On site, on call - on a rural beat

Rural and sole-charge station policing can be a rewarding and satisfying career, but it has its downsides, as was illustrated by a recent incident in Akaroa. MARTIN VAN BEYNEN reports.

A karoa cop Lyle Pryor was off duty when a couple of locals came to call at his house in Duvauchelle.

In country towns, everyone knows where the local cop lives, so home visits are part of the job. What followed was definitely not.

The two men wanted to dispute an earlier traffic matter with Pryor, and a nasty skirmish, in which Pryor's wife, Christine, had to help her husband, broke out.

Although the December 30 assault, now before the courts, is highly unusual, especially in generally trouble-free Akaroa, many aspects of the incident serve to show the inherent vulnerabilities of being a police officer in rural New Zealand.

About 100 single or two-officer stations (Akaroa has two police officers) are scattered throughout the country.

Rural policing, definitely not a fast track to higher honours in the police force, is a career path which suits some officers down to the ground. It offers a rural lifestyle, flexible hours, cheap housing and the potential for an involved and useful role in a small community.

The downside, however, means sole-charge positions are increasingly hard to fill, especially on the West Coast of the South Island and places like Wairoa, in the North Island. Even formerly sought-after posts now get only one or two applicants.

The particular stresses of the job come from the obviously lone nature of country policing and the fact most live on the job.

In sticky situations country cops are on their own, with back-up often an hour away. They are effectively on duty 24 hours a day and, especially if they live in the police house next door to the station, people come calling at all hours.

Wives and partners find themselves working almost as sidekicks, and call-outs at night can play havoc with family life.

Switching off from the job is easier said than done.

Paul Dallinger has been one of two cops at Culverden (about 100km north of Christchurch, population 420) for five years. Starting his career 13 years ago in South Auckland, he went to Nelson and then Rangiora, before the lifestyle of the rural cop and the benefits of raising a family in the country attracted him to the Culverden job.

He and his fellow station officer, John Eagle, cover a large area and are kept busy with "lots of crashes" – two fatal accidents since Christmas – and are often called on to assist the two police officers in the nearby holiday hotspot of Hanmer.

"It's good," says a tired-looking Dallinger.

"You are basically your own boss. You see a thing from start to finish, and you can be a lot more proactive in small area like this. The family love it here.

"It's a huge commitment, more so than anything else in the police I've done. I underestimated it. There's an expectation from the local community that if there's a problem, their local policeman will be there.

"It has definitely changed. Policemen used to do it for a long time. Now it's a lot busier, a lot more invasive and it's just not the attraction for cops in town," he says.

While the higher number of firearms present in a rural community is always at the back of his mind, he regards the fact he is on his own if trouble erupts as "just part of the job". If he needs back-up he can call on his colleagues in Hanmer, and as a last resort he can summon the cavalry in the form of the local fire brigade.

He is more concerned, he says, about the potential danger to his wife Rebecca, currently expecting, and their two young children when he is away from home covering his huge patch. He would like to see a panic alarm installed in the police house he and his family occupy next to the station.

Working a two-week roster, he is on duty for seven days straight, followed by two days off, then three on and two more off. During the first seven days, he is on call at night, which usually means at least six wake-ups a week.

"The call-outs are very invasive and disruptive," he says.

"For instance, yesterday I got a call at midnight and then another three in the next four hours."

As the police house is right next to the station, people still knock on his door when he is off duty, despite instructions posted at the station about who they should contact.

"We've had 15 people in a week come to my house. We were sitting down for tea and someone came looking for petrol.

"I've got a sign on the door now which says this is a private residence, so unless the matter is very serious, don't bother knocking."

He is a firm advocate of having the police houses well away from the police station, "in the middle of nowhere". (The Police Association says the police are moving away from the station-with-house-next-door model.)

If Dallinger is over the delights of country policing, Steffan James, who has been at the Murchison station for about a year, is enjoying it more than he expected.

Murchison, 130km south of Nelson, was a place he had driven through many times, but not one he ever considered working in, he says. The station is a two-person affair but James has been without a partner for two months.

After a four-year stint in Nelson, he says the job appealed on many fronts. It allows him to be around his family more – wife Marie (also expecting) and son Jaxon, three – and the cheap police house means they can survive on the police salary, allowing Marie to be at home with the children.

He has immersed himself in the community – he coaches the senior rugby team and is in the golf club – and likes the different sort of police work.

"I can look out the window of the police station and see the young fellow running around. I can walk to the house for a drink or for lunch. And I'm not working night shifts."

He doesn't fret about personal safety, and applauds the support of the local fire brigade, ambulance and search-and-rescue volunteers.

"I don't feel vulnerable. I have a lot of trust in the community and I know a lot would come to help if I'm in trouble. My mouth is my main tool," he says, although his 105kg, 188cm frame must also help.

"You shouldn't be in the police if you think you are vulnerable every time you go to a job. It's just part of the job. It's part of the adrenalin," he says.

He doesn't mind locals turning up on his doorstep when he is off duty, especially now he is the only cop in town, because he feels the town is his responsibility. He finds it hard to switch off, and will often head over to the police station when off duty if people have come looking for a police officer. It might sound like burnout material, but James says he and his family are thriving in Murchison.

A t police headquarters in Wellington, staff are working on a number of measures to increase the safety and work/life balance for officers like James and Dallinger.

These include:

* personal alarms to call for help.

* better radio coverage.

* GPS tracking on police vehicles.

* restraints for unruly offenders in vehicle back seats, so police can drive safely.

* safety screens between the front and back of police cars to keep police safe.

As yet, few of the measures have been put into place, particularly in the South Island. It seems rural policing is not a high-priority issue. A survey in 1999 highlighting rural police concerns was not acted upon until 2003, and since then headway has been grindingly slow.

This is surprising given a hefty and successful damages claim against the police taken by Lincoln officer Rex Hallinan, who in 2000 was awarded $415,000 by the courts after suffering a breakdown brought on by his rural job.

Police general manager of human resources Wayne Annan says all the measures mentioned above will be "implemented over time".

A major advance, he says, in addressing the concerns of rural officers has been ensuring they get uninterrupted time off. Using highway-patrol officers to work closer to more isolated stations so they can cover for an off-duty officer has been at the forefront of the programme, he says.

The Police Association, the union for the rural officers, claims progress has been far too slow.

Its vice-president, Chris Cahill, says "in fairness to the police" many of the issues are difficult to resolve and "just putting more staff into these areas is not practical".

While improvements had been made in cover for off-duty officers, "the public still expected their policeman to attend".

"If he really wants a day off, he has to leave his home, basically, which is a real problem for officers. There are no easy solutions."

While rural officers earn a higher salary (about 6 per cent more) to compensate for being on call and for overtime, it isn't enough to recognise the different role, Cahill says. Officers in town who work overtime are given time in lieu.

The extra demands placed on rural officers make rural vacancies increasingly difficult to fill.

"A lot of wives work and there's not necessarily the work (for them) in those smaller communities. It's a real lifestyle choice and totally different to being in the city."

The policeman's house is still sacrosanct, but if more incidents like the one in Akaroa take place, rural police jobs could become untenable, Cahill says.

Lyle Pryor went back to work this week. The assault on him at his home has certainly put the spotlight on country police officers, often the poor relations of policing, it seems.

They will be hoping the incident adds some much-needed momentum to measures designed to improve their lot.

- © Fairfax NZ News