From the Fire
...the first chapter
Prologue
Contrary to public opinion, when the police fuck up there are consequences. Outwardly, if they can sweep things under the rug then they will; if it’s too late to sweep then they do their best, as do all corporations, to contain the damage that can be seen through the public lens. Internally, in both cases, there are serious reviews and investigations that begin a week or so after the fuck up and, sometimes but not always, heads are sacrificed. When a police raid on a drug factory in Hackney, London, instigated by Detective Sergeant William Tarrant, went wrong, it went catastrophically wrong. So wrong in fact that the first review meeting was held the very next day, in the large briefing room in the Metropolitan Police headquarters in Westminster, commonly called New Scotland Yard or simply “the Yard”.
It was a warm autumn morning but the mood in the briefing room was cold, very cold. There was some nervous small-talk between some of the assembled officers as they waited, though no-one seemed to want a conversation with DS Tarrant, other than a perfunctory “good morning” when they entered. Tarrant sat in his own private bubble, very much alone with his thoughts.
The mood grew noticeably colder as Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Mackay entered and cast his stony gaze over the officers assembled for the euphemistic “Reflective Practice Review”. DS Tarrant – whose practice it was to be reviewed – managed to return a hard, though somewhat petulant, stare as Mackay’s eyes swept over him, though he felt a flush across his face that he had no control over.
Mackay was last to enter the room; he closed the door to the briefing room behind him and walked to the front, and stood next to the large, flat-screen television.
There were four other officers in the room together with Mackay and Tarrant. There was Tarrant’s immediate boss, Detective Inspector Marshall; there was the team leader from Specialist Firearms Command who had led the physical assault on the property; and there was the Media Relations Officer, who had the unenviable task of controlling the public backlash, which had started almost immediately and was particularly vitriolic. Finally, and at Tennant’s request, there was a representative from the Police Federation – the union – sitting next to Tarrant, attempting to look intimidating in a room full of very intimidating personnel. The fact that Tarrant had invited him added tension to the meeting, making the senior officers anticipate an argument and dispelling any expectation of a constructive discussion.
Mackay finished his sweep of the room and, without any form of preamble, he used the remote controls to switch on the television and started the video. It was an extract from the BBC news the previous night, read by a middle-aged and intensely serious news anchor.
“Good evening. Today in Hackney a police operation against a suspected drug factory went tragically wrong. Acting on information gathered through a long-term investigation by Met officers, a team of local and armed SCO19 officers attempted an assault on a suspected drug factory in a private house. The officers were spotted before they could mount their assault and, in the ensuing firefight, two of the suspects were killed. In the course of the battle it is believed that police tear gas fired into the house ignited drug processing chemicals and causing a major blaze that threatened to engulf several houses in the street. Most tragically of all, a nine-year-old girl from within the house had her clothes catch fire; engulfed in flames she ran screaming from the house only to be cut down by police marksmen. She lay in the street for more than three minutes, in flames and still screaming, before the police could get to her. By the time they did she was dead.”
The newscaster paused for dramatic effect and then stared intensely at the camera.
“The following video was shot from across the street by a resident, on his mobile phone. It captures the tragic moment when the girl runs from the house, and the horrific ending as police bullets cut her down, leaving her incapacitated and burning to death, alone on the deserted street. We must warn you; this video is extremely graphic so sensitive viewers should look away now.”
The screen cut to a shaky video, in portrait format, of a row of very dilapidated terraced houses, one of which had the flickers of a fire beginning on the ground floor. In the corner of the screen could be seen armed police officers crouched behind vehicles, their weapons pointed towards the house. A narrow alley between each pair of houses led to back entrances for the houses. Suddenly a tiny fireball came screaming out of the alley; it was the child, engulfed in flames and screaming in pain. Her form had been pixilated by the channel but she was clearly recognizable. As she emerged from the alley, two rapid shots rang out and the child fell to the floor. But she was still moving, writhing helplessly as her screams got weaker and weaker. The channel froze the pixilated image of the dying girl; the image shrank into the background and the newsreader was back, his intense glare a prelude to what he was about to read.
“A heart-breaking moment indeed – yet possibly more distressing was an informal interview our reporter, Sally Fields, had moments later with one of the assault team. Here is the audio portion of her interview with Detective Sergeant William Tarrant about fifteen minutes after the assault.”
The still picture of the pixilated girl zoomed to full screen, and subtitles appeared as the voice of the reporter could be heard.
Sally Fields: “So how do you view this morning’s events?”
DS Tarrant: “It was a huge success. We have been investigating this drug ring for more than two months now; finally we have taken them down.”
Sally Fields: “Taken them down? Four of them surrendered, and another two suspects died in the fire and the shootout.”
DS Tarrant: “Yes. And a major source of drugs has been removed from the streets. Many lives will be improved, many lives saved”
Sally Fields: “What about the little girl? She was, I believe, nine-years-old. She burned to death after being shot by the police.”
DS Tarrant: “Yeah, well, obviously that wasn’t something we expected or wanted to happen. But in these types of operation there is often collateral damage, and you have to weigh that up against the effectiveness of the operation.”
Sally Fields: “So – weighing it up – do you consider the operation today a success?”
DS Tarrant: “Absolutely.”
The still picture once again shrank into the background and the grim face of the newsreader appeared on.
“There you have it. The police obviously believe the ends justify the means. I’m not sure that little girl’s family would agree.”
Mackay used the remote to stop the video and slowly turned to face the room. He looked at them all in silence for a long time. Finally he locked his eyes on Tarrant.
“Any regrets, DS Tarrant?” His Edinburgh accent, ordinarily soft and refined, was now hard and direct.
Tarrant looked back at him, stubborn, obstinate.
“We did a good job. We wiped out a serious drug threat.”
Mackay laughed, a cynical, harsh laugh.
“Wiped out. Ay, you did that, laddie.” He turned away, a look of disgust on his face. He nodded at the Specialist Firearms Command Inspector, Ben Knightley.
‘Ben – what the fuck happened there?’
Ben shook his head briefly and exhaled in frustration.
‘Class A fuck up, to be honest. It was my newest lad; well-trained but on his first outing. He was tense, tight…saw a fireball come screaming at him from the side, instinctively turned and squeezed off a two-shot.’ He shook his head again. ‘I can’t blame the lad - though I will have to. Poor lad, he is a mess over it. Quite frankly I think he’ll resign – which would save a lot of awkwardness-if-not-unpleasantness.’
‘And why so long helping the girl – after she was shot?’
‘We were taking fire from the house,’ replied Ben ‘I was short of heroes that morning…’ Mackay gave him the eye ‘…sorry, Alex – don’t mean to be flippant.’
Ben Knightley was one of those ageless professionals. A veteran of the force, he had worked his way up to Command Inspector and stayed there, not because of any inadequacies on his part but because he loved the job. He was fearless on the job, yet he had a clear belief that the role of the firearms team was as a last resort; he would be the first to propose a negotiation before a physical assault. The death of this young girl was weighing heavy on him; whilst he recognized it as an accident, his personal morality found William Tarrant’s attitude repulsive.
‘So where’s the problem?’ Tarrant’s voice rang out, loud and indignant. ‘It was an accident, sad but an accident. Where is the problem?’
Mackay looked at him; it was the same look he would have had if he accidentally trod in dog shit. That ‘Ah fuck’ look. He looked long and hard at Tarrant, and he spoke softly.
‘The problem, my lad, is not the shooter. The problem is you.’
Tarrant – and the room – were silent.
‘You are right. It was an accident. And the shooter is distraught, it would seem, and rightly so, because he is a sensitive, feeling human being.’ Mackay walked slowly between chairs towards Tarrant.
‘You, on the other hand, don’t appear to share his compassion. You, it seems, couldn’t give a flying fuck for a nine-year-old child who burns to death – on national television – after having been shot by the police – on national television.” Mackay was next to Tarrant now, and Mackay was beginning to get angry. But Tarrant was angry too.
‘We were doing the job we’re paid to do,’ Tarrant was not prepared to back down yet. ‘We did it and we were successful. It’s a shame the girl got in the way, but she did. Shit happens.’
‘Shit happens?’ Mackay was struggling to remain calm. ‘Collateral damage?’
‘Yes!’
‘Ends justify the means?’
‘Absolutely! It’s our job to catch the bad guys, and that’s what we did.’
Mackay took a breath before continuing.
‘Therein lies the problem, methinks. You are so obsessed with catching the bad guys that you fail to notice when you steamroller over innocent people in the process. And that’s just not acceptable, not to us nor the public. To you this is not someone’s child; not an innocent girl, dying a tortuous death, no. To you, this is simply “collateral damage”. This is a fair price to pay to…to….what? Kill two criminals and arrest four others? Burn down half the bloody street? And make a fucking bonfire of a child!’
Mackay fought to remain in control. He abruptly turned and started walking back to the front of the room but his voice was harsh, accusing.
‘Are you a fuckin’ retard, Tarrant? I can almost – almost – understand your insane conversation with the reporter in the heat of the moment – an issue, by the way, that we will talk about later – I could almost understand it as a post-tension brain freeze. But now, almost twenty-four hours later – I expect you to be saying “Oh fuck, I screwed up big-time”. I expect it but it isn’t happening.’
Tarrant was genuinely angry and frustrated. To him these people were incredibly stupid, and the sooner he was promoted up the ranks the better the police force would be. He was a smart policeman, and very good at evaluating evidence and catching the bad guys. But therein lay his problem; from the very beginning of his career he had set himself on a fast-track for promotion and, to do this, he reasoned, he needed to catch the criminals. He had simplified his job to that point; the only measure of success, for William Tarrant, was catching criminals. Which is why he was having so much problem accepting the criticism that was coming his way.
Tarrant began to speak but Mackay cut him off abruptly.
‘No. Enough from you. Thank you. Our primary function is to protect people. I agree with you that we generally do that – note “generally” - by taking the bad guys off the street. But, Detective Sergeant Tarrant, the number one priority is protecting the people. And correct me if I’m wrong but shooting an innocent nine-year-old girl and leaving her to burn in the middle of the street doesn’t quite fit that model. That, to any normal, feeling human being, is a tragedy. But to then have one of the team gob off to a reporter showing zero concern for the child – less than zero, by categorizing her as “collateral damage” like some smarmy American politician….” Mackay left the sentence hanging, the fury in his eyes pinning Tarrant to his seat. Tarrant, his anger subsiding under the verbal barrage from Mackay, began to regret his outburst; he recognized that this did not bode well for his promotion chances.
“If I might make a point….” The union man felt this was his moment to interject.
“You can shut the fuck up until I decide you can speak.” Mackay was not in the mood for any arse-guarding union maneuvers; he had two major problems that he had to deal with very swiftly. The politics could come later.
“We need a public response, we need it immediately, and it needs to sound genuine – fuck, men, I want it to be genuine!” He looked across at the Media Relations Officer.
“James – what ideas have you got?”
James Montagu, the Media Relations Officer, sat up in his seat.
‘Well, it is a PR nightmare, that’s for sure. Dealing with the child is hard enough…’
Mackay visibly winced at the expression. He hated the PR people almost as much as he, currently, hated William Tarrant. There was a fundamental dishonesty about the job they did and the way they did it. But, sadly, he recognized its necessity. ‘…and with DS Tarrant’s comments…’ Montagu shook his head to emphasise the difficulty of his task.
As he began expanding the problem and outlining potential strategies to contain the problems, Mackay’s gaze drifted back to Tarrant, who was trying to appear engaged with what James was saying. Whilst he appeared controlled on the outside, Mackay was raging inside at the arrogant stupidity exhibited by his DS. He promised himself he would personally direct retribution towards Tarrant once they had the PR disaster under control.
Unbeknownst to the both of them, the future held its own retribution for William Tarrant.