Confessions of an Undercover Cop
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‘Hello!’ I shouted. ‘It’s the police.’
‘Anyone home?’ shouted Jim behind me.
Silence when you arrive at a domestic could mean a number of things. It might mean it was a false call. Or maybe one half of the domestic has left. Rarely, there might be a dead body, or even two. The mind runs wild for a moment and then calms down as you realise they’ve probably made up and gone to bed.
I turned to Jim, tutted and walked down the short hall. Before I had time to think, a man steamed around the corner at me, brandishing a bread knife in each hand. He lunged straight for me, screaming, ‘Arrrrrggggggghhh!’
My instant reaction was to put both hands up in front of my face. I closed my eyes. I didn’t immediately feel the pain. That came once I’d seen the blood. I fell to the floor, thick red covering my hands like gloves.
I was aware of Jim jumping over my head and tackling the man, throwing him to the ground in that good old judo way of his.
Two women came out of a room, huddled together, crying. One of them grabbed the knifeman’s leg and bent it up as he and Jim lay in a bundle on the floor. I fought through the jumble of arms and legs and scrabbled for the knives.
Brian Petch was rabid, like a wild man, with a guttural screaming that seemed to come from his belly. He had super strength and it took everything Jim and I plus the two ladies had to keep hold of him. I can’t remember which one of us called for urgent assistance but someone did. It seemed to take an age for anyone to arrive but then I remembered – the lifts weren’t working.
When the cavalry did come, they came in droves. When the call goes out that an officer has been injured, everyone comes, from your district and beyond. Adrenalised comradeship, an innate desire to be there, to give assistance, to protect, and to apprehend. And indignation that a man is down.
Despite at least a dozen uniformed police officers and the two night-duty detectives, Petch still tried to make a run for it. He hadn’t bargained on meeting the dog handler on the stairs.
Joey the police dog took a tasty bite of upper thigh for his supper. It meant a lot of work and report writing for his handler, but Joey was given extra biscuits and plenty of pats on the back for making the arrest.
I was lucky to escape with injuries to my hands only. I was patched up with stitches and bandages and went back to the station. The impact didn’t hit me until I sat nursing a cup of hot sugary tea. It had happened so fast. The shock was as much about what could have happened as what actually did – how he could have stabbed me, how it might have ended – and the thoughts bounced around my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and sat there shaking.
Petch was a drug addict who’d just been released from Pentonville prison. He hadn’t had any drugs for months but had taken something that night which had had a strong effect on him. He’d turned up at the flat of the guy he’d been sharing a cell with, looking for a bed because his pal had promised he could get one there. He found the man’s wife with a woman, her lover, and went berserk, even though it was nothing to do with him.
Petch was charged with GBH with intent to endanger life. It was before the days of the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) and the case files had to go off to a department somewhere centrally for them to arrange representation by the force’s legal branch. It used to be the police decision on prosecutions, guided by legal experts they employed, whereas the CPS are now independent. Is it better? Probably. It takes the onus away from the police and they can concentrate on investigating and not prosecuting, purely gathering the best evidence they can. For reasons I will never understand, perhaps saving costs or some other initiative of the time, the case was dropped from GBH to common assault. Common assaults in those days weren’t prosecuted in the magistrates’ court but referred to civil remedies which meant making a personal case at the civil court, a private prosecution between the two parties, rather than a public one paid for by the state.
We appealed but lost our fight.
To go out onto the streets to protect the public, to be stabbed by a raving knife-wielding maniac, only to be told it didn’t really matter, that it was just a common assault, was a kick in the gut for all proactive police officers. My physical scars healed but I felt very let down.
An independent barrister read of the case in the Police Review magazine. He contacted me and asked if he could take my case on as a private prosecution because he felt strongly about this miscarriage of justice. He had successfully dealt with similar incidents involving police officers over the past year and he was happy to fund it through his firm, pro-bono.
I agreed.
The Metropolitan Police couldn’t be seen to endorse this course of action, but every officer involved in the case backed me and agreed to be present at the hearing, as did the civilian witnesses, including the doctor who had treated me. I was anxious but positive.
Due to a certain amount of legal wrangling it took over a year for a final court date to be set. Exactly a week before the hearing was due to start, I received a phone call at home from Surrey Police. There had been an accident on the M23. Brian Petch was the front-seat passenger in a car being driven by another well-known criminal who was high on drugs. Petch had been decapitated.
There was more.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said the traffic officer. ‘You’d better get yourself tested. Did you know he had AIDS?’
Moving west
I enjoyed my time in the East End and it was a great place for a policing apprenticeship. I had worked in uniform, done a six-month home-beat posting, worked in plain clothes and had a stint on a murder team, but it was time to move on.
When I first applied for an undercover posting, the interview panel was made up of a detective chief superintendent and a detective inspector. I was overawed and stuttered over my words as I tried to tell them about my aptitude for detective work. I told them how I’d single-handedly arrested a robber armed with a knife and about being stabbed. I mentioned the times I’d given evidence in Crown Court and how I’d dealt with copious dead bodies.
They asked questions I was able to answer both in theory and with practical examples. I don’t know if I impressed them or not. It didn’t work like that.
When I didn’t get the posting my sergeant said, ‘Never mind, Ash. You can always try again.’
I vowed I would, and in the meantime, I planned to work harder than ever, even if it did mean looking for other opportunities.
When the call came out for officers to go to central London, which covered the West End, I put myself forward. I was ambitious and loved a challenge. My ultimate goal was to work undercover, so as much experience as I could get would be invaluable.
I was twenty-three and the people I’d worked with during the previous four years were like a family. I’d moved from the section house accommodation above the police station and was now living in a flat further east, but still in the heart of a wonderful community.
I was sad to say goodbye but it turned out to be one of the best career moves I made.
All the evidence
Policing the West End is very different to policing the East End. You still deal with crime and life and death and the public, but the West End is full of tourists, people looking for entertainment and bright lights, as well as the people who live and work there.
I hadn’t realised how many gaps I had in my education until I entered the Collator’s office in my new nick. (These days the Collator is better known as the LIO, or Local Intelligence Officer.) I stared at the various mug shots labelled Van-Draggers, Clip Joints, Dippers, Rent Boys. Where were the TDA merchants (taking-and-driving-away – also known as twockers – taking without owner’s consent), the robbers, the burglars?
It was enlightening to learn about these new-to-me crimes. Most of our suspects in the West End lived ‘off the ground’ rather than on it. They’d come and do their dirty business on our patch then wander off again, so we had a sea of transient faces to get to know and it was hard graft.
It wasn’t long before I learned about a crime unique to areas like Soho.
Mark Stamper, a tall good-looking guy, stumbled down a busy Soho street with a tissue held to his mouth. He had blood on his hands and his suit jacket was ripped. He held the tissue away from his face to reveal a nasty cut on his lip. He said he’d been approached by a black guy in his thirties, meaty and six foot, with a short Afro, and wearing a black Puffa jacket. He said the guy produced a chisel and demanded his wallet.
‘He threatened to stab me, officer,’ he said.
‘Did you give him your wallet?’ I asked.
‘It had my bankcard in it but no money. He grabbed my arm, ripping my jacket, and then he marched me to the cashpoint. He made me take out 500 quid, my limit,’ Mr Stamper said, on the brink of crying. ‘My wife will go mad.’
I noticed the cut of his suit, the quality shine to his shoes, and the smooth leather of the wallet he showed me. Something about his little tale didn’t ring true and it was a script I was becoming familiar with.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Where were you before this man approached you?’
‘Just a little place having a drink.’ He didn’t meet my eye. ‘The guy head-butted me and stabbed me in the hand, officer. Will you take a statement?’
‘Which little place?’ I asked.
‘It’s not relevant, is it? I was walking along the street when he attacked me.’ Mark Stamper became irritated, edgy, and there was a distinct lack of eye contact.
‘We could go and retrace your steps, from this little place to where he stopped you …’ I played his game but he decided he didn’t want to play anymore.
‘Forget it,’ he snapped.
‘Absolutely not. You’ve been assaulted. Robbed. Aggravated robbery is a serious offence.’
‘I don’t want to cause a fuss. Can’t you just give me a crime number or something? I need to get home.’
‘Would you like me to call your wife, Mr Stamper? Our control room can let her know you’re all right.’
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No. No need for that. I don’t want any trouble.’
I took Mark Stamper to the station and sat with him in an interview room off the front office. I gave him a cup of tea and took his statement, reminding him that in signing it he was making a true declaration. He decided he couldn’t remember which ‘little place’ he’d been to as he wasn’t familiar with Soho and he certainly wouldn’t be coming back. The cashpoint was at the bottom of a busy street, near Regent Street. I knew which one it was and I told him it had had CCTV installed recently.
Mr Stamper then decided he didn’t want to make a complaint after all.
I gave him my details and reminded him again that assault was serious and we would certainly like to deal with that, even if he changed his mind about the robbery.
I knew he knew that I knew. I also knew he wouldn’t pursue it further.
It was a familiar story. These ‘little clubs’ – clip joints – smaller than a sitting room, advertised Girls, Girls, Girls who, for a fee, would sit with gentlemen and encourage them to buy drinks, drinks that were 2 per cent alcohol, not what it said on the bottle. They’d charge the guy £45 for half a glass of watered-down fizzy Pomagne, companion service included. When he made to leave, he’d be stung for a bill of £300, £400, £500 or more. The price included the ‘company’ of the short-skirted, usually stoned hostess who’d waggled her bikini-topped breasts into his face and stroked his trouser leg. When these men wouldn’t, couldn’t pay, they’d be frog-marched to the nearest cash machine to withdraw everything they had. Protestations were met with a threat, maybe a head-butt, and sometimes a jab or two. The money would be withdrawn and handed over. The majority of these men refused to tell the truth, ashamed, embarrassed and caught out having to admit they’d been in a girly club, so we’d receive an allegation of cashpoint robbery instead of the real version of events. Most of the victims had families and could ill afford fifty quid, never mind five hundred, so they reported it as a street robbery, a credible excuse to their partner to account for the missing money because there was no way they were going to tell the truth – that they’d been in a club with women of lower moral standards.
I don’t know who they were trying to kid: us, their wives or themselves. It was robbery, and often menacing, and it did sometimes include assault, but the perpetrators got away with it because nobody wanted to say they’d gone to a clip joint. The thugs knew this and exploited the situation.
Sometimes, someone surprised us and told the truth. We’d then go back to the club and demand their money back. The door gorilla would produce the small print at the bottom of the sticky menus that listed the extortionate prices for company and for drinks. It then became a civil dispute because what these men hadn’t realised was that by sitting down with a girl and ordering drinks, they’d agreed to the terms and conditions. If there had been an assault, we could arrest the attacker, but more often the victims refused to cooperate with police when they realised they’d have to give evidence in court.
On some occasions we’d carry out an operation to stop it, but there are always guys wanting to take a chance with a girl in a club and while there’s demand, there will always be heavies who won’t let them get away with it.
The night I met …
I’ll never forget the night duty I was sent to Jermyn Street, W1, to stand by while filming was taking place. It was just another job in the day in the life of a young constable in the capital. There was always filming taking place somewhere in the West End. Most of it happened at night when the streets were quieter and there were less people around. It was a boring task but once in a while something exciting happened.
There I stood, scuffing the pavement while keeping the non-existent crowd at bay, and trying not to lean against the metal barriers, which were more for effect than protection. I was bored and dreaming about my warm bed, thick blankets and a deep sleep. I had no idea who was filming, what they were filming or when it would finish.
A distinctive voice crooned in my ear, caressing the air with a tone like velvet. ‘Aren’t you cold, my dear?’
I was startled and compelled to look up. I fell into pools of sparkling blue as his twinkling eyes smiled at me. Wow! This man oozed sex appeal even though he must have been thirty or more years older than me. Age didn’t matter on this cold autumn night.
I smoothed down my skirt, coarse under my fingertips and unbecoming as a fashion item for a young girl like me. ‘Err … a bit … yes … chilly,’ I stuttered.
He was much taller than I’d imagined.
‘Don’t they give you trousers these days?’ he asked, eyes sparkling, mouth crinkling, everything about him charming and easy.
I smiled back. ‘Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years, when they catch on.’
‘In my dad’s day,’ he said, ‘when he was a sergeant at Bow Street Police Station …’
And that’s how I became star-struck for a man older than my father. I spent a very nice half an hour with this gorgeous man, alone in his company. He told me all about his father who policed like policemen should back in the wartime years. He told me about his childhood and what it was like to have a policeman father and how he was both in awe and just a little bit frightened of him. How they were given oranges and lumps of Christmas pudding in their stockings at Christmas and if they were lucky they’d get a sixpence. Or maybe half a crown.
He asked questions about me and appeared interested in the answers, things like why I’d gone to London, what my ambitions were and what did my family think. He said he hoped I’d live my dream, just like he was living his.
He might have been acting, or he might have meant it. I don’t know. I was sorry when he had to go back to filming. Like a true fan, I was enamoured. I was also a smidge embarrassed when I asked for his autograph. I still have it, written on a piece of Metropolitan Police memo paper.
I’ll never forget the night I spent half an hour with Roger Moore.
He was the first of the big stars I was to fall for …
Up the junction
To be authorised to drive a police car you have to pass a police-driving course. This meant six weeks of intensive training, at the end of which you had to pass a final test. This was far more advanced than a normal driving test. It was exhausting, hard work and rigorous, with a lot of theory to learn.
In the Metropolitan Police, the driving school is based at Hendon Police College, now known as the Peel Centre. Each course would have five or six teams of three officers posted with an instructor. We would work all day driving fast and strategically in unmarked cars through country lanes, in towns and on motorways. We had a day on the skid pan, which most of the guys loved, a day driving a double decker bus on an airfield, and a day changing tyres, fan belts and learning about other mechanical things.
I took great care and concentrated hard but it didn’t come easy to me. My head spun every night of every day of the course. It didn’t help that my instructor, Frank Parrot, wasn’t a very nice man. He was a civilian trainer and fancied himself as a cop. He also had old-fashioned ideas and asked me why I wasn’t at home looking after a husband and some children. He said he didn’t understand a woman wanting to do a man’s job.
‘Unless you’re one of those lesbos? Are you?’ he asked me on the second day.
I didn’t reply. He said many objectionable things. I didn’t agree with his views, and he had many, but I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to pass the course.
One of the guys in my car, Laurie, was chatty, a bit of a wide-boy, which was okay because he kept the instructor talking and I didn’t have to say much. The other guy was Rhys. He was Welsh, about my age, married and a bit quiet. He was lovely.
We were in the fifth week and it was a baking hot day. The rapeseed was vibrant yellow and the air pungent as we drove through the country lanes of Essex. My eyes were fuzzy and I thought I might have a touch of hay fever to add to the fatigue.
I’d driven about a mile when the instructor told me to put my foot down and drive faster. I was already doing sixty. I wasn’t familiar with the roads and I wasn’t that confident. He was encouraging me to do an overtake I didn’t feel safe making. He prodded me in my ribs, sharp and hard.
I gasped.
‘Are you an excessive overeater or just naturally fat?’ he said.
‘What? What?’ I couldn’t believe what he’d said. I tried to keep focus on the road. I was furious. How rude. How nasty. I wasn’t even fat! My face burned bright red. The sun glared into my eyes as I drove around a blind bend, and I sneezed.
Up ahead I saw an indent in the road, a farmer’s track or gateway. I pulled in and stopped the car. I got out and slammed the door. I didn’t want to but couldn’t help crying at this point. Hot tears spilled down my face. I’d had enough of being baited and bullied by him, pushing me to fail. I knew I would fail. He didn’t like me and he’d make sure I didn’t pass. He made no disguise of the fact he thought women couldn’t drive. I knew I made silly mistakes and he made me nervous, which made it worse, but I wanted to pass so much. I needed to, not just for the station but for me, so that I could go into surveillance because you had to have the driving skills for that kind of work.
I could see the instructor laughing in the front passenger seat. Bastard!
Rhys got out of the car. ‘He was out of order. I’ll back you if you want to make a complaint,’ he said.
I was heartened. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m not getting back in that driver’s seat. Not with him.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll drive.’
We stood a few minutes longer. Rhys climbed into the front seat and I took his place in the back. Frank said nothing and neither did we.
Once back on the motorway, Parrot looked at me through his rear-view mirror. ‘Over your little tiff now?’ he said.
I ignored him and looked out of the side window. I was still flushed, still furious, and determined never to drive with him again.
When we got back to the training school I gathered my things. I had to carefully consider my next move. I was young in service. I couldn’t and didn’t want to refuse to go back. My shift needed me to pass this course because we were short on drivers. And I wasn’t a quitter.
I went back the following morning and asked to see Sergeant Thomas, the officer in charge. He was also an instructor and his team were getting ready to go out.
I told him what had happened the previous day and on other days during the previous five weeks. He listened, nodded, made sympathetic noises. I had the impression I wasn’t the first person to complain about Mr Parrot.
Sergeant Thomas told me my instructor hadn’t given me good weekly reports. He said he was surprised because he’d seen me driving on various days and thought I was doing okay. He was a man down in his car because one of his students had gone off sick with chicken pox so he said I could go with him.
I had the best drive ever. Sergeant Thomas said he was impressed and there was no reason why I should fail. Yes, I was a careful driver, but I didn’t hesitate or hold back.
The next morning Sergeant Thomas took me to one side before setting off for the drive.
‘Rhys came to see me last night. He’s backed up what you said. You’re in my car for the rest of the course and I’ll be taking you for your test. You can make a formal complaint if you want to, Ash.’
I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t because it would be difficult. I’d be branded a troublemaker, labelled as a grass, someone who couldn’t take a joke. I’d been allowed to change instructors and was beginning to believe I could pass the course. If I complained it would mean internal discipline for Parrot. He would deny it and then what? Perhaps naively, I hoped this would be enough for him to not do it again. I didn’t want to drag Rhys into it either. I had no idea what Laurie would say but I had a feeling he wouldn’t want to get involved.
‘I spoke to Frank Parrot,’ Sergeant Thomas said.
My body slumped.
‘He said he was putting you under stress, making you drive under pressure, because on the streets you have to be able to keep calm while driving fast police cars with the blues and twos on. You might have to deal with an urgent assistance, or a robbery in progress, or something high tension and he said he wasn’t sure you could handle it.’
‘Really? You really think that’s what he was doing?’ I said. ‘He knows nothing about me or how I do my job. He’s plain nasty. He was doing it because he could, because he thought he could get away with it. Is that how you teach your pupils, sarge?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Err … no.’
Nothing more needed to be said. We both knew the truth of it.
I didn’t make a formal complaint. Today, I probably would, but I’m older, wiser and less intimidated. Back then, I was just grateful to pass the course. And I did. One up to me and one down to Parrot. I guess I was triumphant because it wasn’t just about passing the course: it was a turning point. Sometimes you have to fight to realise that nobody has the right to make you feel like that but they will if you let them. It was good for my confidence to win that round and move on.
I wasn’t the first and I wasn’t the worst affected. Lots of women, and some men, had it harder, harsher and it wasn’t fair. Thankfully the police service has come many miles since those days.