Passing by the piles of rubble that were once Trinity Road police station in east Bristol the other day took me back to some nightmares of the 1980s. Opened in 1979, the station was built in with riot in mind or as one Bristolian described it:
Is this the barracks of some continental-style gendarmerie, which takes to the streets only in armoured cars and with plenty of truncheons, riot shields and tear gas? Are we looking at the headquarters of some Soviet bloc secret police, with its interrogation rooms and execution cellars? No, this inscrutable, windowless, doorless, inward-turned building is the new Trinity Road Police Station, put up at the end of the 1970s for the greater convenience of our increasingly deskbound, paperwork-ridden policemen …or “police officers” as they like us to say now. Somehow this building is the perfect expression of modern policing, with its high-powered pursuit cars, speed cameras, shapeless bulky uniforms, hi-vis jackets and Heckler & Koch semi-automatic submachine guns.
In April 1980, Trinity was where the battered Avon and Somerset police officers retreated and regrouped after being chased out of St Pauls after their overpoliced and disastrous raid on the Black and White Café. Over the following years the station began to develop a dark reputation for weird, ritualised violence against those who ended up in its cells.
In 1986 after the bombing of Libya by the US Airforce a mate of mine went out to graffiti against the escalation of what looked like a coming war. He was nicked in the Bear Pit and taken to Trinity where he was banged in a cell overnight. After refusing to give his finger prints (which had been a right in those days for minor offences) a bunch of cops came into the cell, grabbed him and began singing a song whilst an older, grey-haired officer used him as a punch bag.
The senior cop was no fool, never hitting him in the face but hitting his body ‘til it was black and blue. My mate still refused to give his prints, so they dragged him out using some keys to smash his finger nails as he desperately held on to the cell door frame. By this stage he had enough, gave his prints, was released without charge the next day, and staggered home.
You might say it was a one off? A few years later, one evening another mate who I played football with was walking back from the pub along Stapleton Road when he was kerb crawled by a police car. After refusing to stop, saying he was on his way home, the two cops grabbed him and in the scuffle that followed he kicked the car door shut. This was enough for them to nick him, and he was soon in a cell at Trinity. That night, once again a load of cops came in to the cell, held him and sang a song whilst a senior officer beat his body black and blue. He was released without charge the next day.
The experiences of what happened to my mates soon got around. Many of us knew that Trinity was the last place you wanted to be taken if you were nicked. Far better to be in Bridewell, where at least there were senior cops who might not want beatings of prisoners (or worse) on their hands.
On Saturday 10 July 1994, Mark Harris a 31-year-old black man from Cardiff, was arrested for ‘suspected cheque book theft’ at 8.30pm and taken to Trinity Road police station. Three hours later he was found unconscious on the floor of his cell and rushed to the BRI where he was pronounced dead on arrival.
The results of a postmortem were not released to the public and a coroner’s inquest found an ‘open verdict’, meaning that jury confirmed the death is suspicious but could not find a cause. The suggestion was that Harris had hanged himself.
In 1995 there were protests outside Trinity Road led by Harris’s family, but like almost all deaths in police custody the killer cops were never brought to justice. I like to think that the only good thing to come out of the death of Harris is that it might have brought the ritualised beatings at Trinity Road police station to an end…but who knows?
So goodbye and good riddance to Trinity Road police station, and its dark history.
