Det. Vic Mackey

Det. Vic Mackey

Any connection between this man and being a police officer is purely contained in the badge he carries. That he would best be employed as a hit man for the various criminal organisations he has shafted would be ironic only if it wasn't basically what he was doing anyway. Nefarious, Machiavellian and borderline psychotic, you would keep him a few miles away as a friend and several thousand as an enemy.

Actually, though, the distinction of being either would probably be very much blurred in your pain-filled eyes, in the sense of the degree of nastiness he could inflict on you before the blessed relief of death took pity and snatched you away from his warped machinations. In the true spirit of 'the-end-justifies-the-means' logic, he has laid waste to countless people's lives and destroyed the reputations of many others, with his own rapacity as the ulterior motive.

Leader of a special experimental team in a section of the LAPD, you wouldn't be accused of outright cynicism if you opined that the experiment had failed. For if the idea of setting up this unit was to rid the LA district it patrols of the criminals it possesses and bringing in law and order, then it would score about a 9 for the former and, being generous, about 0.5 for the latter. That this is not an inconsiderable outcome as to the original remit of the Strike Team in which the word 'apprehend' got mis-read for 'annihilate', one can be in no doubt whatsoever, as their unorthodox policing methods have contributed to at least 80% of one and 20% of the other, no prizes for guessing which.

That the said team of four are certainly not musketeers, more like manic blunderbusses, cannot be refuted when one reflects that much of the crime on their patch has stemmed from their very own dark and dirty deeds, with outlaws gunning for revenge either on them or the criminals who they have stitched up to take the blame, whether by accident or design. Taking a pivotal role in all this is, of course, Mr Mackey.

Corrupt and brutal, Vic makes Robocop look like C-3PO, and while he could claim his method's were necessary in ultimately bringing the bad boys down, some of his actions would make Dirty Harry contact Internal Affairs. The profusion of his crimes are far too numerous and labyrinthine to mention here, but suffice it to say that virtually all of the Strike Team's shenanigans can be laid at his door. It was particularly rich, once, for him to say 'We've started...' when mentioning a war that he had started between rival drug cartels, but that was very much his ethos: sharing the shit and keeping the rewards solo. Murder, assault, torture, theft, blackmail, covering evidence, you name it he either did it or incited others to. Well, perhaps 'Buggery With Menaces' we can say he would have a strong case to deny, but that's about it.

That he's prepared to throw even his best friends to the wolves indicates that he would stop at nothing to outwit the numerous individuals and agencies that tried to bring him down over the years, and he basically succeeded. His final laugh in the face of justice, though, was confessing to his crimes and brokering a full immunity deal with Immigration & Customs Enforcement to bring a Mexican drugs baron to book. The bean spill, though, would implicate many of his former colleagues, particularly his last remaining 'friend' at that point, Ronnie Gardocki, who took the whole rap despite not even being with the Strike Team all of the time.

One may have felt a modicum of comeuppance when his new employers at I.C.E. vowed to make his time there as unpleasant as possible by taking him off the streets, not allowing him a firearm and, worst of all, making him wear a suit and tie, but it's hard to feel any moral satisfaction as his 'punishment' would include him having to write a ten-page report everyday whilst cooped-up in a cubicle. We don't even know if that's how this bloody tale ended, for the last we saw of him was leaving his 'office' tooled-up with a gun. One somehow felt that this Judge Dredd on speed would not be drawing a pension.

D.C.I. Gene Hunt

D.C.I. Gene Hunt

This larger than life character has become a legend in his own lunchtime for his no-holds barred bigoted seventies views on policing and attitude to life in general, which even the late Bernard Manning would describe as homophobic, racist, sexist and any other '-ist' you could possibly think of. True, his character is firmly a product of the pre-politically correct era, and indeed revels in it, to which, paradoxically he has gained immense popularity. It may be a sense of looking back on the bad old days and shaking one's head thinking 'Was it really like that?' and immediately realising that it was very much like that, and having no other recourse but to either squirm or laugh and thereby choosing the latter as being the less uncomfortable option, especially as one can tag the mirth as being ironic. His popularity amongst women is especially perplexing given his misogynistic nature, yet he exudes an air of safety and security of the 'He'll watch your back' variety. 

To say he is corrupt may seem, at first glance, to only add to his sins but this does need qualification. He can, and does, bend the law but purely to bring the bad guys to justice, never for personal gain or advancement. Perhaps it is this aspect of his otherwise iffy persona that appeals so much, as one always wishes for the right thing to be done no matter how bumpy the rocky road to the destination. He has threatened all sorts of abuses to extract confessions from various guilty miscreants ranging from broken fingers to a scrotal scrunch, and indeed, regards 'A sharp downward tug on the ball-sack usually does the trick' as one of his top tips for new recruits in his manual The Rules of Modern Policing - 1973 Edition. 

Whatever the rights and wrongs of his attitude to all things, there is no question that he generates a great deal of loyalty nay deference from his two immediate underlings, Chris Skelton and Ray Carlton, not so much from his two protagonists 'from the future' Sam Tyler and Alex Drake. Indeed, both regard him as a complete throwback and as the former would say ''An overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding.'' (Hunt: ''You make that sound like a bad thing.''). Whereas they value procedure and forensic detection, Gene's idea of police work can best be summed up by the following quotes:

''Anything you say will be taken down, ripped up and shoved down your scrawny little throat until you've choked to death. Gene Hunt, Chapter 1, Verse 2.''

''Counselling? He's a Police Officer not a fairy.''

''By the time I've finished, you'll be begging for a ferret to be nibbling on your nuts.''

''Gene Hunt smashes doors down, he does not pick girlie locks.''

To which the latter is a very definitive insight into the man's whole take on his job. He regards the sensibilities of Tyler and Drake as a bit namby-pamby and can't even tolerate basic covert surveillance: ''Wouldn't Nixon notice a van parked outside the Whitehouse?'' he asks nobody in particular, when they are all sitting in a transit with listening equipment, after being told by Sam of an impending scandal. As for any operation even remotely M.I.5. related, he has to abandon it and go in with all guns blazing: ''Don't move! Armed Bastards!'' 

Sam Tyler, from his perspective, finds all the goings-on completely irritating and can't really believe his eyes and ears: ''This place is like Guantanamo Bay.'' (Hunt: ''Give over, it's nothing like Spain.''). But, somehow, their diverse approach to detecting does tend to gel, and they do succeed in cracking the cases. 

From the very off you thought the man was immortal, and that is exactly what he is. They all are. Near the end, when partnering Drake, it is revealed that he is a sort of 'angel' there to help dead police officers move on from limbo to get to 'heaven', or The Railway Arms pub as it is incarnated in these stories. You always knew he was a good 'un really. 

The best conclusion of this character must be left to his arch-sidekick Sam Tyler, after one of his delusional episodes:

''Listen you, I can just about handle you driving like a pissed-up crackhead and treating women like bin bags, but I'm going to say this once and once only, Gene. Stay Out of Camberwick Green!''

Sgt. Catherine Cawood

Sgt. Catherine Cawood

The sense of duty and justice to this strong-willed and pugnacious police officer, shines her in a light of morality of the utmost rectitude. She is feisty, as a cocky young arsewipe's nads would testify (appropriately). Her watch is a small town in the Yorkshire valleys, but any similarity with Nick Rowan's patch is purely geographical. In fact, there is absolutely no connection with Aidensfield at all: the one being a gentle village with charm, the other a concrete monstrosity with a rife drugs problem. That Catherine seems to be in a constant state of despair is hardly surprising, for who would want to even live in, let alone police, this shit-hole. Actually, existing would be a more apt description as the place is permeated with a general ennui of which only the ingesting of hard narcotics can even try to alleviate.

Perhaps one feels that Catherine herself could do with a large amount of illegal substances to drag her out of her melancholic mood. For not only is she haunted by the spectre of her dead daughter, but is soon confronted by the man who drove her child to suicide: Tommy Lee Royce, an all round villain if ever there was one, and to complicate matters the father of her grandson. I've scoured the Oxford English Dictionary to find words to be most applicable to this man, and the two I can best come up with are Evil and Twat. The kidnapping of a local entrepreneur's daughter, orchestrated by a disgruntled accountant, sees Royce in all his distasteful glory as he manipulates the other gang members in their criminal enterprise. That he positively enjoys inflicting all manner of indignities and physical assaults of the most appalling intensity (particularly with a car on a young policewoman), graphically illustrates what a psychopathic tosser he really is.

That our heroine devotes her whole waking hours, and probably even her sleeping ones, to the capture of this criminal, prompts one to give thanks to the angels of righteousness who subliminally guide good agents of law enforcement to the apprehension of such perpetrators of ill. It is not at all easy for her, though, as she has to deal with her own domestic problems and what seems to her to be top-brass ineptitude to boot.

The said abduction then starts to unravel, and Catherine begins to close in on the gang. Panicking, the leader (soon for a bullet between his lugholes) tells Royce to 'dispose' of their prisoner, but the moron thinks he has a better idea, hiding her in his mother's cellar. Although a patrol sergeant, Cawood used to be a detective and her acquired sleuthing qualities lead her to the hole where the girl is being held. There follows a sickening assault on our copper, which even Hannibal Lecter would find distressing, and we see her collapsed on a road after having rescued the victim. Royce escapes, and one feels that there really is no justice in this world.

With uncontrollable glee, we see our woman pull through and recover (at least physically). Now she puts all her effort into catching Royce, who has killed two more, one being a partner in the crime, but not before he has taken a bad stab wound to the abdomen (you wished it had gone a few inches lower). He takes refuge on a river barge and manages to get in touch with his son Ryan, Catherine's grandson. She tracks him down and manages to give Royce a really good kicking, to which every blow is music to one's ears. Pleading for death, our sergeant displays the ultimate integrity and denies him this cop out. He's carried away, and you somehow know it's going to be for a very long time with a fireside seat waiting for him in Hades.

It was a rocky ride, but it got there in the end. Justice. Sergeant Catherine Cawood, we salute you; a remarkable character in a tale that would even have Harry Callahan reaching for the anti-depressants.

D.I. Lindsay Denton

D.I. Lindsay Denton   

There may come a day whence the reckoning of a profound and sublime force of nature, which may or may not be attributed to the whimsy of a supreme being, depending on one's personal view, will smite down the perpetrators of the dastardly deed that incurred our anti-heroine into the act - albeit foolish and rash but yet well meaning - that saw her incarcerated for the rest of her natural, and to which all angels and demons must rage against the sheer injustice of it all. 'Lest he who is without sin' must be a required, if not obligatory, preamble to the circumstances of such an outrageous set of misfortunate happenings, and should this woman, on reflecting her lot from the snugness of her prison hovel, conclude that the Devil himself would look into his own soul and mutter 'Revenge is a dish best served straight from the fridge.' 

That our good woman looks the part, but by no means exhibits the virtues, of your more than exemplary cherub, you must cast out of your mind as you prepare to sit in judgement of the rights and wrongs of this case, for there are few of the former and more than half a dozen of the latter. To start, it can only be said that if nothing else, this beacon of dedication to her job can only shine with the luminosity of a deification light.  Indeed, had it not been for a desire to help a young teenage girl from escaping all sorts of villainy, then Lindsay would not have found herself in the predicament that she undoubtedly still rues. 

That she is actually no angel herself, would not come as a surprise even to her misguided logic, as she would be the first to admit. In the course of this sorry case, she has crowned her neighbour with an empty wine bottle, punched a colleague in the stomach and crushed the legs of a, thoroughly reprehensible, crooked cop. That she became crooked herself, may stem from the fact that she has always been a solitary lone-ranger type figure, and consequently felt the distance, if not hostility, from her fellow colleagues. 

This may have, in turn, led her into a sense of being a maverick and consequently, if unconsciously, then into the arms and other appendages of her Deputy Chief Constable. Indeed this amour, or the hope of rekindling it after a fizzle out, drove Ms Denton into the path of Carly Kirk, said young teenager. The subsequent witnessing of the physical abuse of the girl, set her on a collision course with Nemesis and the latter is rarely forgiving. Just what she was thinking of, though, when she tracked down Carly's abuser, I doubt even Lindsay knows, but that it set in motion the events that led to her downfall there is no question. It may have been simple avarice, when presented with the dosh offered by D.S. Akers to help in the ambush, but one thinks that a good helping of medicine, taste and one's own flashed through our detective's mind. It's still argued whether the subsequent ambush and the killing of three police officers was put in train by Lindsay's deviating from the agreed route of the two vehicle convoy, but perhaps it's moot. The fact is a tragedy occurred that would have Sophocles bowing in admiration. One can't help but feel for her as she observed the aftermath of the massacre, bringing forth the heartfelt sentiment and utterance of 'Oh, shit!' 

Seldom has a truer observance of the predicament that she now found herself in been spoken, and with crystal clarity of the quantity of the faecal matter which she was now in danger of drowning in, set forth an action which was to strangely render her tongue-tied and in urgent need of a lavatory break, when later confronted with it. Realising that a tracking device had been placed under her car, she immediately sought out the offending object and placed it under the second car which had been the target of the hit. All of which was to no avail as we would eventually find out, but she gave the investigators a bloody good run for their money and, until the aforementioned loss of explanation, had even turned the tables on the anti-corruption brigade. This did not prevent her from finding herself in chokey, on remand, and at the mercy of some wretched abuse, both physically and mentally, which one feels offsets her own violent shortcomings previously mentioned. She had her head pushed down a crapper, the recurrent excrement - which seems to feature heavily in this story -  physically and solidly crumbled in her porridge, got roughed up, had boiling hot water poured over her hands and was waterboarded. If she was owed some of this due to her own, admittedly psychopathically induced rages, then the exchange rate was extortionate. 

No sorrier sight was seen sitting in the dock, after the kidnapping attempt on her, an almost broken human being that would melt even the most stonier of stone hearts. There followed a brief, calm interlude for her, and one thought that all of life's troubles were, if not behind her, then somewhere near Heston Services. Not a bit of it. The hounds were soon snapping at her feet again, and this is where many regard her of committing the fatal error that precluded a happy ending. Pathos indeed, when she was caught with the pay-off money collected from her recently departed mother's belongings, and Mephisto, as well as Lindsay, were snarling when the overnight bag was opened to reveal the loot. 'Death Where Is Thy Sting', one almost wanted to shout out, and throw a book at any supernatural entity complicit in such an agonising conclusion it was now surely to be, as the book you knew was going to be thrown at this poor downtrodden person. A tragic story indeed and one that seems to lack any redeeming feature on all sides. Yet, I will not have a wrong word said about this woman, 'But There for the Grace of God' and all that. A tough set of  bad circumstances, ill luck and sheer sodding Sod's Law just fell in to place to plague D.I. Lindsay Denton, and she may feel that it all compounded her sense of victimisation not unreasonably. 

Lindsay spent a year and a half in prison. She was subsequently freed on licence after a re-trial, which was brought as new evidence had come to light. Her conviction for Conspiracy to Murder was overturned, but that of Perverting the Course of Justice remained. She was later found dead of gunshot wounds, murdered by another corrupt police officer.