A Policewoman’s Lot

[SATISH]

“He’s gone down the park in plain clothes to check things out,” they explained. “Let’s get in the van and we can join him down there.” Alison followed them out to the yard and let them all get in to the rear of the van. She stood facing them with her hands on her hips.

“What’s up, Alison,” asked Don Marsh. “”Aren’t you going to get in?”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “This is another of your wind ups, isn’t it? You bastards. Admit it, you fucking bastards!”

Don Marsh looked at her with an expression of injured innocence on his face. He looked at the other PCs seated in the van, who said nothing. For a moment she had some doubts. Maybe it was genuine after all, she thought. But then they all collapsed helpless with laughter. “I knew it was a wind up,” she said. “Where’s Sergeant Rose, anyway?”

“We had you fooled for a while though, didn’t we?” said Don.

“Yes. Yes, you did,” she admitted. PS Rose suddenly appeared, dressed in a dirty raincoat. He pulled the coat open wide to reveal a sign hung from his neck, with the word “BOO!” written it. They all burst out laughing again.

“That really suits you, Sarge,” she said cheekily. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you really are the flasher.” He slapped her bottom indignantly.

Shortly before Alison completed her two year Probationary period, she applied for a vacancy that had come up on the Cambridgeshire South Rural Policing Unit, and was accepted soon afterwards, joining a team of five other officers and a rural sergeant. This covered a number of small towns and villages south of Cambridge, and operated out of a Rural Office in Great Shelford, about five miles south of the city itself. The Office itself was a police house which served as a base for the rural officers. Great Shelford was basically just a big village of about 5,000 people. Most of the nearby villages were even smaller, but were often outstandingly quaint and beautiful, with a chocolate box cover quality, surrounded by large areas of rich farm land.

Most of the people who lived in the area were well to do. It was a quiet, prosperous area, but there had been a number of burglaries and thefts of quality cars recently, and a problem of thefts of farm machinery from isolated areas. This was thought to be the work of offenders from outside the area. Alison seemed to spend most of her time dealing with minor road accidents, a few instances of vandalism by youths, the odd report of stray livestock, and similar mundane matters.

Alison enjoyed working on the Rural Unit. The sergeant, PS Hopper, was very easy going and there was a relaxed working atmosphere. The shifts were better, with no early starts and less night work. She was largely left to her own devices to patrol her area on her own in a marked blue and white Ford Escort Popular. It wasn’t exactly a Maserati, but it got her round the district and she wasn’t expected to get involved in any high speed car chases. She spent a lot of time at meetings of the parish council and neighbourhood watch. She soon got to know many local people.


Sometimes she missed her old section, and laughed about the silly practical jokes they used to play on her. But she was happy in her current role and had no plans to change in the near future.

[SATISH]

WPC Cox parked her car outside the Rural Office in Great Shelford that Tuesday morning and went inside. It was 10 a.m. That was one thing she liked about the Rural Unit, she got to have a bit more of a lie in in the mornings. She never really liked the 6 a.m. starts when she was working on section. She booked in and checked her tray for any messages. There was a note about a parish council meeting. She checked the log and took the latest Intelligence Bulletin from the file. Nothing much. A stolen car had been found abandoned off the Haverhill Road. A generator had been stolen from farm land in the same general area. Some information about road works.

PS Hopper, the Rural Sergeant, greeted her as he came in. “Hello Alison,” he said. “Nothing much going on overnight. Just a couple of things off the Haverhill Road.”

“I’ll take a look down there during the shift, Sarge,” she replied. “It is a bit off the beaten track down there.”

Alison fastened her personal radio around her waist in its webbing holder and collected the car keys for the marked Escort Popular. It was a warm summer’s day and the Superintendent had ordered ties off. She was wearing her white uniform blouse open at the neck and her uniform skirt. Her long hair was drawn up in a bun on the back of her head. She put on her soft black and white cap with a chequered band and walked over to where the police car was parked. She got in and put her handbag on the passenger seat. It contained her note book in its leather wallet, her handcuffs and the small half size wooden truncheon the male officers found so hilarious, together with some tissues and Polo mints and a few personal items.

Alison delivered a routine message to an address in Great Shelford and set off down the Haverhill Road and its surrounding farm land. She was looking forward to seeing her parents in a couple of days’ time. She parked the Escort on a track off the road where she could watch any passing traffic. Nothing worth stopping and checking. Just a tractor towing a trailer and a minibus and a few other vehicles. She waited for about 20 minutes till she got a bit bored with it and drove further along the road and on to a track leading from it on to some land nearby.

Her attention was drawn to two large semi derelict buildings. These were semi circular corrugated iron Nissen type huts that had been used as barns or for storage or something or other in the past. They were both open at each end and were empty apart from some rubbish strewn around inside. Some vehicles had been dumped there in the past.

WPC Cox saw the rear of a small white van next to the right hand building. Better check it out in case it was nicked, she thought. She drew slowly alongside the building and switched off the engine. She got out and approached the vehicle, intending to do a check on the registration number. It was an unmarked Morris Marina van. She couldn’t make out the rear number plate. It was smeared with mud and illegible. People sometimes did that when they were doing a drive out from petrol stations without paying. The rear doors were unlocked, There was a toolbox inside with a grey blanket and some lengths of thin hemp rope. Alison went through the procedure her tutor PC Don Marsh had taught her. Check the front number plate. Get the number off the tax disc if the plates were missing or false. See if the ignition had been wired. Check the engine was cold.

[SATISH]

Alison walked to the front of the vehicle and saw the front plate was also smeared with mud. She leant over to examine the tax disc on the windscreen. As she did so, a dark shape entered her field of vision to her right from behind the derelict building. “Don’t move,” ordered a male voice. “Don’t touch that radio. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

WPC Cox was confronted by a large stocky figure in a dark track suit and a black balaclava with holes for the eyes and mouth, which gave the man a terrifying appearance. He was holding a large automatic pistol pointed directly at her. Alison froze. “Don’t touch that radio. Put your hands above your head,” he repeated. The man called out to someone else behind the hut. “Get over here,” he said. “Get her radio.”

A second male figure emerged, dressed in a similar balaclava mask, jeans and a short brown jacket. Alison slowly raised her hands high above her head. This is really bad, she thought. This isn’t going to end well. “Okay,” she said weakly, as she raised her hands . “Okay. Take it easy. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” The second man stepped forward and took her radio from its holder. Oh my God, she thought. Nobody knows where I am. We’re miles from anywhere here. They could kill me and it’d take them ages to find me.

Thoughts crowded into her head. She was on her own, a helpless woopsie in a skirt against two violent armed men. What could she do? They looked like terrorists. She was aware the first man had a slight Irish accent. But what would terrorists be doing out here in the middle of nowhere? It didn’t make sense. Was it drugs? Maybe if she kept calm she could talk her way out of it. Maybe they’d just make off and leave her.

“Turn around,” ordered the first man. “Put your hands on the back of your head. Interlock your fingers.”

WPC Cox instantly complied, turning to face the front of the van, her hands on the back of her head. “Okay,” she said again. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. Who are you? What are you going to do with me?”

“Just shut it and keep still,” said the first man. “Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.” He motioned to the second man. “There’s some rope in the van. Get it.” He roughly manhandled her, forcing her face down over the bonnet, her hands still clasped on the back of her head. She could feel the barrel of the pistol pressing into her neck.

[SATISH]

“Get your hands off me!” Alison protested. “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

“Shut it and keep still,” the man repeated. “Don’t move.” He pressed her down firmly. He had the build of a bodybuilder. The second man returned from the rear of the van. The first man stepped back, covering her with the pistol.

Alison struggled up off the bonnet and turned to face them, her hands still clasped behind her head. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” Perhaps if she was compliant and did as they said she’d get out of this in one piece.

The second man was holding a length of thin rope. “I’m going to tie you up,” he said. “Turn round and put your hands behind your back. Cross your wrists.”

WPC Cox reluctantly obeyed. She turned and crossed her wrists behind her. Better do as they say, she thought. She didn’t really have a choice anyway. “You can’t do this to me,” she protested. “I’m a policewoman. You won’t get away with this. This is kidnapping. You can go to prison for years.”

“I couldn’t give a shit,” said the second man. She noticed that he seemed to talk with a Scottish or Geordie accent. She couldn’t quite make it out. They obviously weren’t locals. He looped the rope around her crossed wrists twice vertically and knotted it tightly, then repeated this horizontally. The thin rope bit into her wrists.

“That’s too tight, you’re hurting me,” she complained. The man wound the remaining rope around her wrists several times and knotted it tightly, leaving her hands securely bound behind her back. She struggled and tested her bonds, but there was no give in the rope at all. There was no way she was going to get out of that.

The second man produced a roll of black duct tape and tore off a broad strip. “No, please, you don’t need to do that,” Alison pleaded. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.” He pressed the tape firmly over her mouth , sealing it shut. It seemed a bit pointless to her. There was no one to hear her out here anyway.

WPC Cox had never felt so helpless in her life. It was different to when the lads on the section had handcuffed her to the flagpole on her birthday. This was terrifying. They could kill her or do anything they wanted to her and she could do absolutely nothing about it. The first man took hold of her arm to control her and pulled back her head by the bun on the back of her head, dislodging her chequered cap. he picked it up off the floor and tossed it on to the bonnet of the van. “Stand still,” he ordered. As if I had a choice, she thought.Alison noticed they didn’t use any names. They seemed older, maybe late twenties or early thirties, she thought. They seemed to know what they were doing. They had her efficiently and securely bound and gagged in no time. Maybe they were terrorists, she thought, becoming increasingly apprehensive about what they were going to do next. Now she was gagged she couldn’t even try to talk her way out of this.

“Bring her car round the back out of sight,” the first man ordered. “Turn off the car radio. Check there’s no one else around.” He seemed to be the one in charge. “Then we’ll decide what to do with her,” he added.


WPC Cox’s heart sank. That sounded ominous.

[SATISH]

WPC Cox stared at the man in the balaclava behind her, her eyes wide in terror. She had never felt so helpless and vulnerable in all her life. She was on her own, miles from the office and completely at the mercy of these two men, these terrorists or whatever the hell they were. Nobody knew where she was and they wouldn’t miss her for hours. What were they going to do to her? They could just shoot her and leave her here. She wouldn’t be found for ages. She couldn’t even try to talk her way out of it. That was a bit difficult when her mouth was sealed shut with tape, she thought.

The man held her firmly with his left arm pressing against her neck and shoulders, pulling her backwards and off balance, with the gun pointed at the side of her head. The thin rope was cutting into her wrists and was already hurting. She squirmed against him, but there was no give in the rope. The effect of having her hands tied behind her back in this way was to force her chest out in a suggestive way. The second button on her blouse had come open when she was tied up.

The man put the pistol in his waistband and fondled her large breasts through the blouse. She struggled and protested, but only muffled sounds emerged through the gag. Oh my God, she thought, they’re going to rape me as well. They’ll rape me and kill me. She had a flashback to the time PS Rose had tried to grope her chest in the police car on night duty, and the snooker table incident when the section had stamped her chest with the police station rubber stamp. But this was different. They’d do what they wanted and get rid of the witness afterwards.

The second man in the jeans and brown jacket drove WPC Cox’s car out of sight inside the nearest of the large corrugated iron buildings. It was invisible from the road and track. Even if they got the helicopter out to search for her, she thought, they wouldn’t see it from the air. She struggled, but the man held her easily.

“Get the blanket out of the van,” the first man shouted to the second. So that was it then. They were going to shoot her and wrap her body in the blanket. Alison screamed through her gag, but only muffled sounds came out. “Keep still,” he said. “Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

Alison prayed that they weren’t going to kill her. The second man returned and stretched the grey blanket out on the grass behind the building, behind the police car. “Okay,” he said. “What are we going to do with her? Let’s just leave her here tied up and get out of here.”

Her hopes rose a little. At least they weren’t going to kill her. “It’s still only half eleven,” said the first man. We don’t have to be there for hours yet. We’ve got plenty of time. There’s nobody with her. We’re in the middle of nowhere here. I’m going to have some fun with her. I haven’t had a woman for a while now.”

WPC Cox shook her head vigorously in protest, her eyes wild. “This is a bit heavy man,” said the second man. “Shouldn’t we just get out of here? She isn’t bad looking though.”