How CID Des helped us to weed out a sunbathing villain

In the final extract from his latest book, policeman turned author Mike Pannett discovers his patch is home to the ultimate potting shed.

Des Carter was our CID man. He came from the West Country and he wore a suit. He was a detective constable, but unlike some DCIs, Des didn’t assume that he was superior to every uniformed officer he came across.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he would dish out gratuitous insults to us plods as a matter of course – always with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek – you could be forgiven for thinking that he saw us as equals, allies in the fight against crime.

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We’d had a tip off about some suspicious activity at a remote farmhouse. It was being rented by a young couple and they’d blacked out the windows of a big barn at the back of the property. I’d already been to check it out and wanted some advice. I rarely felt the need for guidance: during my time working for the Met in London I had dealt with pretty much every type of crime you can think of. In this case, however, I had no hesitation in going straight to Des. Apart from anything else, he would have a handle on the latest intelligence. I found him hunched over a computer screen with a pile of box files on the desk beside him. Once convinced the place wasn’t an artist’s studio or elaborate darkroom, Des scooted forward and brought up a file onscreen. “Tell you what we have had,” he said. “A bit of info from Crime Stoppers. They reckon someone’s growing cannabis in industrial quantities.”

Des turned from the screen, leaned back in his chair, stretching his hands behind his back. “A big old barn miles from anywhere, you say? If I was looking for a place to grow some weed I’d say it’s just the job, mate.”

After we’d made further checks on the property and secured a search warrant, for the third time within a week I made my way down the bumpy lane towards the farm. I went to the front door and gave it a good bang. There was no reply. I knocked a second time while Des and my colleague Ed checked around the back. Nothing. We went across to a stout-looking wooden door set in the wall of the barn. I had the door enforcer in the back of the car, but there was no need for that; as soon as I turned the handle it swung silently open.

The atmosphere was humid and laden with the same heavy scent I’d smelled a few nights earlier. Above the low humming of what had to be a pump, we could hear water gurgling through pipes. As we stood there I felt my heart beating faster. It’s the same feeling I’ve felt a hundred times before, but it’s still exciting. It’s precisely what you expect policing to be about when you join up. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve felt it before or how many different jobs you’ve been on, it’s still there. We walked swiftly up to the first floor. “Good Lord” Ed was at my shoulder, staring. “Look at that.” In a space the size of a school gymnasium, illuminated by an array of overhead lights, was a sea of dark green: hundreds upon hundreds of cannabis plants, growing densely in packed rows. As to the smell, it was almost nauseating. As I stood there I heard a whirring noise as ventilators in the roof were cranked open by an electric motor.

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“Damn place is fully automated,” Ed said. “They’ve probably got robots to do the weeding.” We walked slowly along the rows on duckboards. I could feel the fine spray from overhead nozzles as it drifted onto my face. I’d just got to the end of the tanks when I stopped dead in my tracks. In front of me, lying face up, topping up her tan on a sunbed, and wearing a set of headphones and a very skimpy bikini was a dark-haired young woman, completely oblivious to our presence. Someone had to say something, and I was first in line. “Excuse me, madam.” She didn’t respond so I repeated myself, a little louder. At that she turned towards me, pulled an earpiece out, sat bolt upright. “I’m PC Mike Pannett of North Yorkshire Police. I think you know why we’re here. We’ll be searching these premises under warrant for drugs or material used in the production of drugs. I do need to tell you that you are under arrest on suspicion of cultivation of cannabis.” In situations like these you’re tempted to say, “Look, lady, you’re nicked.” But those days have long gone.

The woman put on a towelling robe and we were in the kitchen when Des came over from the barn. “Mike,” he said. “You realise we have a huge find here?”

“I’d say it could be one for the record books, mate.”

Not On My Patch, Lad, published by Hodder & Stoughton is out now in paperback, priced £7.99. To order a copy from the Yorkshire Post Bookshop call 0800 0153232 or online at www.yorkshirepostbookshop.co.uk

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