Police low blow gets car-theft victim’s blood boiling

If the police are reduced to recovering the costs of a crime from its victims one wonders why one pays taxes. It’s the ultimate "user pays" philosophy, the state extracting an extra pint or two of blood, kicking you when you are down. Richard Swainson, victim of crime and of police policy

I am a victim of crime. For the third time.

For me, Saturday mornings begin with one of life’s dull but necessary tasks.

If the working day starts at 10am and usually extends a full 12 hours beyond, another banal task must be accomplished first.

We all have to eat, we all have to drink and she who must be obeyed requires the ‘‘sweet treat’’. In short, a market that claims to be ‘‘super’’ is to be patronised.

With list in hand and lastminute requests ringing in the ears, I exit the building’s rear.

Gazing down upon the car park, something seems immediately wrong. It takes a second or two for the magnitude of what that might be to sink in.

I shrink back from the doorway and begin to contemplate the worst. I ask a silly question.

‘‘Janine, when you came home last night, did you park out the front?’’, I say, clutching at the proverbial straws. ‘‘No, why?’’ comes the reply, the wife’s tone a little plaintive.

I look once more, confirming initial thoughts. Yes, there really is a gaping hole where my car should be.

The same car whose window was smashed a fortnight before. The car my mother gave me the week of her death. The car that provides our principal mode of transportation.

I don’t really believe in a heaven, but it’s possible that an imaginary realm was thanked shortly thereafter.

‘‘Is Mavis OK?’’ asks Janine, the full realisation of what’s happened beginning to dawn on her, too. I confirm that she is. Our 1952 Morris Minor, its passenger window still in need of replacement after the assault of two weeks previous, remains parked in the spot next to where the Nissan should be.

It would have been a challenge to steal her, with two flat tyres, a deflated spare and a tricky manual transmission. Do the thieving class even know how to change gear?

They certainly have the skills to take a 20-year-old vehicle, leaving no trace of the crime.

I search in vain for evidence of glass or forced entry. I conclude that it must have been a super slick, professional operation.

‘‘Ed’’ – our nickname for the absent car – will either be gutted for parts or used in some elaborate ram raid assault.

Who knows what high value the market might place on the constituent bits of a 1997 Nissan Primera. We were sitting on a gold mine.

It was time to telephone the authorities. I wonder if the same woman will be working as when I called the last time.

It’s a thankless job really, part grief counsellor, part cold professional.

The ‘‘just the facts, sir’’ demeanour has to be tempered with a measure of sympathy, but you don’t want to sound too soft.

Today’s operator doesn’t sound in the least like a powder puff. There’s a mandatory question about victim support counselling of course, a necessary part of the script.

This time, however, it is followed up by a statement that makes my blood boil.

‘‘If, after we have found your vehicle, we have to tow it to the police station for a forensic examination, we will charge you for the cost’’, she says, in a manner that makes it clear the full weight of the law is on her side.

‘‘What?‘‘ I reply, the voice level rising. ‘‘I have to subsidise you to do your job? I’m the victim here and you are just re-victimising me.’’

If the police are reduced to recovering the costs of a crime from its victims one wonders why one pays taxes.

It’s the ultimate ‘‘user pays’’ philosophy, the state extracting an extra pint or two of blood, kicking you when you are down.

Ironically enough, if the police elect to move my vehicle without my permission and insist on charging me for the privilege, it puts them in the same category as the folk who stole it in the first place. How immoral and heartless can you get?

Four days pass. I read headlines about a high-speed chase and shoot out through the streets of Morrinsville.

I imagine the robbers driving Ed, electing to open fire like Bonnie and Clyde.

It’s those who stole the car against those who would charge me for towing. My sympathies are mixed. The Nissan is eventually found, about 10 minutes drive away, sans spare tyre and requiring yet another ignition, but otherwise in tact. No towing required. A small but precious mercy.