by Joe Carter
It is fair to say that being a detective in the 1980s was full of fun and excitement. There were real characters in the police in those days. There was a sense that you could rely on each other, that your team or partner had your back. So very different from the experiences I encountered in the last decade of my police service, when at every opportunity your colleagues would do whatever they could to catch you out and drop you in the ‘proverbial’. No one had your back; in fact, you most definitely had to watch it.
I was given a really decent posting, a proper posting – I was going to Harrow Road Police Station in West London. This was an imposing red brick building that sat on the Harrow Road, surrounded by black railings. Ten stone steps led up from the pavement to the huge black front doors. The building was set on five floors, including the basement, and it had history; you could sense the stories that the walls of the rooms held.
The Harrow Road station had quite a reputation in the 1980s, and the uniform officers took no shit. They ran the streets and ensured that the locals knew that. They didn’t suffer fools gladly and there was – very much – an ‘us and them’ mentality. It appeared to be the uniform versus the world. The problem was, they struggled to see the difference between the hugely lawful and supportive community, and the bad guys. It is fair to say that some of the challenges that faced the police were huge.
I was one of eight new DCs at Harrow Road, and it was an exciting opportunity to make a name for ourselves and the department. There were four teams in the CID office, with a detective sergeant in charge. The night shift was always frantic and incredibly busy. It was the responsibility of the night duty detective to prepare the night duty occurrence book – or the OB, as it was known. This was a typed report that was left in a ring binder in the office to notify the day shift detectives what had occurred overnight, who had been arrested and dealt with, and most importantly what prisoners were sat in the cells awaiting interview and investigation. You could tell the lazy detectives from the industrious ones by the number of prisoners that were handed over in the morning. If you had an old-school detective who saw night duty as a way to have a late drink away from his wife and catch up on a few hours’ sleep in the DI’s office, then there would be maybe eight to ten prisoners in the cells. All the detective needed to write was: Placed in cell to sleep. The industrious ones, however, would do all they could to leave the minimum amount to interview.
Every single day, six out of the eight new detectives – who were spread evenly across the four teams – would rush into work. Most of us lived in the suburbs, and my drive took between one and a half and two hours, each way. I always left home before six and drove as fast as I could to get in first, so that I could sign for the interesting prisoners from the OB. This meant two things to me: a guarantee of overtime and an opportunity to ‘roll over’ a suspect (get them to admit offences, and also have the potential of an informant). I had learnt in my very early days that if you talked to people the right way, they would respond. I also knew that the most successful police work was based on the best intelligence.
CID was based on the first floor. Before you entered the main office, you had a small interview room on your right and a small galley kitchen, where cups of tea and coffee were made. This area should have been condemned as a health hazard. It was not a tidy office in any shape or form. Every detective had their own desk, with a three-tier set of locked wooden drawers that slotted underneath and a three-tier set of plastic in-trays that sat on the desktop.
On my team, I had a dynamic new DS who was a ringer for the TV presenter Richard Keys. He was a good man, and a good supervisor and detective. He allocated the work evenly and always pitched in to help. I worked alongside another two new DCs. One we all referred to as the Commander, as even back then we knew he was destined for high places and better things. He was educated – well, certainly more than I was – and had an air of rank about him. He was a very good detective and a talented chief. Then there was a really tenacious local fella from an Irish background. He was a quick thinker and steady as the day is long – he was like a bloodhound, and never gave up on a case. You certainly wouldn’t want him on your trail if you were a criminal. We all worked really well as a team, and spent long, long hours together at work.
Our supervisor, Jack, was a great character; he was a Celt, and coming to the end of a long and distinguished career. He had served on the Flying Squad and was a true leader – he had the respect of the office without really having to do too much. Their office was called the Pips Club, as a uniform inspector had two silver ‘pips’ on his or her epaulette to show their rank.
Every day, there were two tasks that the detectives on duty had to complete. Firstly, once the supervisor had completed his meetings and attended to all necessary matters for that day – a detective would be allocated to take the boss to the pub, or a number of pubs. Jack was very slight of build and wasn’t a great lover of solids, but he would easily drink eight to ten pints of bitter each lunchtime. Some people enjoyed the chaperone task, but others dreaded it, because if he didn’t like you or thought you weren’t good at your job, he would tell you.
Then, at 5 p.m., all detectives on duty would down their tools on hearing the words ‘The Pips Club is now open.’ There was a huge double cabinet full of booze in his office; we would all have a drink and talk to each other, taking the piss and showing the camaraderie you have in a close-knit team, like detectives did in those days. It made for great team spirit and bonding, and it would always be a thing of amusement to see what state Jack was in – or more importantly his chaperone – would come back in. Work would always get finished, the prisoners in the cells would be dealt with, and those that wanted to continue drinking would take the short trip across the road to the Elephant pub. It was the task of the night duty CID to ensure he and his car got safely home so that he could drive in the following morning. For us, the pattern was the same every day.
We played hard, but we also worked very hard. Drinking was a huge part of the detective culture and if you got the balance right between work and drink that was the recipe for success. We got through a tremendous amount of work in those days, and I used my time wisely to recruit a number of good informants.
Five
Harrow Road was a vibrant and extremely busy place to work, and competition was fierce to be the best detective. I was learning so much, and I was enjoying my time at the station. Time flew past, and securing a place on the crime squad had given me a well-earned break from the daily toil of interviewing the prisoners left in the cells every morning. It also got me away from the daily allocation of crimes to investigate that had occurred overnight in the area. I was now free to run whatever operations I wanted. This was the type of work I thrived on.
In that part of West London at the time, it was crucial to have the ability to blend in with the community, otherwise you stood out a mile. By now I had hair down my back and sported a ponytail. I always had a penchant for decent clothes, and dressed different to my colleagues. I had my own approach to police work, and I was an individual and a leader rather than a follower. I got the job done – it wasn’t always textbook, but it was successful. I was a true believer in talking to the baddies, getting down on their level and trying to learn what it was like to be a villain. I found that they warmed to me, and I had a great talent for getting them to talk to me. I probably saw a lot of me in them; if I hadn’t taken a different path, I may have been in the same position as them.
One day, out of the blue, I received a phone call from Mary, asking me for a favour. I had known her many years – she was a great detective and she would often disappear for days, apparently working for the Yard, but no one would ever ask any questions about the specifics of what she was doing. She told me she wanted me to meet someone at a local pub and fill him in about a particular housing estate on my patch. She said it would be worth my while.
The man in the pub was about thirty-five years old. He had long straggly hair, and a very rugged
face with a scar the length of his forehead; he had numerous tattoos and wore a battered brown leather jacket and black half-fingered gloves. There was a Jack Russell on his lap, as Mary had said there would be. He shook my hand and, without asking me what I wanted, bought us both a large Lamb’s Navy Rum. He was very polite, and quizzed me about the set-up on the estate and the individual bad guys controlling it. I was acquainted with all the players and rattled off everything I knew. Our meeting ended with him telling me that if I saw him around to ignore him, but that he had no doubt, from what Mary had said, we would meet again in the future. I watched him walk out the door, and forty-five minutes after meeting him, I was none the wiser about who he was or what he was doing. What I did know was that I liked him.
Six
It was déjà vu as I stepped off the District and Circle line at St James’s Park and looked out for the sign to ‘The Park and Broadway’. I thought I looked class as I shuffled my way up the stairs, pulled my warrant card out of my trench coat pocket and briefly flashed it at the rather rotund black lady, who gave me a beautiful smile as she allowed me through the barrier.
I had made this exact journey three months previously, although it hadn’t ended the way I had envisaged. I’d got the phone call from my Irish friend Mary, saying that SO10 wanted me. On that day at the Yard, it had ended in embarrassment. I’d licked my wounds, however, and was now returning to be interviewed again to become a Level 1 undercover officer.
I went through security, which isn’t what it is today, and took the Victoria Block lift to the fifth floor. The fifth floor at the Yard was known as the ‘corridor of power’ – there was plush carpet leading to double wooden doors, and portraits of previous commissioners adorned the walls. I felt out of place, uncomfortable – perhaps even nervous. Not of the forthcoming interview, but at the thought of bumping into a very senior officer, who might question what a pony-tailed no-one like me was doing on this illustrious corridor.
I pushed through the double doors and quietly made my way to the last but one office on the left-hand side. I knocked and heard a voice tell me to come in. There were three men sat in the room. In the middle was a very smart-looking man in his early forties, sporting jet-black, well-coiffured hair and a perfect black moustache. He was slim and wore his suit well, and he oozed confidence and charisma.
Next to him was a large white man who had mauled me three months previously – he was about sixteen stone, had a mop of brown hair, and wore clothes like your dad would. He didn’t like me, that was clear, and I wasn’t convinced by his cockney accent. I knew that this man had a fantastic reputation, but I felt that he didn’t want me on his team. The third man had a smiley, lived-in face. I could see he’d done more than a few rounds in the boxing ring, and he had the hands to match.
The DCI, who I will call the Mexican because he reminded me of a baddie from one of the old westerns my dad would watch, started proceedings. He said, ‘I know you made an appearance a few months ago, but we’re going to pretend that didn’t happen. You’re in role now, react to what you see and hear.’ He then pointed to the TV sat on the drinks cabinet beside me. ‘I’m a paedophile and I’m watching two eight-year-old girls in their knickers on video, and I’ve got copies of this video for sale, if I’m happy with you.’ He then undid his flies. ‘I’m gonna have a wank. Are you, or what?!’
I didn’t even pause for breath. I took one look at the television and another at the Mexican unzipping his flies and said, pointing at the TV, ‘That is nice, very nice, but a fifty-year-old geezer playing with a shrivelled-up cock does nothing for me. I’ll buy the video, but please, put your cock away.’
He smiled and said, ‘That’ll do for me, Joe. You’re in. Alan here will take you down to the main office and explain what happens next.’
I stood up and was joined by the man with the huge hands. He shook my hand with a vice-like grip and said, ‘I’m Alan. You done good there, son.’
This was the start of my journey as an undercover officer.
Seven
I was now a Level 1 undercover officer. I was a national resource, but at that time in the 1990s no one worked full-time in the role, apart from the handful of staff who ran the SO10 office. When specific operations were initiated, you would receive a phone call from the 10 office and tentative enquiries would be made to ascertain if you could get released from your day job. At the time, the majority of UCs worked on specialist squads or in busy CID offices, and undercover work was an extracurricular activity. You had to seek the support and release of your day job boss to allow you to go off and work undercover.
Undercover work was exciting: it came with definite risks, huge challenges and even greater rewards. We all craved to do this work full-time; it was like a dream job, and I’m sure that most people would thrive on the adrenalin that comes with these deployments. But the fact was, at this time, it was more like a hobby. You had to complete the eight to ten hours on your day job before you deployed into the seedy undercover world. It was an unspoken area of policing – no one asked you where you were going that evening or indeed, when you returned, where you had been. When we were together as a group of UCs, we looked like a motley crew, and you certainly wouldn’t have thought we were in mainstream policing. The truth was, it was the most exciting challenge that policing held at the time.
I had recently been promoted to detective sergeant and had been posted to a very busy South London station. I was now both a supervisor and a UC, and I knew which one of the two roles excited me more. Whenever I received a call from the 10 office, I was invariably able to deploy, and so I started my apprenticeship as a new undercover officer. I went out and performed supporting roles and made cameo appearances, doing whatever I was asked to do. I was used on many operations, and the main problem I found at the beginning was convincing myself that the baddies had no idea I was a policeman pretending to be a villain. Once you overcome this, the skill is being yourself and staying calm. I loved this type of work and saw every different operation as a challenge.
There were now strict rules being placed on the police for stopping and searching people, and prisoners could only be kept in custody for set periods of time. There were specific requirements placed on interviewing suspects, including the fact that they had to be offered a solicitor. There was no doubt the pendulum had swung in favour of the villains rather than the police. There was no longer fear or trepidation about being arrested. Undercover work was one of the only ways to beat the bad guys at their own game. It was dangerous, but the rewards were fantastic. I also knew that I was good at it and wanted to do more and more deployments.
Eight
It was the mid-1990s and I was desperately trying to juggle my role as a supervisor on one of London’s busiest squads, my undercover career, and life as father of a young family.
I hadn’t been married very long, and Sarah and I had a new child and had recently moved into a new house in an unfamiliar area. My wife knew no one, and both sets of our parents were hundreds of miles away, so there was no support network for her to rely on. In truth, she knew very little about my work and even less about the fact that I was working undercover. We were close and talked a lot – that’s if I wasn’t at work – but those conversations never actually involved my job. In theory, Sarah and I should have sat down and discussed the pros and cons of me pursuing a role as a UC. In reality, all I had said when posed the question about family, was: ‘My wife fully supports me becoming a UC.’ That was far from the truth, but I knew that the lack of her support or knowledge of the role was not going to stop me.
I’m sure these pressures are exactly the same as all of you reading this book have previously or are currently experiencing. We all deal with pressures in different ways. It’s the decisions that we make that shape our lives and those of the ones we love the most. I’m not sure I always made the right decisions.
The Flying Squad was one of the elite branches of Scotland Yard, and it was split into four offices covering geo
graphical areas of London. The squad was set up in October 1919, and over the years had gained a reputation for courage and determination in tackling the most violent of London’s armed robbers. The office I worked at was on a leafy suburban street in London, surrounded by properties worth millions of pounds. It was a picturesque setting and the perfect base to conduct investigations from. The Flying Squad was often the pinnacle of a detective’s career, and many returned after taking promotion.
I had joined just as the Squad took responsibility for investigating the epidemic of ‘steaming’ offences, where large groups of males were entering banks and building societies to intimidate and terrorise staff, before leaving with as much cash as it was physically possible to steal. It wasn’t really the type of offence that I had envisaged I would be investigating.
The London office was headed by a team of senior officers. On the first day I arrived, I was called by one of them into his office. He asked me to close the door and told me that now I was on the Flying Squad I was on the most elite squad in the country. He said my days of swanning around as an undercover officer – with my long hair, in my flash cars – were over. He wanted all my attention focused on leading a successful team. I didn’t like this man; I didn’t like the way he dressed, the fact his suit jacket was too big for his slopey shoulders. I didn’t like the fact his teeth were too big for his mouth, and I didn’t like the way he was talking to me. Even his name – Justin – wound me up. But there was no way I was going to let him see my dislike. I assured him that he’d get 100 per cent from me, and that I was excited about my time on the squad.
