COPYRIGHT

Certain details, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2020

FIRST EDITION

© Gareth Greaves 2020

Cover design by Rhys Willson © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover and picture section photographs courtesy of the author

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Gareth Greaves asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008385224

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008385255

Version: 2020-06-02

DEDICATION

For Ben:

Thank you for teaching me to be a dad. You’ve shown me what true bravery means

For Eryn, my Little Bird:

Fly high, dream big and stay brave. I love you more than you’ll ever know

For Theo:

I’d give the world to work alongside you again. I’d follow your paws until I could follow no more. You gave me hope and a future. I owe you more than I can ever give you, now it’s my turn to look after you. State 11, son

CONTENTS

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents

6  Note to Reader

7  Prologue

8  1

9 2

10 3

11 4

12 5

13 6

14 7

15 8

16 9

17 10

18 11

19 12

20 13

21 14

22 15

23 16

24 17

25 18

26 19

27  20

28  Acknowledgements

29  Picture Section

30  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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PROLOGUE

Screaming for backup was hopeless. My radio was within reaching distance, near a drain by the kerb, but rather than reach for it and issue the familiar ‘6143, urgent!’ shout, I was trying desperately to stop Theo’s neck from snapping.

‘Bite him, George, bite his ear off …’

They weren’t talking about me.

Minutes earlier, the two men I was trying to subdue had been driving at 90mph in a car they’d just stolen. A high-speed pursuit ended with them abandoning the vehicle and making off on foot. Their attempt to escape had come to a swift end when Theo, my five-year-old German Shepherd police dog, chased them from their abandoned car through an urban housing estate in Manchester and cornered them. On my command, he’d bitten one on the arm, which usually signalled the end of the altercation and the start of an arrest – not this time, though.

Theo had gripped his arm but, high on drugs, George Marshall had wrestled him into a headlock and was bent double, using all his weight trying to break Theo’s neck. Theo didn’t whimper or release his grip when I heard the stomach-churning sound of cartilage being ripped in two as his ear was bitten right through.

Seeing him dripping with blood, I raised my knee with all the force I could straight into Marshall’s face, making sure I missed Theo completely and hoping it’d make him release or at least loosen his grip.

It worked how I intended and Theo was free. I knew he wouldn’t leave me but while I tried to subdue the man who’d tried to kill my dog, he swung at me and split my lip wide open. Both of us now covered in blood, I wrestled him into a headlock. All I could hear were a series of deafening thuds and all I could feel was Marshall’s body rocking back and forth as I fought to detain him. I knew he was kicking Theo as hard as he could and later, I’d find out the kicks badly bruised several of Theo’s thirteen ribs. Still not a sound from Theo while we battled on for minutes in the fight of our lives. When help finally arrived, we were exhausted.

Leaving other officers to make the arrest, I patched Theo up, washing his wounds with a bottle of water I had in the van. I used the doggy first aid bag I always carry in the van to stem the blood while I called the emergency vet, letting them know we were on our way. My own split lip stung as I spoke, the dried blood cracking as I explained his injuries. When I hung up, Theo licked my hands and gently nuzzled my leg while he whimpered in pain.

Exhausted and sore, I crouched down to his level, then sat and leant against the police van. He rested his head against me and at exactly the same moment we let out the same long, low sigh.

‘I’m sorry, son. You alright?’

I avoided his ear which had stopped bleeding and used the bottle of water to try and rinse some of his bright red blood from his head. I could see he couldn’t lie down, it was clear he was in pain, so I gently helped him up into the van and we drove to the vet. While he was being patched up, I ran through what had happened in my head.

I’d never trained him to stay and fight if I was in trouble. Dogs have a natural self-preservation instinct; it’s been in them for thousands of years and has ensured they survive as a species. Anyone with a dog will know they rarely get themselves into a scrape they can’t get out of. Every fibre in him must have wanted to run off, but he stayed and took a battering because in addition to self-preservation, German Shepherd dogs have a huge loyalty gene: when they love you, they’ll never leave you.

I hadn’t once trained Theo to override that natural instinct, but he had and I guessed I was still standing because of it.

He hadn’t known not to whimper and he must have been in excruciating pain. Dogs have three nerve centres on their bodies and one of them is their ears – it must have been agony when it was bitten and when his ribs broke, but he’d ignored the pain and undoubtedly saved my life in the process.

We’d been in some scrapes together up to that point and we’d be in many more to come, but replaying what had just happened to us both, I knew I’d never work with a police dog like Theo ever again. Looking into those big brown eyes while he was fixed by the vet, I got goosebumps. His eyes are the most beautiful of any dog I’ve ever seen and when we look at each other, it’s like we connect on an incredible level, a bond that can’t be put into words.

I didn’t need to thank him more than I had. He understood. Our bond became unbreakable at that moment. We’d both fought for our lives but hadn’t even considered leaving each other’s side. We weren’t a handler and a dog, we were one.

Manpol Theo,* my boy, my son.

* Police dogs owned by the Greater Manchester Police Force are referred to as ‘Manpol’, a shortening of Manchester Police. Each force across the country has its own version of the name – for example, Merseyside Police Force dogs are called Merpol.

1

I grew up in a place called Clayton in Manchester. It was a really rough estate with plenty of crime and neglect. Kids left school at fifteen with few prospects and half of them there lived in poverty. Dad was a coach driver and Mum was a part-time cleaner. I’m the third of four and we had a tough childhood. Times were tight and, to put it bluntly, we had sod all! Mum wanted the best for us, though, and from when we were tiny she was adamant she wanted us all to go to private school. Fees aren’t cheap and Dad worked long hours to afford it for us. He’d take any overtime he could on evenings and weekends, determined we’d have a better shot of making it in life than he’d had.

My older brother Janade, younger brother Gavin and older sister Suzanne all happily toed the family line and enjoyed a private education at St Bede’s College in Whalley Range, Manchester, with Latin lessons and access to sport, but I refused point-blank to go. Despite my protestations, Mum and Dad insisted that I at least sit the entrance exam. I dutifully agreed to this, then spent the next ninety minutes refusing to even write my name down on the piece of paper. They went mad when a teacher told them what I’d done but I didn’t want to follow the same path as my siblings; it didn’t interest me. Being the stubborn child I was, I attended the local primary and comp while my siblings were carted off in their posh uniforms every day.

I always had an affinity with dogs and knew from a really young age I wanted to be a police dog handler so it seemed pointless to go to private school when I knew I didn’t need degrees or exams to join up and apply to the Police Dog Unit. I’d seen plenty of dog handlers on our estate when a family row had got out of hand or a stolen car had been dumped. I’d watch intently as the handlers would let the dogs get a scent then give them space to work. They seemed so in tune, not a dog and a human working together but one unit, one entity. It was fascinating and I loved watching them from my bedroom window on the occasions they’d be on the estate.

My two brothers and I shared a room and my sister had one to herself, which never seemed fair, but that didn’t change, no matter how much we boys protested.

Mum and Dad were like all the other working-class parents on the estate; theirs wasn’t the happiest of marriages. I remember arguments and rows over money, but rather than let it affect me, I was in my own happy world with Rufus.

I was four years old when Rufus first came into my world. He was imaginary but that didn’t matter. He was a mongrel, and Mum and Dad would ask what he was but the best my four-year-old mind could manage was to describe him as ‘a gingery dog’. I can still picture him now, though, and these days he’d be a Spaniel cross with shaggy ears. He was lovely and was my best friend. He never came out, he was only ever in the house, but I needed that dog so much. I’d talk to him about everything, spend hours playing with him and training him, and he never left my side.

Rufus soon made way for Cindy – a real dog – when I was around seven years old. A little grey Staffie, she had the loveliest temperament. She belonged to a neighbour, but I’d ask if I could walk her, such was my obsession with these four-legged creatures. Our neighbour agreed and soon enough Cindy started showing up outside our house a few minutes before it was time for us to go for a walk. Her dedication to me continued and the more affection I showed her, the more she showed me. I’d fuss her and give her treats, and while she’d always had the softest nature, if Mum or Dad were shouting at me then she’d start to growl at them. Eventually, Mum made me swear I’d stop spending time with Cindy in the hope her protectiveness towards me would wear off, but we were a unit until my parents moved house half a mile down the road when I was ten and I couldn’t see her anymore.

While I missed Cindy massively, Denver came along when I was around thirteen. Denver was a Rottweiler cross. I found him in the street and he had mange, a skin disease caused by parasites. I can’t remember when I first saw him and no one in our neighbourhood ever knew who he belonged to, so I’d feed him and he started to follow me around. He’d come in the garden and Mum would swear, shouting that the ‘scabby-looking thing’ wasn’t allowed in the house, but little by little, as he wormed his way into my affections, I could also see him worming his way into Mum’s. With hindsight, I’ll admit he was absolutely gross, but he was my first living and breathing dog that belonged to me and I loved every single thing about him.

Denver must have been a few months old when he came to live with us permanently and while Mum and Dad were at first utterly against me having him, I was undeterred. After ongoing negotiations, we reached a compromise, agreeing that Denver would live outside and not be allowed in the house. He was my first experience of having a pet and he was hilarious.

What Mum didn’t know was that whenever she was out, I’d sneak Denver inside and upstairs to my bedroom. Like most families, we had routines and every Saturday my brothers, sister and I would have to help Mum clean the house from top to bottom and change all the beds. She’d put her Billy Joel album on the record player and we’d all muck in together to get it done faster. I was stripping the beds upstairs one Saturday with the melancholic tones of ‘Piano Man’ ringing up the stairs. Mum had popped to the shops to get something and I’d let Denver in while I finished cleaning. He was being really quiet and, suspecting he might be up to something, I went out onto the landing to see where he was.

I set foot out of the bedroom in time to see the final few white feathers cascading like snowflakes onto the hall landing. He’d grabbed one of the pillows from Mum and Dad’s bed and had wrestled with it, completely destroying it. The entire landing was covered in white feathers. It looked like a down factory and in the middle stood a triumphant Denver, breathless and wagging his tail, proud of his accomplishment and expecting me to share in his joy. When she got back, Mum was understandably livid and turfed him out of the house, saying he was never, ever allowed to cross the threshold again.

Denver’s destructive streak continued unabated, though, whether it was snaffling food off the kitchen counter or eating homework – yes, really, he had the most lovable nature but couldn’t resist a nibble and a play. By the time I was in Fourth Year, I was 80 per cent absent from school because of that dog. Denver’s traits had made a rod for his own back and he was definitely an outdoor dog after Mum lost one too many things due to his exuberance. He had a kennel but I desperately wanted him in the house with me.

I’d get on the bus to go to school because Dad was the bus driver but then I’d dash home and spend the day in the house with Denver, sharing cups of tea and biscuits with him. I couldn’t cope with him being outside all day on his own so I’d go home and keep him company.

Despite the fact the internet didn’t exist in those days, and I had no clue what I was doing, I’d spend hours training Denver. I was starting from scratch and, by trial and error, we got to a point where I could walk him to the shop off the lead to get something for Mum and he’d stay by my side and wait patiently outside while I went in and got what was needed.

I didn’t like him crossing roads so I’d walk him to the main road. I then had to cross and get him to sit and wait. I’d cross over and go through a 30-metre alleyway, get what I needed and he’d wait for me. He couldn’t see me and I wasn’t in his line of sight, but he trusted me to come back and I’d trained him to trust me. I was so proud of how responsive he was – I didn’t know back then how accomplished that was for both of us. I didn’t need to put him on a lead. If I had done, he’d probably have taken me off my feet – I was never exactly a strapping lad – but he’d do what I asked and a mutual respect grew between us.

Being a handler and owner isn’t about power and owning an animal, it’s about a mutual respect and good treatment. How could I expect Denver or any other dog to do as I wanted if I didn’t treat him well and praise his successes? I didn’t know it at the time but when I joined the Dog Unit, a lot of those lessons I’d taught myself came back to me. No dog will do what you tell it to do if it’s not respected. I might be Theo’s handler, but we’re very much a team in the way Denver and I were.

I spent many of my formative years obsessed with a fairly mangy mongrel as my peer group were getting up to all sorts and Denver was my escape. On our walks, we’d often go past the police station and so my fascination with dog handlers grew. I’d see them coming on or off shift and they looked so commanding. Spending time with Denver was my favourite thing to do and it seemed these men and women got to spend their working lives with dogs – they didn’t just have them as pets at home. It seemed such an appealing path to follow.

I left secondary school with a handful of GCSEs intent on being a dog handler, but at sixteen I was too young to join the police so I started out as a maintenance apprentice at a health club in Manchester. Denver finally became an indoor dog when I earned enough money to rent a little place for the two of us near work.

My fascination with the police force continued, though. Mum and Dad had done everything they could to give us kids a leg-up and get us a successful career but they didn’t have the money for us to fall back on. They had love and food on the table, but I knew when I got my first job I’d be financially responsible for myself for the rest of my life. I wanted a financial stability my parents didn’t have and, as well as offering me my dream job, the police force had great benefits and a good pension. The adverts and everything I read about the force convinced me that it would be the family unit I wanted: once you were in, they looked after you. The camaraderie and teamwork appealed and, at the crux of it, I’d get to help people, something I liked the thought of doing.

I was twenty-one when I applied to join the force. I’d attended an open day to attract new recruits. They had firearms officers, dog handlers, the drug squad and special operations. The choices were vast, but I was set on the dog-handling unit. It’s not a role you walk straight into, though. When you complete your sixteen-week training, you’re on probation for two years as a bobby on the beat before you can apply for any jobs that become available in the different branches of the force.

In June 2002, I was accepted onto the training programme for Greater Manchester Police and it was one of the best days of my life. I called Mum and Dad instantly when I got the letter and they were delighted for me. Mum knew it was a childhood dream realised and, while she’s never been one for effusive praise, she told me I’d done a good job and that she was proud of me. Dad was bristling with pride too; I’d made good on my word and worked hard to get there. They’d always worried about me because I didn’t access the same education my siblings did, so for them my job offer into the police was proof the risk had paid off, that I’d succeeded despite not wanting the same opportunities as my brothers and sister. By then Suzanne was at medical school and Gavin was sixteen and starting college, doing A-levels he hoped would give him the grades to get to law school.

I told Denver the good news too and because he was a dog he shared my excitement, his tail wagging but clearly unsure of what we were celebrating.

The four-month training would start at Sedgley Park, Greater Manchester, a huge, sprawling purpose-built centre that saw thousands of recruits pass out every year. Training then moved to Bruche in Warrington. The site is now closed but tens of thousands of officers from fifteen constabularies across the UK all trained there. It was the centre of the majority of UK police training in the sixty years it was open before closure in 2007, a few years after I’d passed through there.

The night before the course started, I spent the entire evening getting everything sorted. I polished my shoes to within an inch of their lives, pressed my suit and shirt three times over to make sure everything was perfect and neatly laid out everything I’d need. This was the first day of the rest of my life and I was determined to make a good impression.

I had an early night and, despite not much sleep because I was too excited, when my alarm went off the next morning I sprang out of bed like a kid at Christmas. Walking downstairs to get my suit before I showered, a smell I wasn’t familiar with started wafting up the stairs and a sheepish-looking Denver refused to hold my gaze: he’d puked up all over my suit and shoes. I could have cried. I didn’t have any spares as I hardly ever wore a suit, only for weddings, and so I didn’t have a plan B.

An hour later, after I’d intended to make a good impression among the trainers and the other 399 new recruits, I rocked up in trainers, a jumper and jeans slightly smelling of the dog sick I’d spent an hour trying to clean off the floor. I could tell my wardrobe hadn’t gone unnoticed despite no one saying anything out loud until lunchtime.

The officer in charge gave a series of introductions to the training staff and told us a brief history of Sedgley Park – it was where Moors murderer Myra Hindley stayed when she was taken up onto Saddleworth Moor to identify the graves. Steeped in history, it was the place where we’d go from civilians to serving police officers.

There was a quiet hum while everyone ate lunch until my name was called. I stood where I was and the training inspector who’d done the introductions dressed me down in front of all the other recruits because of my wardrobe choices. I tried to explain but was greeted with the truth that part of being a police officer is learning to adapt. The training officer was right and all I could do was take his criticisms while silently cursing the mongrel who’d caused them.

While my clothes most definitely put me on the training staff’s radar, I didn’t do anything to help myself after lunch. All new recruits were put in a huge horseshoe shape and the inspector in charge of training went round us all one by one asking what branch we wanted to specialise in. I was the only one who said dog handler and, at this, he burst out laughing.

‘That’s dead man’s shoes, that is, lad! Good luck with that. Is there anything else you want to do?’

‘No, I want to be a handler,’ I insisted.

We crossed paths a few years later after I’d started as a handler and I asked him to explain what he’d meant that day.

‘Once you’re on the Dog Unit, you’ll never want to give it up.’

He was right: it’s the best job in the world.

If you think about the most exciting thing you’ve ever done and times it by ten, then think about doing it every day with your best friend and getting paid for it, that’s what being a police dog handler is like. It’s the best game of hide and seek ever. Every dog owner knows how much fun it is to play with your dog. I knew if I worked hard and passed out with flying colours, I’d be able to play with my dog every single day and get paid for it. Yes, there’s a cost and a risk to chasing baddies but, ultimately, to your dog it’s a game.

I didn’t know it when I was training but when the general public get in trouble, they phone the police, and when the police get in trouble, they phone the dog handlers. Turning up to a scene and getting your dog out the van calms everyone. It’s like the cavalry have arrived. Us dog handlers have experience of so many different types of crimes because we’re called to everything and with that experience comes an air of calm. It’s partly because the dogs are so protective of us too and they know how to solve violence fast. One good dog is better than ten people on the ground. Faced with the prospect of a police officer unleashing their dog, a lot of villains decide to come quietly rather than keep on fighting.

I remember once turning up to a job and a massive fight was kicking off. Backup was on the way, but there were a few patrol cars there. The police were backing off and a handler with more experience than me had got out of his van with his dog and asked: ‘Who rules these streets? Who’s in charge of the streets? It’s the police! Now, let’s go and sort this job out.’ He wasn’t violent – he didn’t need to unleash his dog because he had experience and just having his dog beside him made everyone who was fighting think twice about continuing.

As he got his dog back in the van afterwards, he told me the best bit of kit any police officer has is their mouth. Sitting in the training school, being laughed at for saying I wanted to be a dog handler, I didn’t know any of that, but I was determined to get the job I’d wanted since childhood and nothing was going to put me off it.

2

Out of 400 recruits on that first day, I was the only one who wanted to work on the Dog Unit. There were 136 handlers in Greater Manchester Police in 2002 and I was determined to be one of them.

I passed out at the end of September that year and started my two years’ probationary policing. You see all sorts when you’re newly qualified and the experience you gain means by the time you come to apply for a speciality, you have become a developed all-round officer with street experience.

As well as dogs, I loved fast cars and when a job came out of division – where all the vacancies ended up – in the undercover car branch, I applied. I was told my application was impressive but there were more experienced officers applying. However, I was offered a six-month secondment into the branch when I heard about two spots that had come up on the Dog Division. I was desperate to get one of these jobs and turned down the secondment, putting all my eggs in one basket.

My excitement at getting to apply for my dream job was soon tempered, though. Denver hadn’t been himself for a while and the same day I heard about the jobs coming up, I had a call from the vet. Tests done the day before had revealed Denver had bladder cancer and it was advanced. He went downhill fast and I had to have him put to sleep just weeks after the initial diagnosis. It was the biggest shock of my life to that point. I was devastated and it took me years to get over my loss.

Despite treatment and pain relief, Denver’s quality of life massively deteriorated in the weeks following the initial diagnosis. He went from jumping up to greet me when I came home from work to limping towards me in pain. I was still taking him out, but where once he’d enjoyed walks for miles and miles, even a few times round the block left him exhausted. He’d always been so alert, ears pricked and ready for something exciting to happen, and suddenly seemed tired all the time. It was like he was ebbing away before my very eyes. He’d rapidly become a shadow of the dog he once was and I knew it wasn’t fair to keep him going. Selfishly, I wanted to keep him alive because I loved him and couldn’t contemplate life without him but I knew I had to do what was right by him in the same way he’d always done what was right by me.

On advice from the vet and using my intuition, I made the appointment to have Denver put to sleep just five weeks after he was diagnosed. I talked to him and explained what would happen. Of course he didn’t understand me but his tired eyes looked into mine for the longest time before I let him up in my bed for the final night’s sleep of his life.

The ten-minute drive to the vet the following morning was awful. I wanted every light to stay on red forever so I could keep him with me, but each time they turned green we inched closer to a world without Denver in it.

The vet said I didn’t have to be present but there was no way I’d let my dog draw his last breath looking into the eyes of a stranger. Watching him go, seeing him draw his last breath, is forever etched inside me. He was part of me. I loved him and I was never the same after he died.

Denver didn’t ask for anything, he just gave and gave and gave. He gave me so much love, he made me laugh, he listened to me rant on about work or friends or family. He did his best with all the training we did, he was loyal and he loved me just as much as I loved him. But then when he went, Denver took all that love with him. I was so angry when he died, it’s hard to describe but I’ll always be angry with Denver for dying.

As Denver grew progressively sicker, my application for the Dog Unit was going through the appropriate channels. A friend I had at division – Phil, who had finished his probation before me – was applying too and I’d heard through the grapevine there were fifteen applicants across the division for the two positions.

After weeks of waiting, my interview time came up. It was with the Head of the Dog Unit and the Divisional Commander. The first question loomed large but I was expecting it: ‘Why should I interview you as a dog handler?’

‘I’ve got a vocation for dogs. I love dogs, I’ve had dogs throughout my life, and I get them and they get me. I know that means nothing, I’ve got no experience of what police dogs are, but I want this job and it’s one I’ve wanted since I was a nipper.’

‘Correct. That’s what I wanted to hear!’ was the reply I got.

The rest of the interview went well. I showed I had experience, I had a good track record for arrests and had behaved impeccably during my time on probation. Desperate for a ‘yes’, I knew that I wouldn’t find out for a week.

I was in the nick at the end of a shift when I heard. It was before the time of emails and the chief inspector called and gave me the news which would change my life forever. He said I was young in service but they were really impressed with how I’d progressed. I’d start at the kennels in Hough End, Manchester, the following week for a thirteen-week training programme. I’d be given my own dog and would learn how to search, track and detain. It was a dream come true and by the time I hung up the phone I was buzzing and couldn’t contain my excitement. If I said thank you once during the conversation, I must have said it twenty times. I was in shock when we hung up, stunned I’d managed to land the job of my dreams on the first go.

I was still struggling with the loss of Denver. I’d had him cremated and his ashes were on the mantelpiece at home. I felt bereft without him and hated putting my key in the door because, every time I did, the absence of his wagging tail and nuzzling head on the other side felt unbearable but this was a ray of light. Not only was I getting my dream job, I’d have a dog back in the house again.

It was a very small pay rise, but a pay rise nonetheless. I’d get an extra £5 a day in my wage to compensate for the extra work I’d be doing outside of shifts, walking a dog, grooming and generally taking care of them. I was buzzing, absolutely beaming from ear to ear. I called Mum and Dad, who were over the moon. I was twenty-five and I had my dream job. Then I rang my sister Suzanne and my brother Gavin too, who were both delighted for me.

The dog course is at the Greater Manchester Police training kennels in Hough End, near Stockport. There’s a smell about it; the first thing you notice is the pungency – a mixture of wet dog and haylage (fermented forage) because the GMP horses are stabled up there as well. It’s an unmistakable smell, one you’ll never forget the second it hits your nostrils for the first time, but a really welcoming one too. When I turn up there every shift, there’s something about breathing in that scent deeply when I get out of my car that makes me feel like I’m home, a part of me is back where it belongs.

For all the welcoming nature of the scent, though, it’s a daunting place. There’s a hierarchy among handlers and when you’re a new recruit, you’re no one. Within minutes of starting on day one, I went from thinking I had my dream job to wondering if I’d made the right decision. I was an accomplished police officer in my twenties but now I instantly felt like a little lad on his first day at school.

I asked a handler who was coming out of his van where I should go.

‘Why the hell should I tell you?’ was his response as he walked away from me and through a door I’d follow.

I found my way to the canteen and saw a familiar face. The friend I had who’d applied at the same time – Phil – had secured the other position on the team. I’d never been so pleased to see anyone in my life. We said our hellos just as a mountain of a man came strolling through the door to greet us.

Dave Johnson was from Wigan and he had hands like shovels. He was huge and had an air of authority about him that I still wouldn’t mess with to this day. He explained we’d be working long hours, that training would be split up into different skills, but the dogs were the priority, and at the start and end of each and every day we’d be expected to muck them out and get them sorted. It would mean an extra hour or two on top of our normal working day but the Dog Unit wasn’t for the faint-hearted. Like many branches of the police, the training would be tough to root out the ones who had the mettle for it and those who didn’t.

After our warm welcome from Dave we were taken to the kennels for the moment I’d been waiting for: we were being allocated our dogs, the partners we’d serve with for years to come. I was still feeling anxious but my nerves gave way to excitement as soon as we approached the kennel block.

It’s worth pointing out here that being given your dog is a rite of passage for every handler but what often happens – which new recruits don’t know – is that the pairing doesn’t always work the first time around. While I was desperate for one of the fourteen-week-old German Shepherd puppies we were walking by, Dave stopped outside a kennel that had an aggressive-looking German Shepherd in it by the name of Simba – he was four and huge. I’d find out later they’d purposefully given me Simba because he was the biggest dog they had and I was only 5ft 7in.

Standing in front of his kennel with some bars separating us, Simba was snarling and growling with his top lip curled up. I’d never seen anything like it.

‘There’s your dog, G, go and get him.’

(G became my nickname on joining the police force and it’s still with me to this day. Gareth when I’m not in uniform, G when I am.)

Dave handed me a lead and gestured for me to open the kennel.

Clearing my throat, I squared my shoulders and unlatched the door. Somehow I managed to get in and get his lead on but the second I brought him out of the kennel, Simba nearly yanked my arm off and I almost ended up on the deck.

It was horrible. Everyone was watching, everyone was there; it’s something that stays with you forever the first time you get your dog out. I’d dreamt of the moment so many times, it’s all I’d wanted for decades, but rather than be the magical moment I’d always longed for, it was one of the only moments I’ve ever wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. Even thinking about it now I get goosebumps and feel a bit sick about how badly it went.

I could have cried as I handed Dave the lead and walked out without a backwards glance. Afterwards I gave myself an internal pep talk: ‘Come on, Gareth, this is what you’ve always wanted. You’ve dreamed of this job for years and you’re going to give it up the first hour you’ve started just because some dog has pulled you? You’ve come all this way, don’t moan, get on with it!’

With that began my thirteen weeks of hell.

Day two started with a lecture from Dave Johnson, the crux of which was that whatever you’re feeling as a handler will go down the lead and into your dog. Dogs are such intuitive creatures and have worked alongside humans for thousands of years, our bond being the strongest of any two species on the planet, but with that bond comes a responsibility. If a handler is stressed taking a dog into an already stressful situation like a fight, there’s a risk that things could go wrong and the dog could act of its own accord. If you are calm and focused, your dog will be that way too. But if you are erratic, panicked, over-zealous or angry, your dog will be the same. It’s vital you behave in exactly the same way as you want your dog to behave.

We’d start with simple commands, sit and heel and recall work, and move onto the more complex matters like biting as the course progressed. It was such an emotional roller coaster, Dave’s advice on day one was hard to stick to sometimes. Simba was never pleased to see me but we tolerated each other. Four years old, he had been given to the unit by his owners, who couldn’t handle him anymore. He had natural aggression, he was a tough dog and he was brand new to the unit, which was the only thing we had in common. We didn’t bond straight away and he liked to play me. One day he’d sit and do exactly as I told him, the next he’d ignore every command, leaving me frustrated and looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d go from the high of controlling a huge Shepherd to the frustration of being treated like a fool by something with four legs.

I soon learned that timing is massive when it comes to praising your dog and that you have a small window to reinforce positive behaviours and get rid of negative ones. Get it wrong with the moment you praise or admonish them and you can mess them up completely. If you’re struggling with recall and screaming at your dog to come back and he does and you shout at him, he’ll associate coming back with being shouted at.

When you’re teaching him to sit, even when his bum hits the floor for a split second, you need to notice the second itself and praise him. As a new recruit all I’d hear for ages was ‘You’ve missed your chance, you should have praised them then.’ Timing has now become second nature to me, like it was for all the trainers who taught me, but it takes some time to learn to get it right.

Life at Hough End wasn’t for the faint-hearted. The daily routine started at six o’clock every morning:

Go to your kennel, get your dog out

Put him in the wagon, come back

Muck the kennel out, go back to the wagon

Get your dog, groom him

Go to the canteen to make tea and toast for all the trainers (it had to be Lurpak butter, anything else just wouldn’t do and you’d get berated before being sent back to the shop to get the proper stuff)

Start the day’s training after tea and toast

Every day was Groundhog Day. It was September, absolutely Baltic and it rained every single day. You’d finish at 3 o’clock, only you didn’t finish because you’d have to sort your dog out. It was Monday to Friday but you’d be expected to go to the kennels on Saturdays and Sundays and do the same routine of taking care of your dog before using your initiative and training them on things they’d been weaker on during the week.

As well as the act of training the dogs and preparing them for a life of front-line policing, the whole training programme was designed to test you to see how badly you wanted the job. The training got tougher as the weather got colder. Everyone’s hands were in ribbons. We were working with long lines that would zip through your hands and leave them dry and cracked, but on day one Dave had decreed anyone who came with plasters would be off the course: ‘No one’s going to come and help you at 2 a.m. when it’s lashing wind and freezing rain and you’re on a track in a forest in the middle of nowhere that’s just dried up. You have to be able to help yourself and get used to working in uncomfortable conditions.’ I needed to be toughened up and while Dave’s way of doing it might not have been to everyone’s taste, it worked for me.

Phil, the pal who had got the other job on the Dog Unit when I got mine, severed his index finger one day a few weeks into the course. He was bitten by the dog he was training and had to go to A&E. They patched him up and told him to rest his finger, but the next day Dave had him straight on tracking.

You hold the lead loosely in your hand and rest it over your index finger when tracking so the dog can head off and use the length of the lead if they need to but so you’ve got a hold on them to keep them safe and out of harm’s way. If a tracking dog comes to a main road, they’ll get themselves run over by their singular dedication to follow a track.

They started us on tracking that day just because Phil had hurt himself and it would test his mettle to hold the long line like that for the whole day against his injured finger. There was no other reason for it. Everything was about making a point and testing how much you wanted it. Phil still can’t straighten his finger properly as a result of that day but not for one second did he think about complaining or quitting.

Six weeks into the course, while Simba had become more pliable and we’d accepted each other as partners, I was struggling to get him to lie down. I was so frustrated by it but, remembering what Dave had said about my feelings going down the lead, I tried staying patient. As he’d done on day one too, Simba still strained at the lead and pulled when I got him out, something I’d have to get a handle on before we could pass out.

It was a dark and cold December afternoon when Dave decided he’d had enough of watching me struggle.

‘Check him back.’

Dave wanted me to issue Simba with a command that would bring him back to my side – a tug on his lead should have done it. I checked him to heel and looped the length of the long lead underneath my arm. Clearly dissatisfied with how I’d done it, Dave let out a long sigh and marched over to me. He stood between Simba and me, and using his 17-stone weight compared to my 9½-stone weight he pulled Simba back. Simba wasn’t used to such force, though, and turned around. As I was standing in between Dave and Simba, he latched onto me and rather than go for one bite, he bit me on the arm five or six times before I managed to get him under control. Dave watched the whole thing unfold before uttering, ‘That was your fault, lad,’ and walking off.

A fellow trainer on the course could see I was in pain, angry, upset and ready to answer back. ‘Eyes open, ears open, gob shut,’ he said before following Dave back towards the canteen.

Convinced I’d lost my job on the unit, I walked Simba back to the wagon. He bit me again before I could get him in the wagon and I knew, even if my time on the unit wasn’t over, I couldn’t work Simba, he’d lost any respect for me that I’d worked hard at gaining.

Every day on the unit ended with a brief appraisal and, more than any other day, I was dreading mine. Simba had broken the skin on my arm and I was in agony but sat dutifully and waited for Dave to begin.

‘How do you think today went then, lad?’

‘It could have been better …’ I trailed off, exhausted, in pain, cold, tired and upset.

‘Yep, you’re right there. See you tomorrow.’

That night was agony. You don’t stitch a dog bite unless it’s very serious because their mouths are germ-laden and you need to make sure you wash out your wound. I was in pain and worried sick about what the next day would yield.

Walking in to Simba the next day it was like he’d forgotten yesterday had happened. He let me lead him out to the wagon without any fuss at all and I started to think maybe my luck had changed. After all, I’d been bitten. I’d taken it like a real dog handler; maybe it was the initiation I needed and everything would be fine. I dared to start feeling a little sunnier about the whole thing but that changed the second I presented Dave with his morning tea and toast.

‘Take your dog out the van, you’re not having him anymore. That’s you done!’ I was told.

Somehow I managed to get out into the open air before tears started streaming down my cheeks. My dream job, the one I’d wanted since I was a lad, was done. I was out, it was over. I felt humiliated, hurt and angry, but above all else I was bereft. I didn’t have a plan B and my plan A had been ripped from me for something I felt wasn’t my fault. But I did as I was told and pulled myself together before I got back in front of Dave.

‘We don’t know what we’re going to do with you – possibly send you back to division and we don’t think you’re going to come back, so we’ll see …’

It was brutal. I’d rather they took me into the yard and beat me up. Physical pain I’d learned to deal with, but this was an emotional pain and I was hurting at the thought of getting so close to my dream only to have it potentially snatched away from me.

3

While I spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself, unsure of what my future held, but knowing better than to ask or make a fuss, I was able to observe things way more than I had when I’d been busy with Simba. I could see there were high-level discussions going on between Dave and a man called Paul Quinlan, who was a trainer in charge of the breeding programme for Greater Manchester Police.

As I sat trying not to be noticed, drinking my now-cold tea, I could see Paul shaking his head and telling Dave ‘no’ in no uncertain terms. At the time I had no idea what the discussions entailed, but I later learned Dave was telling Paul he needed an extra dog. The dogs Paul was working with were supposed to go to experienced handlers only. Police dogs can only work until they’re around eight or eight and a half before they’re retired, usually to the handler who has run them during their career. Puppies mostly go to those with experience who are on their second or third dog. Their argument was getting heated but I knew better than to presume the dog would be for me. Another officer on the course didn’t have a dog because he hadn’t gelled with any he’d been given so I presumed the new dog – if it came off – was for him.

Paul reluctantly finally agreed. Dave was a man used to getting his way and later that day I saw Riley for the first time. A ten-month-old German Shepherd, something about him immediately captured me. He had a brindle stripe (sometimes called ‘tiger striping’, the term is used to describe a dog’s coat where the stripes or patches are almost the same colour as the base coat) and was absolutely beautiful. Indeed, Riley was a Ferrari compared to Simba, who had been like a Ford Fiesta. He went straight to the officer who didn’t have a dog as I had expected and I spent a week on the course without a dog.

If it had been hard before, it was even harder without a dog to train. I did all the chores, got everyone their tea and coffee and toast, mucked out, brushed and got all the dogs their food and water. I was a lackey but knew better than to utter anything about my future or what would happen. Every time I’d pass Dave he’d tell me he had yet to hear from division about what would happen to me. With hindsight, I know now that it was all a test: they were seeing how resilient I was, how much I could cope with and how much I could take. The thing about dog handling is you can’t lose your rag, you can’t get stressed and upset or start shouting the odds. You need to be even-tempered and have a quiet, stealthy resilience. Dave was pushing me all the time to see if I’d throw the towel in or have a go at him about the unfairness of the circumstances because I was idling and growing bored, but I didn’t. I don’t think they had any intention of putting me off the dogs, they were just testing me to see how much I could take.

The officer who was with Riley was struggling with him. They hadn’t gelled and Dave called me to one side while we were training in the woods one day.

‘If you could have any dog on this course and it might mean someone getting kicked off the course, could you do it?’

‘Yeah, I can do that.’

‘Even your friends?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right, what dog would you take if you could have it now?’

As little experience as I had, I wasn’t stupid: I asked for Riley straight away.

‘What about Max?’ came the reply.

Now Max was a horrible dog. He was huge, bigger than Simba, and I knew he’d be a successful police dog because he had a natural aggression but he wasn’t a dog I wanted or relished the thought of handling. I didn’t trust his temperament and, though I was new to the unit, my gut instinct told me no one would be able to handle him and, ultimately, he’d come off the dog section.

‘Look, if you’re telling me I’ve got to have Max, I’ll have him,’ I said, resigned to getting whatever dog they decreed I’d have, but just as I was about to let out a huge sigh, the words I wanted to hear came out …

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you can have Riley.’

The officer who’d had Riley was sent back to division and I was given Riley. It was week seven of the thirteen-week course. I had some catching up to do if he was going to pass out in just six weeks.

Those six weeks were amazing! I went from wondering about my future on the unit to knowing I was exactly where I was meant to be. The daily appraisals almost always talked about how I was a natural with dogs. Riley learned fast, listened well and had a natural aptitude for training. One of the finest-bred dogs I’ve ever worked with, he was like a sponge – he got everything I taught him and never forgot anything in between sessions. We caught up with the other recruits within a fortnight. Riley passed out with flying colours and I learned I’d be sent back to the division I’d come from as their dog handler.

It was the proudest day of my life, and Riley and I started spending our entire lives together. Us recruits knew when we were training that we’d spend our first six weeks as handlers paired with another dog handler and their dog. It’s one thing learning it all at Hough End, another thing altogether to put it into practice on the street.

The dog-handling partner I was paired with was Andy Beaver, who had been a tutor while I’d been training. He was a great guy and, while I wanted Riley and I to go straight into the fray, I knew there were worse handlers I could have been paired with as we bedded ourselves in. Andy’s dog was called Milo, a German Shepherd. They’d worked together for around a year and Milo was an excellent police dog. Now retired, Andy’s one of my best friends and in those six weeks he taught me so much. He showed me what confidence can do and how teamwork between you and a dog should go.

Milo was big and daft, but he was fantastic when he needed to be. We’d run the dogs together on the field during the shift, but nine times out of ten Milo would disappear off chasing a rabbit, something he would never have dreamt of doing on an actual job or a rural track. He had a great recall but would forget you’d called him back and would disappear again to chase something else; he was dippy but with a beautiful temperament.

Andy showed me what a relationship between a dog and their handler can be like. He’d have thrown himself in front of a car for Milo and Milo would have done the same thing for him. They were a unit and adored each other. I’d watch their body language on searches, becoming one, and ached to have their experience. I wanted Riley and I to be as good or better than they were. It was an amazing six weeks of learning on the job with what turned out to be a lifelong friend.

The first day of our first shift in December 2002, Riley made his first bite. We’d been on shift all night and were called to an estate in Oldham at 1 a.m. I had Riley on a long line and as we searched the back of the property, we found a male trying to break into the house. He saw us and started to run off. I used the challenges we’d been taught in training, and when he ignored them I sent Riley in. He bit and detained the man like he should have done but Riley bit his bum, not his arm as he’d been trained to. Two nights later, we caught the same man again doing the same thing and Riley detained him again, this time on his arm.

Looking back, it was a nothing bite and a nothing sort of job: he didn’t wound the man or put him in hospital or anything like that, but I felt like I’d arrived – I could say I’d had a bite. I was a new recruit who was earning my place on the team. Over the next couple of years, Riley and I went from strength to strength. A formidable police dog, his success tally kept climbing. He was a fantastic tracker in urban and rural environments, fearless with an amazing bite, and would follow my command to the letter. He was so strong too – nothing got away from him and he knew it.

In October 2005, Riley saved my life for the first time. I didn’t think I could have loved him any more than I already did, but it’s a job that will stay with me forever. We were at the start of our shift when we were called to someone breaking into an empty derelict pub in Ashton-under-Lyne. We rocked up and were told by officers on the scene that one or two people had gone in and not come out. The officers asked if I wanted them to come in with me but I knew I’d be better with Riley alone so we went in and issued our challenges.

Challenges give perpetrators the time to give themselves up without me sending Riley in or them potentially coming to any harm. Before you release a police dog, you should let people know you’re there, so first you call ‘Police officer with a dog, come out or I will send in the dog!’ If they don’t respond, you issue a further challenge of ‘Come out now or I’ll send in the dog, it’s your last warning!’ and if they still don’t respond, you send in the dog.

I issued the challenges and, as expected, no one gave themselves up. Riley started searching upstairs and cleared the top and ground floor, room by room. After searching for the better part of fifteen minutes in the pitch-black, he eventually took me into the basement. We were barely at the foot of the stairs down when he started to growl so I knew someone was there. I opened a door inwards and Riley shot into the corner. There was a trolley used to carry drinks and a lad was hiding behind it. I lit him up with the torch and told him, ‘Stay there, don’t move!’ The words were barely out of my mouth when Riley spun on me and just came hurtling towards me, baring his teeth. He’d never done anything like it before and for a split second I was confused. In the same split second, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glint of a crowbar coming down towards my head just as Riley caught the arm holding the crowbar in mid-air. I didn’t issue any command for him to do that; I hadn’t trained him to look after me, I’d trained him to catch criminals. Riley had taken the initiative himself.

Our bond meant he’d wanted to protect me.

While the two men were arrested, I took Riley back to the van and gave him a drink and a fuss. I thanked him and remembered one of the things Dave Johnson had taught us recruits while we were training as handlers. I didn’t get what he was talking about at the time but he’d told us, ‘If you look after these dogs properly for twelve months, they will look after you for the rest of their lives.’ From that moment, I swore I’d never let anything happen to Riley. If that crowbar had hit me, I could have died instantly. He’d saved my life and I was indebted to him.

By the start of 2006, I grew to rely on Riley; he became my rock and we became part of each other. There’s a saying in the Dog Unit that you can call me what you like, call me everything under the sun, but you call my dog anything or tell it to shut up and you see how a handler will react.

As Riley developed into a confident police dog, I became a confident handler, but where dogs aren’t prone to arrogance, the same cannot be said for humans. Riley was a fantastic piece of kit, an amazing partner and a wonderful dog. We were fast becoming a successful team and I’d park ‘Gareth’ at the gates of every shift and become ‘G’.

Gareth is a bit of a sap who wears his heart on his sleeve but I had to present a tougher exterior at work, bordering on arrogance and cockiness. Dealing with criminals who’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to them or hurt someone who was minding their own business can be emotionally draining so I’d switch persona at the start of each shift as much for self-preservation as anything else. There were times that winter when we’d be on tracks in fields, on the moors or in the woods in the middle of nowhere. It’d be dark, we’d be lost and looking for someone with a knife or a gun, but G felt invincible with Riley beside him.

It was while feeling invincible that I met Claire in January 2007. She was a police community support officer at the time and the PCSO team worked out of Hyde nick, where Riley and I were stationed. I saw a picture of her before I met her in the flesh and was blown away by how stunning she was. I’d finished a job and was doing the paperwork and needed a pen so I wandered over to an empty desk to grab one, not knowing it was hers. There was a framed picture of a woman with blonde hair and a lad sitting on her lap. I was struck by Claire but equally drawn to the fact she loved her son enough to have a picture up on her desk of the two of them. Her hands were round his waist and I couldn’t see a wedding ring. A quick enquiry of the officer on the desk next to hers confirmed she was single. I wasn’t looking for anyone – I was busy with work and Riley was my life, both in and out of the nick, but I couldn’t get her out of my head.

When I met her in person a few days later, I had no idea how much she’d change my life. Riley and I had been on a massive track which resulted in nothing. We got back to the station after three hours in the middle of Saddleworth Moor. I was freezing cold and shouted for someone to make me a brew. Claire popped her head round the door and asked, ‘Are you tired, Gareth?’

I remember thinking, Oh my God, she knows my name! Oh my God!

She made me a brew and we had a bit of small talk, but her shift was ending and she had to pick her son Ben up. Instantly infatuated, I didn’t have the courage to ask her out because I was scared she’d say no. Over the course of the next few weeks, though, our paths would cross and, while we’d always chat, it never went any further. Her dad had been a dog handler in the police for twenty-six years and she was a natural with Riley. He adored her and she’d give him treats she kept in her desk. Before too long, both of us got excited every time we saw her.

I’d stay behind at work just to see her come on shift. I wouldn’t talk to her as she’d be busy with the handover, but just seeing her made me happy. I liked watching the way she’d scrape her hair back and get it smart and out of the way before she started and how she’d bite the top of her pen while taking notes. I could have watched her forever, it was like she had some kind of magnetism over me. Just being near her made me feel better about everything.

One day in February 2007, it had been lashing down with rain and I’d been on patrol with Riley. He was in the wagon and I popped into the station before we headed off on another job. Claire was on her way out and I asked what she was doing that day. She was on her way to a patrol around the town but I knew she’d get soaking wet because of the weather. I gave her my mobile number and told her to message me if she needed a lift back to the station to keep her dry.

My phone lit into life an hour later: ‘I hope you’re okay and not too wet, I’ve got some treats for the worker and that’s not you, that’s for Riley.’

I texted her back, saying, ‘How dare you abuse my phone in this manner! It’s for professional work purposes only.’

She didn’t skip a beat before she replied: ‘Have you got anything else I can abuse …?’

Our relationship was born.

We were both very cocky and very confident. The spark between us was undeniable and things moved quickly. Claire was very upfront about Ben from the second we got together. She explained they came as a package: ‘So if you don’t accept him, you don’t get me.’

I loved how upfront and forthright she was. I’d been as drawn to Ben as I was to Claire, and within a few weeks of our first date I met him for the very first time. He was four and a gorgeous little lad; he was sitting on my knee in a few minutes and taking cookies from the jar. Riley adored both Claire and Ben and we moved in together a couple of months after we met. I’d gone from being a single bloke with a career my life revolved around to someone who was coupled up, with a little lad in the house. It was perfect and my readymade family was all I could have wished for. I’d been saving hard since starting on the job unit and was in the process of completing on a house when I met Claire so it made sense for her and Ben to move in with me rather than for us to find somewhere else.

My family were delighted I’d found Claire too. Work had been really intense for months and, all of a sudden, I had a balance I didn’t know I’d been missing. Meanwhile, Riley and I were going from one amazing job to another. Fellow handlers would tell me we were making a name for ourselves. I remember one saying, ‘The criminals are in bed at 10 o’clock when they know you’re on duty.’

We had a job in April 2008, a ‘missing from home’ – someone had disappeared and we were tasked with seeing if Riley could get the scent and try and find him or her. It was a horrendous night. There was so much rain the rivers had flooded and a raging torrent. Riley was a strong swimmer but fell in and I knew he was panicking. I didn’t think twice about following him in, but shouted I’d need someone downstream fast to help us both get out. The last thing I heard before I hit the icy torrent was the divisional inspector on the radio shouting, ‘Do not go in that river!’

Hitting the water took my breath away. When I surfaced, Riley was just a few feet away and I was able to grab him by the scruff of the neck. I got us both onto the bank, breathless, cold and wet. Riley went berserk, licking my face, shaking the water off and then licking and nuzzling me more. ‘You silly bugger!’ I laughed, even though I was starting to shiver. ‘Don’t do that again, you could have drowned and so could I.’

In 2008, Riley and I were unstoppable. We worked hard, knew each other inside out and our success rate was huge. Ben and Claire were perfect at home and while ‘G’ had become a force to be reckoned with, the last thing he needed was an even more inflated ego, then Send in the Dogs happened. An ITV documentary following police handlers, it ran for two seasons and covered dog handlers in forces including Nottingham, London, Yorkshire and Manchester, which is where I came in.

4

By the start of 2009, Riley was Greater Manchester Police’s stud dog, which meant he sired 58 puppies. We’d also made it to three National Police Dog Trials Championships, where the best police dogs across all the forces in the UK compete. I wasn’t able to go, but the fact he’d qualified was a huge thing for me, a testament to the work we’d been putting in together and how successful we were becoming. As well as flying at work, Claire, Ben and I were becoming a real little unit.

There’d been rumours at work for a while that we were going to be one of the forces on the second series of the ITV show Send in the Dogs. I was desperate to be a part of it, but wouldn’t have said so out loud. While Riley and I were a very successful team and had a great arrest record between us, we weren’t exactly a modest pairing. It’s embarrassing to admit now, but I even had a hoodie I wore to work that I had specially printed. It said: ‘If you run, you’ll only go to jail with teeth marks.’

Looking back, I was an idiot. A complete idiot.

With the power of hindsight, I’m pretty sure the powers that be decided my already inflated ego didn’t need a primetime TV show. I was gutted – I knew the jobs Riley and I went on would make some great TV but I also knew I’d rubbed people who made the decisions up the wrong way so I wasn’t surprised when I wasn’t chosen. I pretended I wasn’t bothered at all but I’d have given anything to be involved.

I started 2009 with a small chip on my shoulder but it grew as the months went on. I didn’t expect to be praised for every job, but Riley and I had a fantastic arrest record. I’d go on call-outs that would take hours, minutes before my shift finished, while other handlers didn’t, and I started to resent how hard I was working compared to some other handlers I knew. I should have just kept my head down and ploughed on, but I was becoming obnoxious and thought someone above me should have sorted it out. I’m taking full responsibility for the idiot I was becoming, but when you’re doing well and you’re bringing in great results, it’s hard not to believe the hype and start to think you’re the best at what you do.

I was still a comparatively novice handler – yes, I was gaining experience and knew what I was doing more every day, every job – but Claire had twenty-six years’ experience of being around a dog handler. Her dad had been one of the most successful of his generation so she could see I wasn’t behaving as he’d done.

Send in the Dogs was still being filmed at work and there was a cameraman – Paddy – who everyone in the unit got on with. He’d been out with a few handlers and got plenty of different material, but I knew he and the team wanted a bite on camera. It was the one thing they hadn’t had so far in the months of filming they’d done. Paddy loved a brew and spent a lot of time in the canteen, which is how he got to know the handlers he wasn’t shadowing as well as the ones he was. He was eating lunch one day when I overheard him saying how good it would be to get the first televised bite in UK TV history, there had never been one caught on camera before. Before I could stop myself, my ego piped up, ‘It’s because you’re following the wrong people. If you come with me, I’ll give you exactly what you want.’

Of course, I couldn’t promise that, let alone deliver, but I managed to convince Paddy, who spoke to his superiors. The handler he’d been following was scheduled for a week of annual leave anyway so it all timed out perfectly. I was finally on the Send in the Dogs rota of handlers and, while my superiors can’t have been especially chuffed about it, I was delighted and, true to my word in the week I filmed, I got the first police dog bite on film ever shown in the UK.

Throughout the filming, the Tameside division was getting pillaged with car thefts yet no one had been caught or arrested despite surveillance and a lot of police hours going into finding the gang who were responsible. Part of what makes me a successful police officer is growing up on an estate wracked by crime. From a pretty young age I was exposed to how criminals think so I’d long been able to connect the dots and use intuition to steer my policing.

I had a copper’s nose, which develops over time when you’re a police officer and any serving or retired officer will know what I mean. Even when you’re off-shift, you can’t help but notice the car that goes off the main road and through the estate instead of taking a shortcut on the main road. You instantly see when a number plate is newly screwed on; you simply know when to pursue things that don’t look as they should and it’s something you only learn from experience – it can’t be taught at Bruche or Sedgley Park.

Whenever we’ve had gangs or teams working as a criminal unit on a spree I’ve always been one who’ll spend hours poring over crime scenes and reports. I do all the background work, look at all the crime scene pictures, read all the reports, track all the dates … It’s hard to describe because there’s alchemy to it. There’s no one thing that’s teachable but with experience on the job you get to know how criminals think and, once you know, you can go some way towards trying to work out what their next steps could be. It’s good old-fashioned police work and I love it.

With Paddy to impress, I spent more time than usual going over every shred of evidence for the gang we had so far. I meticulously studied time frames, locations and photographs, looking for anything that might help figure out who they were and what they might do next. I knew I was on to something and closing in when Paddy announced one Wednesday that he had to go and film another part of Greater Manchester Police. I told him there was a chance he’d miss what he wanted, but he told me it wasn’t his decision to make and he’d be back with me the following night. So I dropped him off in the van where he needed to go and was on my way back to the station when the call came across the radio: there was a pursuit happening in Oldham.

There’d been a burglary and the two guys involved had taken a Volvo and a Polo from the driveway of the house. I’d been researching and studying this group and where they went and what they did and, because I felt like I knew them, I went to a route where my copper’s nose told me they’d be. I knew they’d taken two cars and, sure enough, I saw them both exactly where I thought they’d be. I had to make a split-second decision to go after one of the cars so I chose the Polo, reckoning my van could keep up with it better than it could a Volvo.

Within a few minutes of the pursuit starting, the car crashed into a wall and the occupant inside set off on foot into a housing estate. Riley and I followed and, while we gave chase, I issued the challenges, which were ignored. I sent Riley in and he detained him with one of the cleanest bites I’d ever seen him make. He bit him with such speed and dexterity, the lad went crashing through a garden gate.

Paddy had missed it: we were finally able to make an arrest which led to us getting the rest of the gang. My already-inflated ego and sense of self-worth hit brand new heights. I joked with Paddy that I’d told him so, but the poor lad had to tell his producers the storyline he’d been filming had no culmination because he’d done as he was told and filmed something else.

Working forty to fifty hours a week, thinking you’re God’s gift to the Dog Unit, inevitably meant some of the arrogance and competitive streak I assumed for around eight hours every day at work stayed with me when I went home. Claire and I had talked at length about having a baby together and by mid-2009, being what can best be described as an arrogant git about it, I promised her if we had the child I desperately wanted, it’d be a girl and the labour would be quick. I know how that sounds and, yes, I was being an idiot, but everything I touched at work was successful so I’d developed a bit of a hero complex and cavalierly made the promise. Of course, Claire knew better than to believe me but I’d promise it every time we’d have a conversation about adding to our family.

With wisdom and experience it’s easy to see the way I was behaving both at work and at home was unsustainable, but I couldn’t see that at the time. Yes, I was a great handler and we got results, but I took risks that I shouldn’t have done, something that caused tension between Claire and me. Claire knew plenty about the Dog Unit and she knew getting into trouble and arguing with the seniors above you wasn’t the way to get on. The Dog Unit is a family. It might sound daft but we’re a bit like a pack and when someone is stepping out of line when they shouldn’t, it doesn’t go unnoticed and it’s tough to smooth over. It’s easy to develop a bad name for yourself and tough to get rid of that label.

Claire had been furious the night I’d jumped in the river after Riley, partly because she was worried and partly because she knew I’d defied a direct order not to get in the water and she knew that defiance always held consequences. She didn’t want me getting into trouble, she wanted me to keep my head down and get on with the job.

In November 2009, Riley and I were on our way in a chase when I was clocked by a speed camera doing 96mph in a 40mph zone. Police cars are able to speed but it was excessively fast and the risk to civilians at that speed far outweighed the benefits of getting the car I was chasing. The car had been involved in an armed robbery but because my driving authority didn’t allow me to go that fast, I got into trouble and had the book thrown at me.

When any officer is found doing those types of speeds there’s an investigation, which happens to ascertain whether the speed was warranted or not. I was grounded, which meant I couldn’t drive the police van while they investigated. It was protocol, but it benched Riley and me and meant I couldn’t go on jobs. Frustration grew: I wanted to do this role, I was a dog handler with passion and it was like going to work with your hands tied behind your back. I was putting Riley in kennels every day and working another role in general policing while the investigation reached its conclusion – not something that was going to happen fast just because I was frustrated and wanted it to.

It was while I was benched that I had an argument with the chief inspector. I’d had enough of feeling like I was on probation again doing general policing. I couldn’t work with Riley and while I desperately wanted to, I also missed him massively. We’d spent every waking moment together since we passed out and suddenly not having him as my partner felt like I’d taken a huge step back. With the luxury of hindsight, I hadn’t taken my foot off the brake since we’d started working together. I’d dealt with a lot of tough jobs and nearly lost my life and my dog on some occasions, but my way of coping had been to keep motoring on and take my mind off the worst jobs by going on still more jobs. But with a regular beat and time to think, things were starting to catch up with me and I wasn’t coping.

In the meeting with the chief inspector as part of the investigation, I raised my voice and started shouting, not something I should have done and not something any police officer is advised to do. I was already grounded for speeding and now a member of the public had also put in a complaint against me. Before I’d been grounded, Claire’s dad had been very ill and I’d stopped by in the van for a few minutes on a shift in between jobs to drop something off to him and check how he was doing. A neighbour had seen Riley in the van and registered a complaint. They were right: I shouldn’t have done it during the time I was on shift, but I didn’t care about right and wrong. I saw it as a small infringement against a backdrop of massive success. In short, I thought they should give me a longer leash (excuse the pun) because I was such a successful handler. It didn’t occur to me for a second that rules are rules and no one is exempt.

The chief inspector tried to see things from my side, telling me just because I was getting good results it didn’t mean I was above the establishment, but I was so stubborn I wasn’t interested. I’d started to work autonomously but you can’t do that when you’re in the police: teamwork is what makes us. I managed to get away with a warning for swearing at him but was told in no uncertain terms I was on my last warning.

As I continued general policing, my stress levels went through the roof while the investigation meandered its way towards a conclusion. I was on shift a few weeks after raising my voice and knew I’d hear in the next few days whether the investigation would wrap up without discipline or whether I’d be punished.

I was at my computer in the office when I heard the familiar sound of an email arrive: I was grounded for six and a half months. I felt hot, sick and I saw red. I pushed the computer off my desk, stormed out and that was that. It was January 2010. I knew I’d fucked up. I was moved off the dogs indefinitely while I was disciplined and investigated for speeding, which could take months. In what felt like a heartbeat I’d gone from being the most successful dog handler in Greater Manchester Police with a girlfriend who adored him to a frustrated general police officer who was struggling to communicate with the woman he loved. Claire had been worried sick about what was happening at work but I’d been selfishly so worried about myself, I didn’t have the bandwidth to assuage her fears. Stress had inevitably built up and the dynamic of our loving and affectionate relationship had started to change because of me.

Being benched usually meant you’d be back working soon but being moved off indefinitely and facing a disciplinary and an investigation, even being optimistic I knew I wouldn’t get back to the unit anytime soon. I was looking at months rather than weeks. It wasn’t something I could contemplate no matter how often Claire gently tried to raise the subject.

I started working an office job – I was in uniform every day but doing paperwork, no policing as I saw it. It was a far cry from the shifts I’d loved. I was doing general policing, events in the city, political party conferences. I’d go on shift sometimes and clear out stationery cupboards. I had nothing to do and I hated it – I’d gone from being a respected handler to someone they didn’t really know what to do with. All the while there were baddies on the streets who were getting away with crimes while Riley was stuck in kennels getting bored and I was rearranging paper clips.

I’d drop Riley into kennels at Hough End, go to the city centre or the nick and do my day’s pedestrian policing, go back to the kennels and get Riley and go home – it was so frustrating. It wasn’t Riley’s fault he couldn’t work, it was mine. In addition to knowing I’d let myself down, I’d also let him down and every single day I felt guilty for that. He was an amazing piece of kit with the capabilities to make the streets safer and put people away but, because I’d been so stupid, he sat languishing with boredom in a kennel. He was really well looked after but he loved to work and, because of me, he couldn’t. Pent-up, he couldn’t understand why we weren’t out on the streets and I couldn’t explain it to him.

There are many fantastic things about the Dog Unit and one of them is that they’ll never pair your dog to work with anyone else if you’re under investigation, facing disciplinary action or off on long-term sickness. The Armed Forces dogs change handlers like they change socks, and by the time an army dog retires he could have been with upwards of ten handlers as deployment rotations mean there need to be changes, but that doesn’t happen in the police. When you pass out with your dog or puppy unless there are extenuating circumstances you’re partners until they finish their service. The one thing I could rely on was that they’d never take Riley off me to work with another officer: we were a team and they respected that. In the same way that if Riley was injured, I wouldn’t work another dog while he recovered.

For me the hardest part was that I didn’t know when the period of me being off the dogs would end. Stressed and angry all the time, I wasn’t able to work with my dog and I hated being told I couldn’t. I was angry, upset and bored – so bored of not being able to do what I’d trained to do. I kept pushing it with every senior officer I could find to get an answer, but no one would commit me to a time frame. I was desperate to get back on the dogs, get back to Riley, but all I could do was learn patience and wait.

While work was increasingly frustrating, the stress Claire and I had been under had thawed. She knew how bereft I was at being taken off the dogs and she knew I’d learned my lesson. Arrogance and ego had brought me to my knees and I accepted 100 per cent of the blame. It meant the fear and worry she’d had for me lessened because she knew I’d be a different handler when I did get back to work with Riley.

In May 2010, I was at work on yet another shift I wasn’t invested in when I opened my lunchbox and a note fell to the floor. It was from Claire: she told me she was ready for us to have a baby. I couldn’t have been happier – work might have been something I was tolerating rather than loving at that point, but home was finally perfect. Claire was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. I was so proud when she agreed to go out with me and now she was agreeing to have a child with me. For the first time in months, I had something to smile about.

In June of that year we went away to Turkey and Claire fell pregnant. I was working a political party conference when I received a text message from her: ‘You’re going to be a dad!’ Overwhelmed and with my work life in tatters, it was the light at the end of the tunnel I desperately needed. A few hours later, though, towards the end of my shift, I was called into the superintendent’s office. I knew I’d get told off – a substantial slap on the wrist – but the thought of finally getting back to work with Riley was something I’d been dreaming about at night. So I put my number one uniform on and, having polished my shoes the previous night, I wanted them to know I took whatever the punishment was seriously. I wanted them to know I accepted the gravitas of the situation and that it wasn’t a minor misdemeanour.

I knew from other handlers I worked with and from chatting at the kennels every day when I dropped Riley off that unit arrests had gone down without me working Riley. Now I couldn’t wait to make up for lost time and get back on the streets. I knew I wouldn’t be the only one happy to be back too – I couldn’t wait to get Riley, take him home, celebrate Claire’s pregnancy and my return to work. I was thinking about what takeaway we’d get to celebrate when I was called in to the superintendent’s office. Rather than a telling-off and some humble pie, his next words floored me: ‘You’re off the dogs for good, Gareth.’

I didn’t hear anything past those words. My whole world fell apart and I felt the room starting to swim around me.

The job I’d dreamed of as a kid was over.

I’d blown it.

Me.

I’d let myself down but, more than that, I’d let Riley down.

I had no pride left and, while I fought back tears and sniffed my way through the meeting, if I apologised once then I said sorry twenty times. I was like a child begging for one more chance, one more go to put things right.

‘G’ had messed up and Gareth’s world was broken.

I was gently told I couldn’t behave like I had, that if they let it go unpunished then it could have serious repercussions and they had no choice but to take me off the dogs. Finally, giving in to tears, I asked my last question of the meeting: ‘Am I ever going to be allowed to be a dog handler again?’ I was told I could apply for future positions, but I had to go away and reflect on what had happened.

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