Alternative War: Unabridged Read online

  Alternative War - UNABRIDGED

  J.J. Patrick

  Author's Note:

  I am an independent investigative journalist and was recruited to write for Byline in early 2017. My personal history is not what you would call standard – I was a police officer for a decade and left Scotland Yard in 2014 after sparking the House of Commons inquiry which exposed the manipulation of the crime statistics across the UK. Life afterwards was quite the journey, culminating in my bankruptcy and the grim period during which I simply existed below the poverty line.

  Byline Media and I teamed up with independent publisher, Cynefin Road, to produce the original version of this book in the public interest. The production was fully funded by public donations in the first few days and I owe a personal debt of gratitude to the supporters and the many thousands of people across the world who went on to buy the book afterwards.

  Due to the time constraints of getting the book out in the public domain by August 2017, the original was stripped back and didn't feature annotations – these were instead conveyed through a living index published online. Once the thrust of the story hit the mainstream media on both sides of the Atlantic, the public interest edition was withdrawn. Any dropped or omitted annotations in this edition are accidental and will be corrected when discovered.

  The abridged edition ended at chapter twenty, capturing a moment in time for no better reason than to try and do something good in a world of unspeakable bad. Some things are just more important than admin.

  J.J.P.

  Because, home.

  “World War Three had been fought and won before we even noticed anything was wrong. It was not, in the end, the nuclear conflict feared for so many years but, rather, this only too real and wholly alien hybrid conflict being fought with the mixed methods of technology and psychology – disinformation, destabilisation, and the deployment of insidious, deniable and detached assets instead of missiles, infantry, and artillery. A war fought purely with lies – which Russia only won because it never made the official declaration.”

  Preface:

  I suppose I should explain how I ended up involved in all this.

  My resignation from Scotland Yard came in the wake of the Parliamentary inquiry. The final report was published in April of 2014 and I received not only high praise, but the Metropolitan Police were admonished for their treatment of me. Even the Commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe had, by then, admitted not only was there truth in my evidence – not that he faced much of a choice, as it happens – but also that, perhaps, the force would have been better off to look into the matters I raised sooner.

  None of it really mattered by the publication date: I’d had gross misconduct charges against me abandoned in favour of a written warning for bringing the service into discredit by telling the truth. But The Job wasn’t quite done. I had been interviewed by the BBC about my experience, once for a short film on The One Show and a second time by Victoria Derbyshire, for her Radio 5 talk show. The latter interview took place in a broom cupboard studio of a BBC outpost in Cornwall, where I’d been staying with my sister, and I had to do the recording on my knees as the chair was squeaking so badly it had to be removed from the room. The interviews clearly annoyed Scotland Yard – they reinstated misconduct proceedings on two new charges of speaking to the BBC, thereby bringing the service into disrepute by telling the truth. Again.

  I was, however, all out of reasonable responses and the British Broadcasting Corporation were great – if not cynically calculating about the likelihood of making some news themselves for once –so, we arranged for me to go back on both shows as a soon as possible. Hilariously, we did the filming for the second One Show piece directly outside Scotland Yard, right by the spinning sign. I’m one of those people you see: no half-measures.

  In any case, I’d already resigned from the office of constable by then. On the 24th of March 2014, in fact.

  I remember sitting down to write out a statement on my goodbye to policing – I was pretty much living by press release after two years of restrictions – then publishing it on my blog for all to see. Looking back at it, something I have specifically avoided doing for several years, I’m surprised at how little emotion it generates where once tsunami washed over me.

  “With deep regret, I have just resigned from the Metropolitan Police Service (‘the MPS’). I am giving several weeks’ notice, effectively one week for every complete year of service at this time, plus two to conclude the allegations of misconduct. I had intended to resign after the meeting in any case, but disturbing developments have brought this forward. This has not been an easy decision and has certainly been made with no jerk of the knee.

  I am very proud to have served the public, in the Office of Constable, since the 10th of May 2004 – first at Derbyshire Constabulary then transferring to the MPS on the 9thof October 2009 – even though my service could by no means be described as having been an easy ride. My experience led me to see just how flawed the whistleblowing system is, how it fails, but also to firmly believe that no police officer should normally resign or retire while subject to any misconduct investigation; but the circumstances are such that I have no choice.

  The decision has not been rushed, and I have given the MPS countless opportunities to set our relationship straight; I have also had to weigh, somewhat extraordinarily, the public interest and the impact such a decision may have on me.

  This resignation arises directly from my treatment as a result of making disclosures in good faith and in the public interest. In 2012 I publicly raised concerns over policing, police reform, statistical manipulation, the Olympics and lobbying. I made a permanent record of these concerns in one place, a book, the proceeds of which were destined for and donated to a charity supporting bereaved police families. The result of this was a gross misconduct investigation which had a significant impact upon my work, health and family life. My family and I have had to live under this threat while the MPS pursued it, yet even so I carried on acting in the public interest, resulting in my being effectively bullied at New Scotland Yard and, in the end, with my sparking a parliamentary inquiry into crime statistics which has had a significant national impact. In the wake I had to watch senior officers deny it was happening, but I couldn’t reply as I’d been warned that it could result in further discipline. Worse still, Essex Police were sent to my home under the Trojan banner of welfare, concluding themselves that they had been sent to rattle our cages. To add insult to injury, it was then conceded that, in fact, what I had said was a truth that needed to be heard.

  Having fought through delays and procedural irregularities in the proceedings before this, and having won the argument of bias, I was then informed that a review had been carried out and the gross misconduct dropped. I had to hear via a reporter, on open social media, that this happened after an external force had reviewed the determination of gross misconduct. I had pleaded for external scrutiny from the outset, had hard won an independent panel against the wishes of the MPS. The situation has had a significant impact on my health, but there has been no real consideration for me. My management has been highlighted as a conflict of interest, driven by questionable motives, and left me subject to open threats of discipline and performance procedures for damage the MPS has caused. Throughout the misconduct process it has been denied that there were any senior level discussions about me, or policy deficiencies relevant to my case. It was discovered on the 19th of March 2014 that significant material does indeed exist. On discovering this, and immediately serving it on the misconduct meeting Chair, the reaction from the MPS has been aggressive; implying that I am the person whose integrity is in question for trying to discover the truth, and threatening me with potentia
l discipline for defending myself.

  It is impossible for me to see how I could ever trust the MPS again, that is something which is permanently destroyed. I have held out for as long as I can but enough is enough: the camel’s back has been broken with a sledgehammer.”

  Largely this was a cut and paste from my formal resignation letter – originally drafted as an angry adaptation of the ‘Pussies, Dicks and Assholes’ speech from Trey Parker’s Team America. I amended it, somewhat begrudgingly, on the advice of a good friend.

  The last few weeks of my service were mainly spent in the Starbucks across the road, or out the back of Scotland Yard smoking, mainly as I couldn’t face the drudgery of sitting in the CCTV identification unit – a place where naughty policemen get sent to be babysat. That final period was punctuated by my appeal against the written warning sanction, which was, of course, upheld despite rather some blatant issues forming part of the reviewing officer’s final adjudication when it was eventually delivered, in June.

  “It’s apparent that MPS policies are regarded by some, including it would seem some senior leaders, as difficult to find and interpret, verbose and in need of updating. This applies to the SOP’s referred to in this case and the guideline referred to. The Business interest SOP does not explicitly state that prior approval is required prior to taking up a business interest. It is noted that this particular SOP has subsequently been amended. Mr Patrick did submit a business interest [and] was never asked to remove his book from circulation or informed that he was in breach of the SOP’s. I accept that Mr Patrick did make some attempts to find guidance on publishing a book [and] it has never been proven by the MPS that Mr Patrick actions have indeed brought discredit upon the MPS in the period since the book was published [and that] many of the views expressed by Mr Patrick in his book are echoed elsewhere by others. Mr Patrick has never tried to conceal his identity [and] appears motivated by a fundamental belief that he has a ‘duty’ to bring his views to the attention of the public. I also take into account Mr. Patrick’s view that the Home Affairs Select Committee has ‘thanked’ him for bringing his beliefs to their attention. I have not read the transcript of this meeting and I take this observation on face value.”

  I would have thought, to be honest, the senior officer who wrote this would have had the chance by then to read the Parliamentary report on such a fundamental aspect of policing: the crime figures and how they are recorded. Had he bothered, he would have would have seen a permanent record, generated by the highest democratic institution in Britain, which praised me for “fulfilment of [his] duty to the highest standards of public service” and stated that “[his] actions were both courageous and in the public interest, and that he has done a great service to this country.” But, I suppose, face value is better, depending on which way your bread is being buttered.

  The warning they gave me was not even worth the paper it was written on. By the time all this nonsense, for that’s really what it all had become, was concluded I’d been out of the police for over a month, having officially ended my service at midnight on the close of the 9th of May 2014. Exactly a decade after I was sworn in.

  I forced James Bullock, a Detective Sergeant who’d been ordered to babysit me for the last few months, to travel to Essex to retrieve my warrant card on the last day. It was the last exercise of my sense of humour as a copper, primarily as there had been some ongoing games from HR and Professional Standards, trying to make me “sign the Official Secrets Act.” I’d been having a blast with this, sending their form back torn in half or with “refused” scrawled across it in the most generic capital letters I could muster. You see, you don’t ever sign the Act. British Citizens themselves never sign any of Parliament's Acts. A simple fact of the matter is an Act of Parliament is a law which applies once passed and commenced. No one has ever signed the Offences Against the Person Act, yet it remains illegal to assault people. It’s exactly the same with Official Secrets legislation. The truth of the situation I faced was the Met had created an in-house form with an additional, civil disclaimer – essentially small print underneath the wording of the law itself – and it was that which they wanted me to sign. I owed them no duty to agree to any such thing as avoiding saying nasty things about Scotland Yard, that boat had sailed and sunk, hence my repeated refusal to entertain their requests, which they lumbered James with once more on my last day.

  I’d dragged him all the way out to East Anglia for another reason too. Part of his job that day was to take back my warrant card but, in London, your official identification is also your authorisation to travel on the tube and national rail networks. Basically, the Met wanted me to have to pay my own way home but, as it so happened, I couldn’t have cared any less what they wanted and was leaving on my own awkward terms. Once poor James arrived, I refused to comply with any of his requests unless he took me to the pub, which he duly did with a roll of the eyes, eventually returning to London with my warrant card and another ‘REFUSED’ form for HR and Professional Standards to get annoyed with. Sozzled, I was giggling as he left, but that was it. The end of my four times commended career as a police officer. It was a waste really.

  Even after leaving, the weight of it stayed chained around my neck as I attempted to take the Met to the Employment Tribunal for automatically unfair constructive dismissal under the provisions of the Public Interest Disclosure Act – the law put in place to protect whistleblowers. Factually speaking, my case was pretty good (I made some disclosures of wrongdoing and got punished for making them) but I’m not a lawyer. I was exhausted and way too close to the thing, so I started to lose on procedural grounds and withdrew. I just couldn’t take the kicking anymore. I was a shell of a person after two years of restrictions and discipline, whistleblowing, and media coverage. My marriage had been irrevocably damaged by all of it. Many times since, I’ve wished I’d had the support of the Federation to provide a lawyer but it wasn’t to be and, sometimes, walking away from a scrap is just better. There comes a point where you don’t have a jot of fight left and you have to make the tough choice to start all over again. Letting things go does not come naturally to me and, though it was the right thing to do in the circumstances, it haunted me for a long time.

  Looking back, I must still have had a little fight left – the tiniest amount – because it was around this time I wrote a series of articles for The Justice Gap, focused on policing. That was the start my journalism, the seed of it, but I was not emotionally ready for the full commitment. I was damaged, still trying to retain a connection to the job, to be part of a world that was no longer mine, and it started to do more harm than good so, I let writing about it tail off. Stopped picking the scab and left it to heal.

  After living with the constant ups and downs of adrenaline, brought on by debilitating daily anxiety and stress for the two years of investigation and during the tribunal, I collapsed, spending my days curled in a small ball on the living room carpet, hood pulled up over my face or staring blankly into space. The numb sensation after trauma which left a vacuum in my soul and there was nothing I could do but powerlessly ride the waves as they came and went. All the while, however, I was facing up to the looming consequence of happy endings existing only in films. While my actions had been squarely in the public interest, they rendered me largely unemployable. And by “largely,” I mean almost completely. Every large firm has a skeleton in its closet and the last thing anyone wants is an employee likely to start bleaching the damned things with sunlight. This became apparent very quickly as I re-entered the job market. Even with skills like mine, in particular my unique analytical experience, I took a minimum wage job at the local pub, working for someone my now ex-wife knew. It ended in disaster, predictably, but I’m never going to suffer a certain type of person for very long. Sufferance of fools is not in my nature and it is well beyond my capability to restrain certain aspects of my personality.

  The new job didn’t help with the drink either – a disease of The Job, as they call it. Alcoh
ol had crept up, as it does, ably assisted by someone I once thought of as a friend. During my roller-coaster they would meet me every day, taking me for a pint after work. Then two pints, then three. I was so worn out and ground down it was too late before I even began to grasp what was happening. If I’m brutally honest, the nightly oblivion was a release too. The friend, though, had been a long-term drinker and were using me to enable them, all the while becoming my enabler too, creating this downward spiral into a nightly drunken blur. Giving birth to this unseemly thirst which could only be quenched by repetition. Leaving the police and losing the warrant card went a long way to rectifying this unpalatable situation, mainly by distance alone, a physical separation from the supply. And, even though they had taken to visiting me at home as an excuse for their own indulgence – often with embarrassing consequences – I had it under control until the pub. But, suddenly, I was in a situation where customers were finishing their orders of rounds with the phrase “And one for yourself,” and I’d racked up months’ worth of drinks in only a few weeks. So, I started joined them once my shifts finished and on at least one occasion fell over on the way home and split my mouth open. I hadn’t really begun to understand the depths of the damage done over the course of the whistleblowing but these were the last warning signs as my marriage’s fingernails finally started to lose their strained grip on the cliff’s edge.

  As the pub job came to its rather argumentative – yet oddly satisfying – end, I hit upon the idea of opening my own pub, focusing on a dilapidated old building at the opposite end of town. I felt a kinship with the building, intent on seeing it as something damaged but not broken beyond repair and fixating upon it with the same deadly commitment which had caused all the problems in the police. That inability to let go of the bone. I wasn’t looking at the building like that at all, in truth. I was already seeing myself as a failure but, also, as someone who just needed the right amount of TLC and a helping hand to be turned around. I considered myself on a last chance in life and, by a quirk of psychology, used the pub as a physical manifestation of subconscious thoughts. A kind of desperate hope, I suppose. With that, I started to plot how I would take the project on, a scheme which neatly coincided with Mexico’s first raps on my door.