The Black Rats!
The Metropolitan Police Traffic Division has been known as “The Black Rats” for as long as I can remember. I did ask people, why ‘Black Rats’? I got a different reply each time. In my time the CID did not hold the traffic division in particularly *high esteem (*understatement) and there were some pretty derisory comments about the ‘Rats being bandied about; so much so that you’d be forgiven for thinking they weren’t in the same job, which in my time was absolutely true. The CID was viewed as a separate entity, with its own recruiting procedures and a rank system, which although mirroring that of the uniform branch seemed separate, rather than integral to, the rest of the Met.
There were a series of pen and ink police caricatures circulating the stations in the early seventies, which I can still recall, sketched by a police officer who was clearly a skilled cartoonist. They parodied several types of officers, portrayed as Action Man figures (the popular childrens’ toy). The cartoon sketches included the “Flying Squad”, “Home Beat” and “Traffic” officer and just like on the Action Man box there were arrows pointing to all their ‘exciting’ features. The Flying Squad doll came complete with “authentic smell of scotch whiskey and tobacco; pull the string at the back and it flashes a warrant card and says ‘Squad’ from the corner of its mouth”. The traffic officer came with “disheveled uniform jacket and trousers, ingrained with cigarette ash, waterproof due to rolling in oily puddles under heavy goods vehicles; pull the string and it say’s ‘unavailable’ - and look! he even has oil-stained hands and dirty fingernails”. In those days this sort of thing was known as ‘comradely banter’, and each gave as good as they got.
My duties for the following couple of weeks were shown as, ‘TDP (Lewisham)’. Perhaps I was about to see for myself what it was that made the CID feel so strongly about the ‘rats’ and if the feeling was mutual. This question was addressed over tea and toast in Lewisham police station with my new mentor, Angus, a softly spoken Scot who was in a good mood; he’d just heard his application for ‘The Sweeney’* (*Sweeney Todd being Cockney rhyming slang for Flying Squad) had been approved. I was confused - a traffic officer in the legendary Flying Squad? How can this be? Angus explained that because of the nature of their work in pursuing armed robbers and other violent types from the upper echelons of villainy, the ‘Sweeney’ was a highly mobile unit using a variety of high-performance vehicles, all unmarked, with a remit that extended well beyond Met boundaries. High speed driving in a marked police car assisted by blue lights and sirens is one thing, but doing so in an unmarked car requires an even higher skill level. As most drivers with the coveted ‘Class 1 advanced’ classification were from Traffic Division, that’s where most were drawn from. He told me that the selection procedure was a tricky business but didn’t elaborate as I clearly did not have sufficient credentials, but it was clear to me that I was about to go on patrol with a traffic officer at the very top of his game.
In those days Lewisham nick, call sign ‘Papa Lima,’ was in Ladywell Road just off the High Street, and was a little closer to my Norwood quarters. The building may still be there but not for the police. The new Lewisham police station was described as the ‘largest in Europe’ but judging by the current situation it might also have been sold, so best check its still there if you need to report something. Parked in the rear yard in October 1970 were several cars of the Traffic Division; a Rover P6 3.5 V8 in white, with two roof mounted spotlights, nicknamed ‘Mickey Mouse’ lights because they were a similar shape as the Disney mouse’s ears. Next to it was a white ‘S’ Type Jaguar 3.8 and, to my delight and amazement, an MG ‘C’ roadster, yes, a soft top 2-seater in white, with just the same small ‘Police’ sign above the rear number plate, common to all big Met cars. Angus spotted me gazing at the MGC and muttered something about it not being much use and promptly indicated we would be in the Jag, so no bragging to my mates, but never mind. I settled into the front seat of the classic police Jaguar with a Class 1 advanced driver as my chauffeur. Angus keyed the microphone, logged us on watch with Information Room and we drove out of the yard. It seemed that all eyes were looking at us as we slipped into the High Street traffic, like a Great White shark cruising off Bondi Beach, except that Lewisham High Street was 12,000 miles from surfer's paradise but the one similarity was that you could tell from the furtive glances that our mere presence was making other drivers nervous. The old Jag was past its retirement age and due to be replaced by the V8 Rover but was still a potent vehicle in skilled hands, as I was about to discover.
We hadn’t been on patrol more than ten minutes when we took a call over the PR from the station. A local Panda unit was in need of help at a fight in a pub. The officer hadn’t called ‘urgent assistance’, those magic words that always guaranteed a cavalry charge of colleagues, but the officer who made the request was well respected with a high ‘fear threshold’ and Angus knew he needed back-up, fast. This was the moment that I experienced Class One advanced police driving for the first time and although over fifty years has passed, certain things about that call have stuck in my mind; the smoothness of our progress, the blur of cars flashing past my peripheral vision; glancing down at the large black ‘Smiths Instruments’ calibrated speedometer in the centre of the console, it’s 4” long needle, white against the matt black dial and rock steady at 85mph - bloody hell, I hadn’t even noticed that the two-tone horns and blue light had been switched on as I was bracing against centrifugal forces as the Jag was fed into left and right turns, tyres howling; the purposeful way that Angus was feeding the steering wheel through his hands seemed a total contrast to our rapid progress. What I remember most clearly was the casual way he placed the entire gear lever into my lap and said, change into third for me, will you? I couldn’t quite believe it; the gear lever (this Jag had a manual gearbox) had indeed come away in his hand and was now sat in my sweaty palm. Unperturbed, his monotone, only kidding, relieving me of his request as he took it back and started to screw it into the hole from whence it came saying, does that every now and then. I remained at the ready in case it happened again. We arrived at the same time as a van unit from Woolwich and within minutes The Queen’s Peace was restored at ‘The Queens Head’. In those days, the arrival of other police units, especially the van, usually had the effect of quelling much of the disturbance with those in the know taking the hint that it was time to melt away or shut up rather than risk arrest for threatening behaviour or a breach of the peace.
Our ‘shout’ was over. Angus, still as cool as a cucumber, tightened the errant gear lever, made a humorous quip about the police workshop then radioed IR to show us back in ‘the green*’ (old sweat jargon for ‘available’). Within minutes we were again contacted over the local PR network by the office at Lewisham. Angus’s young son had been involved in an accident at home and had sustained a nasty gash in his scalp. Head wounds really bleed and Angus’s wife couldn’t stop it, so the youngster had been taken to The Brook hospital in Shooters Hill and she had phoned to see if Angus could attend. We weren’t very far away and after a brisk drive, minus two-tones and blue light but with gear lever firmly in place, we were soon in the casualty department. The little lad was about four years old and although the bleeding had stopped, his scalp had a neat cut about half an inch long that needed stitching. Angus calmly spoke to his son, who was being very brave, introduced me to him and generally took his mind off the forthcoming procedure. Angus and his wife supported his head and the junior doctor sutured the the wound, all over within fifteen minutes of our arrival. That was my first close up of such a procedure and I was fascinated to see the fish hook-like needle, held in small forceps, neatly closing the wound. I was getting used to this hospital lark; my emergency medical experience now consisting of a double injection of tranquilliser into ‘Jesus’s’ buttocks and the suturing of a child’s head wound, both procedures being observed at point blank range and both within a week of each other. So far so good, but it was about to get a whole lot bloodier.
The following afternoon I eagerly reported for traffic division duty at the grand old 1899 vintage red brick and white stone edifice of Lewisham nick. Duty sheet checked, I was slightly disappointed to see that there was still no ride in that MGC for me as I would be relegated to back seat observer, but all was forgiven when I realised it was to be in one of the new V8 Rovers. Angus had a proper police partner for today’s shift. Mike was an old hand and had spent much of his service with the silver letters ‘TD’ pinned above his ‘collar’ number. These letters and numbers were affixed to the shoulder of all uniform jackets and overcoats and on shirt epaulettes. In Victorian times they were worn on the tunic jacket’s high collar and a century and a half later they were still referred to as the officers' ‘collar’ number and possibly still are. Mike was friendly and encouraging towards me, which was a good start as not all police officers of his service were supportive of the cadet system, many thinking that we were some kind of fast-track to the upper echelons. This wasn’t true but there were still the occasional derisive comments that one had to simply accept.
The P6 Rover was instantly popular. Compact yet comfortable and with that silky-smooth Buick V8 engine, modern suspension and brakes, it was fast and remarkably agile. As well as winning industry awards for its safety, it was the very first winner of the European car of the year award, all of which made it highly desirable for police use. Angus and Mike tossed a coin to decide who would drive the first half of our eight hour shift and with that decided the car was given a walk-around check for safety purposes and, just as important, to check if there was any unreported damage - a ‘CYA’ check as Mike put it; it was not the first time that I’d been told the vital importance of ‘covering your arse’. Checks completed we loaded up and logged on with IR as Mike fired up the motor and slipped it into ‘drive’. We glided out of the yard to the sound of eight burbling cylinders and headed into the traffic. The chat between Mike and Angus was immediately vehicle-focussed, both on the alert for erratic driving, overly nervous looking drivers and, when stationary, ‘bald’ tyres. I think it was probably these two who turned me into something of a defective tyre zealot, because within the first hour of the patrol they had reported three motorists for driving with illegal tyres. I was shocked at the state of them and probably more so at the reactions of the drivers when these dangerous defects were pointed out to them. One in particular came in for a very firm dressing down when he failed to grasp the seriousness and suggested that we should be out ‘catching real criminals, like burglars. Angus quietly but firmly pointed out that in his entire police service he had never encountered a burglar who had maimed a young mother and her six-year-old child, but he had dealt with a motorist who had done just that the previous month, driving a car with tyres just like his, that had run out of grip on a wet road. A fair point well made. I used that example many times over the following decades.
The mains radio announced; Oscar Papa Zero Two from MP; A20, vicinity Civil Service Ground Eltham, Injury RTA, believed two HGV’s, Ambulance attending, Origin Information Room 1525, MP over. A clipped acknowledgment from Angus and we were away on blues and twos and another lesson in high-speed driving from a Hendon trained Class One driver. Breathtaking stuff. I have never felt so safe at such speeds in a semi urban environment. MIke’s skills at the wheel combined with the modern suspension and bucket seats of the new Rover kept us well planted, unlike the old Jag which had more body roll to it, causing rear passengers to slide about – no rear seat belts in those days. Mike was making rapid progress, but they were both focussed on scanning the road like a rally car crew, with Angus offering the occasional verbal warning whilst operating the two-tones and occasional jabs on the bells for good measure (yes, Met cars were also fitted with the classic gongs with their staccato jangle like a fire alarm). We crested a rise at high speed, Mike lifting the throttle just before the peak to keep the Rover on a low trajectory allowing it to settle down smoothly on its suspension and suddenly there was the scene of the crash a few hundred yards ahead.
Cars were still moving slowly in both directions, their occupants vision drawn to the carnage that would shock them, but which was no surprise to Angus and Mike. We were travelling downhill towards a gentle left-hand bend, the same course as lorry number one had been travelling before, for reasons yet to be established, it had crossed the centre line and collided, not quite head-on, with lorry number two coming the other way. The cabs of both lorries were crushed and the side of one had been peeled open like a can of sardines. Neither vehicle would be going any further, at least not today and not under their own steam. There were dozens of white packages, the size of pillows, scattered across the offside carriageway and grass verge which appeared to have spilled from the downhill lorry that had also ended up on the offside grass verge. An ambulance had already arrived and was parked down the hill below the two lorries; it’s crew nowhere to be seen. Mike positioned the police car so that the traffic from the uphill carriageway was forced to avoid the wreckage and we all got out to survey the chaos that had descended on the previously normal sunny autumn afternoon.
Mike and Angus made straight for the ambulance. I seemed to have been temporarily forgotten as their ‘standard operational procedure’ swung into action. The scene was checked for casualties, the road checked for obstructions and any loitering members of the public were asked if they saw what had happened and advised to get on their way if they hadn’t. Not wanting to stand around like a lemon, I decided to try and look professional by inspecting the two trucks, peering underneath and along their length like a snooker player weighing up the next shot. I discovered that the white packages scattered along the verge contained disposable nappies bound for supermarkets. I began kicking those still on the carriageway on to the grass verge and it was then that I noticed several of them were quite heavily bloodstained. I made my way to the ambulance just as Angus appeared from behind it, telling me that they were treating both drivers; one was shocked but otherwise ok, the other was more serious with head injuries. He was found unconscious by a motorist who’d tried to make him comfortable on the nappy packs, hence the bloodstains. Mike was getting a short statement from him whilst the medics were stabilising the critical casualty. I walked back to the nappy pack lorry whilst Angus and Mike started to make arrangements to get the two trucks recovered; I thought I’d try to look like I knew what I was doing in front of the ‘rubberneckers*’ (*ghoulish gawkers) in the cars that were still filing slowly past. As I studied the mangled cabs of the two lorries the pulverising effect of their combined kinetic energy hit home. Both cabs had crumpled to half their size, and I could not work why there weren’t two dead drivers. I decided to haul myself up to take a look inside one and as I did, I felt something cold and wet touch the back of my head. I reached up and touched the nape of my neck and as I brought my hand back down, I saw that my fingers had blood on them. Easing myself back a few feet I looked up and saw a strip of skin about two inches by four hanging from the metal frame that once held the windscreen. Upon closer examination I realised the strip of skin was from the poor driver's scalp, as it had hair on it, probably shaved off as he was thrown out. I pointed it out to Mike who immediately ducked back inside the ambulance to tell the crew. He told me later that he thought they might retrieve it in case the doctors at the hospital might try grafting it back on. A police SETAC*(*Specially Equipped Traffic Accident unit) Land Rover had arrived and a specialist team took over the scene as it was a potential fatality.
I finished my shift at 9pm and by 9.30 I was having a drink with my mates in the bar of The Queens Hotel. It was a friendly place to unwind, although I’m not sure all of its regular customers appreciated us. There was big cage containing a blue parrot by the entrance to the lounge bar with quite a vocabulary; someone (we suspected it was a former cadet) had taught it to squawk, “fuck off copper” as you walked in. This friendly quip announced my arrival, and I made my way to where my mates were busy swapping stories. I related my tale of derring-do, but inside I just felt that this was a sad end to a sad day and another ‘first’ to add to my rapidly growing list of stark reminders that I had chosen a career of much death, destruction and misery. I think the driver survived, but I have no idea if they managed to sew his scalp back on. The parrot repeated his obscene chant as I made for the door. I was happy to oblige.
My Traffic Division attachment had one more week to run, but there would be two more incidents of note, both very different but both equally memorable. My brief meeting with Tony Gledhill GC a few weeks earlier was, in hindsight, a strange omen. The high-speed pursuit of suspected armed robbers, during which he and his radio operator, Terry McFall GM, had been shot at fifteen times had resulted in a number of men being convicted and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, one of which was a man named John McVicar. As well as being what some might describe as a ‘career criminal’ McVicar was also something of an escape artist and in October 1968 he disappeared from Durham Prison’s high security wing which was a ‘prison within a prison’ and considered virtually escape-proof, although I’m not sure who by. The 28-year-old convicted armed robber had cut his way through a wall in the shower block, covering his tracks with a little papier mache replica. He then crawled through a ventilation shaft, crossed the exercise yard, scaled a roof, lowered himself down the perimeter wall and scooted through the streets of the town, topping it off by swimming the River Wear before being picked up by friends and whisked back to London.
So how did this chain of events have anything to do with me? Well, it didn’t really, except that just as I was walking into the traffic office for an early shift, Angus and a colleague dashed past me, dived into the old white Jag and with back tyres squealing and gongs a’ jangling, disappeared towards goodness knows what, leaving me slightly miffed. As I waited in the canteen with my tea and toast a traffic officer appeared with a steaming mug of tea and sat down at my table. I told him about Angus’s rapid exit, hoping he might enlighten me but all he could offer was that there was a call from a ‘Central’ unit operating in Blackheath that had urgently requested handcuffs. That meant nothing to me, which he obviously guessed from my blank look and so enlightened me; Central call signs are Flying Squad. I was now double-miffed. Angus and his oppo’ were backing up the legendary Sweeney and all I could do was drink tea and await their return, although the traffic PC had given me a little psychological boost. He didn’t realise it, but his decision to sit with me despite there being lots of other tables he could have chosen, was a small act of recognition. I knew I was well down the food chain and a long way from being one of the guys, but that small gesture made me feel a little closer to the team.
Angus’s Jaguar glided back into the yard a lot more sedately than it had departed, and I was on my feet ready to go. He strolled to the back door with a spring in his step and a grin spreading across his face as he saw me waiting in anticipation of a good story and with a smart about turn and a friendly hand on the shoulder, I was back in the canteen, this time with a mug of coffee and a bacon sandwich courtesy of Angus, the generous Scot. In between mouthfuls of bread and bacon Angus relayed the story which would turn out to be headline news. A team of Scotland Yard detectives, including the Sweeney, had been tasked with finding McVicar, ‘Britain’s most wanted’, since his remarkable prison break some two years earlier in an investigation that would involve thousands of hours and hundreds of pub visits with and without informants. Long story short, The Sweeney, acting on information that would include self-generated intelligence as well as informant-based sources, had put together a plan to descend upon a flat above a parade of shops in Blackheath, just a few miles from where it all began four years earlier with that chase involving Papa 1 and the fifteen gunshots that were fired at PC’s Gledhill and McFall. With that incident at the forefront of their minds, the Sweeney would not be taking any chances, and so Webley revolvers would have been issued.
With the flat contained front and rear, several detectives advanced to the door, weapons drawn. In those days police were not issued with body armour, so any sudden moves by the fugitive would not end well. McVicar’s sixth sense was spiking his radar, because he very gingerly opened the door about an inch and at once announced that there were two women in the flat with him. This would have had a significant effect on the officers who, at this crucial moment, realised that although they were armed to the teeth, none of them had brought handcuffs, hence they broke radio silence urgently requesting some. Perhaps they weren’t anticipating a peaceful conclusion? Angus had little more to say, except that the ‘cuffs were delivered in quick time and that he couldn’t wait for his forthcoming transfer. A recent internet search revealed that aspects of John McVicar’s arrest were made subject of an exemption from disclosure order, presumably as a result of very high-level legal submissions. Details of this exemption order, as shown in the National Archives, currently states, “Access Conditions: Closed for 68 years”. Make of that what you will. After serving some more prison time where he acquired academic qualifications, John McVicar made a career change and became a journalist. His death from a heart attack was announced in September 2022, days after I’d written this account of his arrest.
With the excitement of the early arrest of the man tagged, ‘public enemy number one’ sending a buzz around Fleet Street and a bigger buzz around ‘P’ Division, the rest of the day seemed destined to be dull. I got out on patrol with Angus and another traffic officer, with me in the back seat. The remainder of our patrol was very quiet right up until the final hour when IR contacted us, the clipped brevity of the radio procedure belying the horror that awaited us; “Oscar Papa Zero One from MP; High Street Lewisham, junction Lewisham Park; Injury RTA, ambulance called; origin Information Room one four one three, MP over”. Angus hit the gas, his buddy hit the blues and two’s, and I took deep breaths as our pace picked up. The surging power of the Jaguar, coupled with the skill of a Traffic Division Class One driver scything a path through south London traffic, is a sensation that leaves a lasting impression. Within minutes we were approaching the scene which looked like it involved a double decker bus, although there didn’t seem to be another vehicle involved. We stopped behind the bus and all three of us made for the front where a group of people were staring at the near side front wheel. The bus driver was kneeling beside the wheel, his head in his hands. Angus tapped him on the shoulder and began asking him what happened. The poor chap was in shock and shaking like a leaf. I heard him splutter out; the kid ran straight out; I had no chance to stop. My two colleagues laid down and looked under the wheel arch. Angus turned to us, ashen faced, “Jesus Christ there’s a kid wrapped around the suspension, get the Fire Brigade”. The other officer ran back to our car and was onto IR, quickly returning to confirm they had already been called. The sound of two-tone horns drifted through the bustle of the chaos that we now had to sort out and as they got closer the sounds became out of sync’, which meant there were several more units bearing down in the shape of two fire engines and an ambulance. I could see the child under the wheel arch, his upper body half wrapped around the top of the big front wheel, with limbs at unnatural angles. There was no blood pumping from the poor kid, who was just conscious. He was leaking from somewhere as there were a couple of small bloody puddles on the road beneath him, but no sign of any arterial bleeding. I had seen enough to know that there was little we could do, other than try to reassure him and deal with the other casualty, the badly shocked bus driver.
With the ambulance crew and the firemen doing their own things, we could do little more than seek witnesses and get some brief verbal accounts. The bus driver’s account that the kid ran across the footpath and into the road was quickly confirmed; it was the ‘why’ that we needed to establish and our answer came from a lady who was stood quietly on the pavement watching the emergency transform into a rescue. It seems that the kid was minding his own business walking down the pavement when a vagrant, who according to the witness was staggering about the High Street ranting and swearing at people, suddenly lunged at the child, scaring him so much that he ran into the road in a blind panic. We really wanted to find that man. With witness details obtained there was little else for us to do on the rescue front, as the fire brigade had freed the lad and the ambulance had conveyed him the short distance to Lewisham Hospital. The bus driver ended up there too as London Transport were quick off the mark recovering the bus. Angus and his partner had given the bus a once-over and were quite sure it was mechanically sound, but it would receive a more thorough examination back at its depot, particularly as the incident was a potential fatality.
Back at Lewisham nick, Angus and his pal had their paperwork to complete. It would be an hour’s overtime for them. As for me, there would be no overtime; I was just an observer and had little to do but make up my own notes for my own assessment procedures. Despite my uniform being almost identical to those of sworn police officers I was not a police officer, so I had no police powers, despite receiving a small weekly wage, pocket money really, from the Metropolitan Police budget. I scanned my brief notes which despite factually covering my day were just that, cold facts covering time, place and incidents; they did not convey the drama, horrors and emotion of the road traffic accident that had sent adrenaline through my veins and shocking images into my mental filing system. A feeling of fatigue and great sadness washed over me as I sat alone with my thoughts and the image of the young boy jammed under that front wheel arch, his limbs at weird angles, the blood on the road, the uncontrolled shaking of the bus driver; images that would stay with me to this day. I suddenly remembered that I had held the boy’s hand and talked to him briefly, although he did not reply. Should I have put this down in my notes? Probably not, after all nobody needed to know how I felt.
Suddenly there was chatter down the corridor and the canteen door flew open, jarring me away from my dark thoughts; it was the late shift coming in for their meal break. Banter filled the air, chairs scraped on the floor, a deck of playing cards appeared at one table, a scrabble board at another, tunic jackets were hung over chair backs, cigarettes were lit, a queue formed at the canteen counter, food and hot drinks were served up by the kitchen staff. I noticed that the numerals on the tunics were topped with the letters ‘CO’ which stood for ‘Commissioners Office’; it was a unit of the Special Patrol Group, and the card school was one player light, and they were looking around for someone to make up the numbers; time to make myself scarce.
Back at my section house the canteen was also in full swing, with cadets in various states of dress, from half uniform to track suits, the latter being for actual physical training rather than today’s ‘fashion’ statements. My drive back amongst the outbound commuter traffic had taken my mind off things, aided and abetted by a bit of Led Zeppelin. I needed to get out of my uniform and into a hot shower. I released my collar stud and threw collar and shirt into a laundry basket. I saw the boy's blood on the cuff. That hit home. “Feelings, feelings and feelings; Let me try thinking instead” wrote C.S. Lewis in his classic work, ‘A Grief Observed’. I headed for the shower block. Ten minutes later and I’m back in the canteen for something hot followed by something with custard. Surrounded by the excited chatter of my peers, I was quickly drawn into the stories of their day. Ted had been out in the Brixton patrol van, a few scuffles, an arrest for possession of drugs and knives and an invitation from Sergeant Samms to join the sea fishing section. The Met was very keen on supporting sports activities and even gave a small monthly allowance of time to participate. Others chipped in with their experiences but none of them had seen a young boy wrapped around the front suspension of a double decker bus. I didn’t share my story as it was too raw; their turn at such horrors would come soon enough and they’d be welcome to it. Ted and I agreed to meet for a drink later and at 8 o’clock we strolled into The Queens’, were told to ‘F-off’ by the parrot as usual and sat down with a couple of stout and ciders. That’s when I told him about my day. I was totally shot away by 10 pm and so we called it a night and headed back. I was asleep within minutes.
Having a day off midweek was something new to me but not to regular police officers who, through various shift patterns, provide cover twenty-four hours a day, all year round. Unlike the fire service, police on night duty don’t sleep in bunk beds until called for, they patrol looking for trouble. In 1970 the Met police was over 5,000 officers under establishment, which meant that officers had only 5 rest days a month instead of eight, the remaining three days had to be compulsorily worked. In practical terms this meant that an officer would have to work ten days before getting one day off. Working different shifts for prolonged periods plays tricks with the digestive system; it also messes with one’s ‘Circadian Rhythm’, something that the ancient Greeks knew of in the 4th Century BC. In the 20th Century AD, I was totally unaware of this internal ‘body clock’, I just knew something was either stopping me from leaping out of bed with a spring in my step and a song in my heart or keeping me wide awake with my brain in overdrive when I should be sleeping.
My rest day passed without a single thing of significance happening, at least none that I can recall. The following day I was working a day shift, 8am to 4pm, back with Lewisham Traffic Division and once again Angus was to be my guide and mentor. After a briefing, a check of the local crime bulletin and the ritual tea and toast we were out on the road in a V8 Rover, just the two of us, heading for Blackheath where we would park up and provide a visible presence to the commuter traffic crawling into town. Angus had actually let me log us on duty with IR. I actually used the ‘mains’ VHF radio for the very first time. Having told me what to say, he got me to say it back to him a few times so that I sounded acceptably competent, then nodded towards the grey plastic microphone of the Pye Westminster radio; this was my big moment. The Traffic Division channel was already selected so I waited for a gap in the outgoing transmissions then, spurred on by a nod and a grin from Angus, I cleared my throat, keyed the mic’ took a deep breath and sent my ‘pretending-not-to-be-nervous’ voice through the ether to Information Room and to every traffic unit in southeast London, MP, MP from Oscar Papa Zero Two, on watch, Oscar Papa Zero Two Over. Was it good enough for the uncompromising precision of Information Room? Would I be asked to repeat it and if so, would I fluff my lines? There was what seemed like a long pause; I started to think I’d not pressed the key hard enough, but then came the acknowledgment, “Oscar Papa Zero Two, MP, Received, MP Out”. The IR traffic console had no idea that it was a nervous eighteen-and-a-half-year-old cadet on the microphone! Looking back, it seems rather silly that such a simple act could give so much pleasure but, I reiterate, to be authorised to operate a Met police main radio an officer would have completed a four-day radio telephony course, something I would have to wait nearly two years for. A simple thing it may have seemed, but at that moment I knew exactly how Mister Toad felt when he first saw a motor car, Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh Poop-Poop!
Angus positioned the white Rover along the A2, Shooters Hill Road, very conveniently near the famous Blackheath Tea Hut where it became clear that he was well known to the staff, as were most of the Deptford and Lewisham police. Turning to me with, get your hat and coat on, we’ll stretch our legs, he switched off the Rover and was quickly out by the roadside, eyeing the heavy flow of inbound traffic. You could sense the rise in the blood pressure of the drivers as they filed slowly past Angus’s scanning eyes. I stood next to him and joined him in the business of ‘road safety’ as he gave me a running tutorial.
This is a good place to spot tax discs and tyres.
Now I knew what he was up to.
It’s also worth scanning way back, both directions; anyone you see trying a sudden ‘U’ turn, sing out.
I started scanning and was ready to sing out.
An out-of-date tax disc, or none displayed, usually means no insurance or MoT, you cannot tax a car without either.
I knew that, but the last thing you say to the police officer giving you guidance is, I know that. His tutorial continued:
Anyone who says, ‘oh my tax is in the post,’ you then ask to see their insurance and MoT, if they produce either, you can then say, ‘you must’ve forgotten to include these when you posted off your tax renewal, or would you like to re-think that answer?
That was a good one, duly Noted.
Any car with passengers who look like they are getting jumpy let me know, but be casual about it, don’t eyeball them, good blaggers are surveillance conscious.
Once again, duly noted; no wonder he was selected for the Flying Squad. Then I remembered that it was about four years ago that Tony Gledhill, GC and Terry McFall, GM were pursuing the armed robbers along this very stretch of road in Papa 1 and who were shot at, fifteen times, but never gave up. If we got into a pursuit like that, the blue band around my cap would not exempt me; blaggers wouldn’t think, ‘oh, he’s only a cadet, he’s not a proper copper, we won’t aim at him’. Curiously, the thought of meeting an armed criminal didn’t bother me that much, but I did think that if my Mum knew what I was up to, she’d be frantic, best keep those thoughts to myself. I had not the slightest inkling that in less than three years, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I would be an authorised firearms officer in the Met’s sole armed response car in central London. In six months', time I would arrive at my first station as a sworn constable and discover that half my shift carried firearms, twenty-four hours day, seven days a week.
Back in Blackheath the traffic would regularly grind to a halt, and Angus would stroll along the line of cars, occasionally kneeling to run a hand over tyres he thought might be illegal. The look on the drivers faces spoke volumes. They had stopped due to heavy traffic, and they weren’t going anywhere until some traffic lights down the road changed to green. Angus knew this and had the timing down to a tee. The drivers were trapped, their vehicles were under expert scrutiny, and they could do nothing about it. Only those who knew they were driving legally had nothing to be concerned about. He suddenly found something of interest, walked round to the driver's window and a few words were passed. The driver was told to pull over and invited to see for himself that a front tyre was in a bad way. Out came a ‘Process’ book, which is where the evidence is recorded. Ten minutes later he was on his way having been reported for two bald tyres and advised that he was not immune from being reported again if he did not change them as soon as practical ie it was a ‘continuing offence’. The only way to avoid that was to have new tyres fitted on the spot, but discretion is always used. Angus’s final word on that ‘stop’ was, if anyone ever says to you, ‘why aren’t you catching burglars, you tell them that burglars rarely kill anyone, but people driving cars kill and maim hundreds every year. My mind immediately flashed up horrific images that I had already seen during my brief time with him and the realisation that he and his Traffic comrades, the ‘Black Rats’, probably dealt with more death and destruction than the murder squad. It was a point well-made and difficult to argue against.
After thirty minutes it was time for us to move on. I wondered what exactly it was that we had achieved in our brief time car spotting in Blackheath. Our tally was one man facing a fine for two bald tyres and several other drivers given advice. It was a small percentage out of the hundreds of cars that passed by unchallenged; hardly what you would call ‘harassment,’ barely a warning shot in the battle for road safety, yet many motorists do not see it that way. It is as if we were in some way interfering with their right to drive with impunity, yet more of our citizens will die at the hands of car drivers than by what some might think of as ‘real’ criminals. How would we ever know if Angus’s eagle eyes had indirectly saved someone in the future from damage, injury or worse at the hands of a negligent driver with an unroadworthy car? And what about the drivers getting cold sweats as we scanned their cars for defects? Had it made them think beyond just getting to where they wanted to go and check their own tyres, insurance, or MoT - before we did? We will never know, but perhaps our visible presence did better than simply get one driver a fine and his licence endorsed. How do you measure the deterrent effect and subtle social control of a visible police presence? It is virtually impossible and so in the eyes of the statisticians and accountants who pare down police budgets, ‘boots on the ground’ do not figure in their calculations. Anyway, we hadn’t the time to get into philosophical debates because Angus announced that he had some good news for me. The little lad who was under the bus two days ago actually survived after being extracted by the London Fire Brigade. He had undergone surgery and was now sufficiently well enough to be visited. We had an appointment at 11am at Lewisham General Hospital where we were going to see him and his mother. I was amazed and delighted.
Police officers in hospitals is a common sight. Police officers with nurses as wives and girlfriends was not unfamiliar either; that much I learnt from my recent attachment to St. Francis Hospital and the regular invites we got to dance nights at the various nurses' hostels in the area. Traffic officers get to know many hospital casualty departments better that most of their colleagues and Angus certainly knew his way around Lewisham. His wife was a nurse. We set off from reception and made our way along the labyrinthine network of corridors and stairways to the ward of the wounded. We were given the once over by a nurse who told us that the lad was poorly and had undergone surgery for a fractured pelvis and femur; he also had a broken collarbone that had punctured the skin which needed minor surgery. He was expected to make a full recovery. I was surprised and relieved considering how I had seen his contorted body such a short time ago.
The nurse showed us to a room just off the main ward and went inside, reappearing after a few seconds with the lad's mother. She was clearly in need of a good night's sleep but was happy to talk to Angus. After a few minutes of official business, mum invited us to come and see her son. This was a long time ago, but I can still recall him lying in the hospital bed with his legs and an arm supported. I was amazed that he was alive. We chatted briefly to him, and Angus promised him a visit to the police station when he was better. He didn’t say much as he was doubtless still overwhelmed by the whole thing. We said goodbye and left the room and were about to leave the ward when his mother appeared and called to us. She came up to me and said that after we left the room, her boy told her that I was the one that held his hand. She thanked me. No words came; all I could do was nod. I knew from her tearful demeanour that her thanks were heartfelt, the most intense thanks I had ever received. I was touched. As we retreated down the hospital corridors and out into our world, the tension I was holding in was released. I wondered if I would ever see the little chap again or hear anything of his progress on the road to recovery and beyond. I haven’t, but although five decades have passed, I still think of him occasionally. What has also remained with me was the respect I have for the ‘Black Rats.’ Roads policing is a tough job and, as I would find out many years later, policing motorways is one of the most dangerous environments police officers can find themselves in, be of no doubt.
