I’m often asked why I don’t write about subjects specifically dealing with the job I did for many years. Well, I occasionally do, but in very general terms. The Official Secrets Act being just one reason for my reticence.
I wrote this piece about thirty years ago reflecting on an enquiry from a very bright young woman who had been sent to me as an ‘observer.’ She wasn’t intending, or even remotely keen, to do my job in the future, but needed to gain insight into the nature of investigative procedures. After a week she’d been disabused of the notion that the job was exciting or glamorous and had made strenuous efforts to make herself appear less of a sophisticated high flyer and more like the impression I presented. Abandoning all remnants of dress sense and deportment to enter the feral underbelly of society where I spent most of my time.
My unlikely shadow wanted to know how much detail of her experience could be revealed to others. I said, ‘none of it.’
I can still remember her disappointment. Keeping secrets isn’t easy. Years later I wrote in a blog about a typical working day, changing names and locations, but reflecting on a specific occasion. I called that young woman Helen; it isn’t her real name, and she later became a very prominent Member of Parliament so the month she spent in my company amongst villains, drug dealers and the dregs of humanity don’t appear to have scarred her for life.
The pub was not noted for its atmosphere and certainly not for its décor or comfort. The beer was nothing special and the landlord was a miserable bastard. Despite these apparent deficiencies, the place was packed out.
I scanned the room, looking at faces, getting a few nods of recognition in return. ‘Closest boozer to the local nick,’ I explained in response to Helen’s puzzled expression. ‘If he’s anywhere, he’ll be here.’
Helen nodded. Now she’d had a chance to look around, it must have been pretty obvious that most of the customers knocking back pints with the ease of long practice were coppers.
‘I’m not a copper and this isn’t my patch,’ I explained, ‘but I can see the odd familiar face.’ As I spoke a stooped man detached himself from the scrum at the bar and came over.
‘Deggsie?’ He said. ‘Long time no see. Can I get you one in?’
I shook my head. ‘No thanks, Tommo, just looking for someone. Seen anything of Ramsey?’
Tommo nodded, looking at Helen for the first time. He just about managed a token leer; no small feat as he was as pissed as a fart.
‘Ramsey?’ I repeated.
Tommo nodded vaguely towards the rear of the room. ‘In the snug,’ he said. ‘What about you love? You thirsty?’
I took Helen’s arm and shepherded her away. ‘She’s with me,’ I said over my shoulder.
We stopped as a group of men exited a side room, pints held aloft out of harm’s way.
‘Deggsie?’ Helen said, a suggestion of a smile playing across her face.
I shrugged. ‘Used to be. Long time back. Used to be a lot of people back then. Liverpool Eight, that would be Deggsie territory.’
‘Is it hard? Being someone else?’
I grinned. ‘Depends. Three months as Deggsie was okay. One of the good guys, Deggsie. Everybody’s best mate. That feller back there,’ I indicated the main bar area, ‘was just out of uniform back then. Keen to impress. Looking for a source on the streets that would get him noticed. He found me.’
Helen grinned back. ‘Meaning, you found him?’
‘Yeah. Played one end against the other for a while. Tommo was a big help. Not that he ever knew that. The boys I was after were up and coming then. Just starting out. Very handy having a tame bizzie to drop the odd word to.’ I stopped talking, nudged Helen. ‘There’s our man,’ I said. ‘The fat bastard in the corner. That’s Ramsey. Still a DS, apparently. Wouldn’t be drinking in here if he’d moved up.’
Ten minutes later, Ramsey was in full flow. I let him talk. Softening him up. Helen had done well: fetching drinks, listening without speaking. I was revising my opinion of her by the minute. She may just make it.
‘Section One,’ Ramsey was saying. ‘Bastards want their knackers ripping off with pliers. That’d sort ‘em out.’
I nodded. ‘Section One offenders have a tough time inside.’
Ramsey nodded. ‘So they should.’
‘Yeah.’
Helen looked at me. ‘Section One?’
‘Nonces.’ It was Ramsey who enlightened her. ‘Kiddie fiddlers.’ He looked back at me, grimacing. ‘Remember Norman Grant?’
I thought back to a different time, different place. Back when I’d been someone very different.
‘Oh yeah. Ran a drinking club in Tockie way back. Few girls in the back room, bit of a chancer?’
‘The very same. Moved up to demanding money with menaces. Fancied he could run a protection firm out of his poxy little club. Went down two years back and got a fair few other charges tagged on at the same time. He was knocking off one of his working girls and it turned out she was only fifteen. Fair play mind, I saw her when they brought him in and I’d have sworn she was at least nineteen.’
Ramsey chuckled, took a long pull at his pint. ‘Enough to get him classified as Section One. Nice result. He got three years, didn’t last the first month out. Sharpened teaspoon in the kidneys. Nobody put their hands up for it, but it could have been any of a hundred. Somebody got to him. Once you’re in with nonces, you’re fair game.’
I nodded. In truth, I found Ramsey difficult company. An old-style copper, checks and balances, whatever got the bad lads off the streets was a result. His attitude was fairly typical. But, I needed his input. Listening to war stories was part of the process.
Helen looked as if she’d rather be having a bikini wax than sitting here. I didn’t blame her. Ramsey was hard going, but no more so than most inner city coppers. She’d learn. Everything has its price.
Gulliver Smith 