Looking back on the ‘Life on Mars’ days of the police in Cheshire

For instance, when sitting in the dining room of the police station in Japan, it did not go down too well when one of the lads decided to discuss the war with the local police!

Later, when working with the US naval patrol dressed for action in their white helmets, big batons, and a revolver, our simple white gaiters, belt, and naval patrol armband were somewhat outclassed.

Dealing with the US sailors who had no alcoholic drink on board took some doing. At one point, being called to a Hong Kong brothel where a US sailor had thrown a prostitute through the window. All in a day’s work when working with the Americans. Not really what I thought I would have to deal with in Cheshire.

After 13 weeks of training at the Bruche police college in Warrington, you felt like a policeman both in theory and practice. Let’s start with one example.

At first, it was all mundane stuff, but a few nights into my first week, the radio passed what sounded like a routine message.

‘Panda 7, can you go to the White Lion in Delamere Street, the licensee wants some customers to leave.’

My adrenalin was up as we arrived at the pub, but inside, all appeared quiet. Fresh from training, I knew that the licensee could eject anyone from his pub the same way a householder can ask you to leave his house. We were there to assist him if necessary.

The landlord met us at the door. ‘Thank goodness you’re here, lads,’ he said. ‘It’s them three. Can you get them to leave?’

I looked over. Three young blokes were sitting at a table in the bar.

‘You need to tell them to go,’ we said.

Sighing, the licensee went over to them. ‘Now come on, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you once; I want you to leave.’

The first said, ‘Okay, boss, we’re going.’

The second then stood up and punched the licensee hard without warning, causing him to fall backwards and smash the glass in the door with his head.

I then had my first punch-up in the police – well, my first arrest using the minimum force necessary!

My radio flew out of the top of my tunic and shot across the bar. The person I was ‘arresting’ fought like mad, and at one stage, I was left holding his jacket as he struggled free. I rugby-tackled him, and a few tables and glasses went flying, covering us with beer and cigarette ends. Eventually, I had him under control and handcuffed. When everything had quietened down, I went over to get my radio from its respectable rescuer, who was sitting at the bar.

‘My lad was thinking of joining the police,’ said the radio rescuer, indicating a pale and trembling lad at his side. ‘Isn’t that right, son?’

It was evident that the son had instantly given up any such idea.

Then after being in company for a while, I was allowed out on my own, so I think another little story.

After my period in company, I was allowed out on my own for the first time – my big helmet sitting proudly atop my head and my heavy boots on my feet.

It was six o’clock in the morning, and most sensible people were still in bed as I strolled out into the mean streets of Winsford.

Next door to the police station was a newsagent, and I was in luck. Parked outside was an articulated lorry, and the engine had been left running! My expensive training at Bruche had not been wasted. As soon as I saw it, I knew that the driver was committing the offence of ‘Quitting’ under the Road Traffic Act 1972 – the swine! Didn’t he realise that if it slipped into gear, it could wipe out an old people’s home or a convent – had one been there? Wasn’t he aware of his duties as an HGV driver?

Pulling myself up to my full height, I took out my little process booklet and started to fill in the details. Then the driver came out. He clutched a Daily Mirror and 20 Embassy No6, and his face fell when he saw me.

‘Sorry, officer,’ he said. ‘I only nipped in for a paper. What’s the problem?’

‘Your engine. It’s running.’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Well, it’s an offence to leave a vehicle with the engine running, and I’m reporting you for it.’

Trying to look like a police officer in Z Cars, I didn’t look at him; I just kept writing suitably officiously.

‘I’m going to caution you. You’re not obliged to say anything, but if you do… er, you will… might… er… go to court… er… it will be given in writing and… er, you know what I mean.’

He looked thunderstruck. ‘If I get reported, I’ll get the sack,’ he said. ‘How am I to feed my kids then?’

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘But don’t do it again.’ The feeling of pity rose in me and, combined with the fact that I had made a total pig’s ear of the caution, melted my resolve.

His face lit up, and he was so excited getting up into the cab that he dropped his Daily Mirror, and the pages blew down the high street like white birds, settling gently in people’s gardens. The wagon set off with a blast of blue smoke, a highly grateful driver at the controls.

You couldn’t let too many people off like that, mind you. The only way a probationary constable could be judged was on the amount of work – called ‘process’ – that they submitted.

That was an example of uniform policing. Most of my time was to be spent in plain clothes at the mucky end of police work.

The story starts with an important and nasty case involving paedophilia in a Warrington children’s home when I set up the present Cheshire Paedophile Squad, then called Operation Granite. This was the most important operation of its kind in Britain. I took the first complaint and arrested the offender. This squad still exists.

In 1985 I started work on the No 1 Regional Crime Squad, advanced driver training, surveillance training and undercover work on the most significant police drugs operation in the north west at the time. This operation included the arrest of Andy Rourke, bass guitarist with The Smith’s pop group; the band folded shortly after, and Morrissey went solo. I worked undercover on this operation.

Soon after, I moved to Macclesfield as a uniform sergeant. After 15 months, I returned to the RCS, where I again dealt with serious crimes, including murders. Commendations and car crashes.

The day before the Berlin wall fell, the leading national news was the kidnapping of a young girl from a school playing field. I worked alone on the job in Manchester and recovered the little girl. The following day the Berlin Wall came down, and it was relegated to the inside! Many more stories followed this, too numerous and perhaps too sad to mention here.

After that secondment, I returned to leafy Cheshire, well, Warrington! I dealt with several nasty paedophile enquiries, starting with the one that opened the story in the book.

The Life on Mars days and that programme was true to life! I detected a murder and interviewed the bizarre murderer. Etc Etc. All is written with a strong sense of cynicism and humour, enabling the story to flow comfortably from hilarious anecdotes to heart-rending sadness. Examples of the poor state of the police force today compared with what happened in the ‘evil’ seventies.

The Good, The Bad & The Crafty can be found on Amazon and other book stores. Paperback is £8.99, Hardback is £14.99, and Kindle/ebook is £4.99.