing along at 130mph. Matthews called the
police helicopter but it was grounded. At Burtonwood, where two cars laid
in wait, the penny pinching began to bite. The OSD were into overtime. With
the suspect coming like a buzz bomb, they agreed to work for the Queen too.
The suspect shot past. The OSD followed fast. The squad followed the OSD.
Everyone shouted everything at least twice.

"Sinbad Three Three Go!" "Sinbad Two Two Go!" "He's committed, committed,
committed!" This was downright thrilling. You knew why the drugs squad were
sometimes willing to work for nothing. Not nothing. For the joy of it.

The car was pulled over. A slight figure in a pink sweatshirt spoke to the
tall officer, who declined his cloud-capped head to listen.

In the following car the drug squad were fizzing with impatience. "I wish
they were staying closer to him . . ." "So do I . . ." "Get ready, Al, if
he does a fucking runner across the motorway . . ." "Grab him now and cuff
him for Christ's sake!" The OSD proceeded at their own stately pace. They
were higher, wider, and heavier than pink sweatshirt. They showed no
inclination to fling him to the floor or join him in the intimacy of
handcuffs. The drug squad could not bear it. They sent a third OSD officer
to investigate. ("If there's stuff there, take your hat off and scratch
your head!") He took a slow, controlled stroll. He did not scratch his head.

At the control centre, Paul Matthews was saying, "If there's nothing in it,
it'll be the most expensive stop and search we've ever done." His big,
cheerful face deflated. Thank God he hadn't scrambled the chopper.

As darkness fell the drug squad detectives and an OSD man in his still
sparkling shirt peered into every orifice of the suspect's car. There was a
lot of dirty laundry. Perhaps he was going home to mum.It was more touching
and much more entertaining than a successful swoop. Now, if we could have a
quick word with London intelligence . . .

The Guardian Weekly Volume 160 Issue 4 
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