Issue: 27 November
2004 |
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| Cover Story New
Labour’s police state
On Wednesday 3 November I was driving along the Embankment
towards the City when a police constable stepped out into the road
and flagged me down. It was 11.30 in the morning, and I was in
reasonable time for a meeting with some corporate lawyers which was
due to start at midday.
The constable was accompanied by another policeman and a group of
three men in what looked a little like traffic wardens’ uniforms,
with pale blue bands round their caps. These, I later discovered,
were Mr Blunkett’s new militia, the police community support
officers. Their task, according to Sir John Stevens, is to ‘perform
the vital role of security patrols in central London, deterring
criminals and providing intelligence to police officers’.
‘We are conducting random stop and search under current
anti-terrorist legislation,’ began the constable, addressing me
through my open side window. ‘Would you mind if we searched your
vehicle? We’re training these new community support officers.’
Although a little worried about being late for my meeting, I was
impressed by their air of professionalism and vigilance. I was
pleased that the government was doing something to keep us all safe
and thought it would be selfish to refuse. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I
replied, ‘as long as it doesn’t take a huge amount of time.’
I unlocked the doors and they went through my car and its
contents: my overnight bag, my wash bag and glove box. Next, they
gestured towards my briefcase and asked if I could open it. Of
course, I said, and as I lifted the lid I pointed out to them a
Victorinox Swiss multi-tool, contained in a small webbing case, and
a small collapsible baton, contained in another piece of webbing.
It is perfectly legal to buy both of these items. The penknife I
carry because I find it useful for many small everyday tasks
—cutting through packaging, opening bottles. The baton I bought over
the Internet to keep at home for security reasons. I live in a rural
part of Suffolk that, although thankfully relatively crime-free, is
policed very sparsely. I often hear people outside the house at
night — that same Wednesday evening, for instance, my wife
discovered a harmless but mentally ill tramp yelling loudly in a
nearby barn — and I feel more comfortable with the baton inside the
front door. A week or so before my police search, I had discovered
my nine- and twelve-year-old girls playing with it and had locked it
in my briefcase for safekeeping.
The community support officers reacted immediately. They behaved
as if they had never seen a penknife before, pulling out the
bottle-opener, the corkscrew, the thing that gets stones out of
horses’ hooves. ‘This device has a locking blade,’ said the
constable, after which a short, whispered debate ensued. My goodwill
towards the police began to give way to alarm. I reached for my
mobile to call the lawyers and explain that I was going to be late
for my meeting, but the constable stopped me. ‘Turn that phone off,’
he said. ‘You’re about to be arrested for possessing offensive
weapons and carrying a bladed instrument in public. You’ll be
allowed one call when we get you to Charing Cross police station.’
I felt confused and indignant. As we stood by the side of the
road, waiting for a police van to arrive, I asked the constable
whether this whole business was, in his opinion, a valuable use of
police time and resources. This was when the policemen and the PCSOs
started to become hostile. ‘You’ve committed an offence, mate, and
you’d better get used to the fact that you’re going down for six
months,’ said one policeman.
‘Do you realise, sir,’ said another, ‘that behind us is the
Ministry of Defence, a key target for potential terrorists?’
‘But why did you stop me in the first place: do I seriously look
like a potential terrorist?’ I asked.
‘We stop one in every 25 cars on a random basis, and, let me tell
you, sir, criminals and terrorists come in many different guises,’
replied the policeman.
‘Shouldn’t you be concentrating on men of Arab extraction?’ This
seemed to me to be a sensible question, relevant to the current
state of the world. The policeman said, ‘That is a racist comment,
sir.’ Then the van appeared. I was locked in the back and ferried to
Charing Cross. As we drove there, the policemen made small talk.
They told me that they would be out for a pint tonight, whereas I
was going to prison. They wondered what it would feel like for me
not to be sleeping in my own bed.
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