The direct phone line from the police control room on the docks to the Merseyside Police Control Room had been a vital means of communication between the two forces for many years but never had it been more important than now.

‘FIM Inspector Jarvis here. Who am I speaking to please?’

‘Hello Larry, Bob Chambers here. One of my lads has been taken hostage at gun point and is in a lorry somewhere near to the Switch Island Junction at Netherton.’

There was a moments silence on the other end of the ‘phone.

‘Fuck you Bob. That’s not funny. No more of your poncy jokes. Last time you tried to fuck me over, I nearly had the force chopper taking off looking for Mr G. Raff. Remember him? One of the park rangers; supposed to have collapsed inside the Lion enclosure at Knowsley Safari Park; diabetic coma or some such shit. Remember that one do you Bob?  Now, piss off. I’m too busy for playing games today.’

Bob and Larry had been mates for many years and, as bobbies do, sometimes to while away the long hours, more often than not to lighten the atmosphere following traumatic incidents, they often took the piss out of each other; see who could do the best joke on each other. As soon as Bob Chambers began to speak again, Larry Jarvis knew this was no wind up.

‘Larry, on my little girl’s life, this is a live incident that kicked off at one of our gates. It doesn’t get much more serious than this mate. As we speak, Dave Watkins has a sawn off shotgun pressed into his ribs. Somehow, he’s managed to get his radio onto an open microphone and he’s trying to tell us where he is. I don’t know how long he will be able to keep up any kind of a commentary. If the shooter becomes aware he’s transmitting, he will be in the shit big time; he might take him out then and there’

Again, there was a moments silence and Larry Jarvis spoke again.

‘We’re on it Bob. He’s a good lad mate. Keep this line open and connected while I get the chopper up in the air and mobilise the firearms teams.’

A few moments later, Inspector Jarvis was back on the ‘phone and Bob was doing his best to update him with the facts as known so far.

The telephone rang. ‘Sarge, its Mick Edwards at Bramley Gate.’

‘Mick, I can’t talk at the moment. As you probably know by now, Dave Watkins is involved in a serious incident.’

‘Yeah, I know Sarge, got the info from the lads that somethin’s on the go but, I’ve just been having a good look around both in the hut and outside, there was a gate pass for a wagon lying in the road. It’s a bit damp, but it’s got today’s date on and you can still make out the registration and box numbers.’

‘Is that bothering you bollocks?’ The radio crackled into life.

‘Well, you could ease off a bit, me right ribs gone numb.’

‘Good. Fuck me about, and this might go off. Not pretty mate. Do we understand each other?’

Both control rooms were listening intently for any information as to directions or numbers involved and whilst the Port control room could do nothing but sit and wait, things were moving rapidly in the Merseyside Police incident room.

‘Steady on Joe, he won’t need to shoot me; your driving will kill the three of us if you’re not careful. How about a cuppa at Burtonwood. Relax us all a bit eh?’

‘Keep it going Davey, you’re doing a brilliant job’ said Bob Chambers to himself. He’d never been a particularly religious man but he found himself praying silently. ‘If we can get you out of this one, I’ll make sure you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll buy you the biggest fucking curry you’ve ever had son now just keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘You probably got that Larry, it sounds like there is just the three of them in the wagon and they are heading towards’...,

The door to the control room opened suddenly. Inspector James entered. The legend in his own mind. ‘MIKE’, -Me I Know Everything- James.

Give him a project, paper exercise or any other non operational shit to contend with and he was brilliant, full of facts and trivia but, when it came to important issues such as backing up his men and being there at the sharp end and getting your hands dirty, he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

‘Right Sergeant, Sit Rep.’ He’d obviously been watching a war movie or something the night before.

‘Sit Rep, sir?’ replied Bob.

‘Come come Sergeant, situation report; tell me what’s happening and what’s being done. If what young Griffiths here tells me is correct, time is of the essence.’

Sergeant Chambers went through the details as best he could while Mike read the incident log.

‘Is that right Sergeant?’

‘What’s that sir?’ said Bob, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Here, on the Log. PC Watkins helmet. It was found in the gate house. Is that correct?’

‘Yes sir. On the shelf sir, behind the door.’

‘I knew it, I just knew it. What’s the matter with these bloody officers? How many times do I have to tell them? When outside the gate house, put your bloody helmet on. It’s not that difficult to understand is it?

Scruffy, Sergeant. That’s what it is, scruffy. Improperly dressed in public. Standards Sergeant, that’s what we need to impress upon these officers under our direction and control. Standards. When you wear the uniform Sergeant; well, your very much under scrutiny from the public; if you don’t have proper standards, you have nothing. Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

‘Yes sir.’ said Bob wearily. ‘Sir, given the circumstances that PC Watkins is in at the moment, I don’t think he will be particularly bothered that you consider him to have been improperly dressed at the immediate moment that he was abducted.’

‘That’s as maybe Sergeant. However, have him come and see me when this incident is over with. I think he needs a bit of a talking to. I think I need to impress upon him the finer points of being a British Police officer. Envy of the World, that sort of thing. Not forgetting also, your role in these matters. You have to keep on at these young officers. Instil upon them the proper values. Wouldn’t do for you to shirk your responsibilities regarding discipline.  Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

Bob’s simmering hostility towards his useless, uncaring, incompetent twat of an excuse for a leader began bubbling to the surface. He had worked with this prick for long enough and after nearly thirty years in the force; he decided he didn’t care any more what would happen to him ‘when this incident is over with.’ He’d finally had enough of tossers like James.

Sergeant Chambers was well known in the force for being a steady pair of hands and was well respected by his officers and superiors alike. He’d earned that respect over a long period of time by being fair but firm and taking an interest in their welfare. He had a good mix of youth and experience amongst his section. Dave Watkins was one of his younger officers. Always smart and well turned out. Reliable, enthusiastic, caring and with bucket loads of common sense. All the elements that go into making a good, well rounded officer, Dave had in abundance.

Here he was, at this very moment probably scared shitless by a fucking nutter with a shotgun. Yet, he still had the presence of mind to alert us to his situation and keep us informed of what was going on and this fucking arsehole of an Inspector wants to bollock him for not wearing his helmet, well, not today sunshine.

At some point in the future, Bob Chambers would have a nickname as befits the liverpudlian humour as a direct result of what happened next.

Bob’s anger did not rise to the surface very often but PC Tony Griffiths had seen him once or twice before when they had dealt with violent and dangerous or difficult situations. He recognised the tell tale signs. He saw the veins in Bob’s neck begin to swell; the lines on his forehead became more prominent. His eyes narrowed and his fists and arms began to tense. Bob was looking at Inspector James very intently.