Confessions of an Undercover Cop. Ash Cameron

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