The Confessions Series. Ash Cameron

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 service included. When he made to leave, he’d be stung for a bill of £300, £400, £500 or more. The price included the ‘company’ of the short-skirted, usually stoned hostess who’d waggled her bikini-topped breasts into his face and stroked his trouser leg. When these men wouldn’t, couldn’t pay, they’d be frog-marched to the nearest cash machine to withdraw everything they had. Protestations were met with a threat, maybe a head-butt, and sometimes a jab or two. The money would be withdrawn and handed over. The majority of these men refused to tell the truth, ashamed, embarrassed and caught out having to admit they’d been in a girly club, so we’d receive an allegation of cashpoint robbery instead of the real version of events. Most of the victims had families and could ill afford fifty quid, never mind five hundred, so they reported it as a street robbery, a credible excuse to their partner to account for the missing money because there was no way they were going to tell the truth – that they’d been in a club with women of lower moral standards.

      I don’t know who they were trying to kid: us, their wives or themselves. It was robbery, and often menacing, and it did sometimes include assault, but the perpetrators got away with it because nobody wanted to say they’d gone to a clip joint. The thugs knew this and exploited the situation.

      Sometimes, someone surprised us and told the truth. We’d then go back to the club and demand their money back. The door gorilla would produce the small print at the bottom of the sticky menus that listed the extortionate prices for company and for drinks. It then became a civil dispute because what these men hadn’t realised was that by sitting down with a girl and ordering drinks, they’d agreed to the terms and conditions. If there had been an assault, we could arrest the attacker, but more often the victims refused to cooperate with police when they realised they’d have to give evidence in court.

      On some occasions we’d carry out an operation to stop it, but there are always guys wanting to take a chance with a girl in a club and while there’s demand, there will always be heavies who won’t let them get away with it.

       The night I met …

      I’ll never forget the night duty I was sent to Jermyn Street, W1, to stand by while filming was taking place. It was just another job in the day in the life of a young constable in the capital. There was always filming taking place somewhere in the West End. Most of it happened at night when the streets were quieter and there were less people around. It was a boring task but once in a while something exciting happened.

      There I stood, scuffing the pavement while keeping the non-existent crowd at bay, and trying not to lean against the metal barriers, which were more for effect than protection. I was bored and dreaming about my warm bed, thick blankets and a deep sleep. I had no idea who was filming, what they were filming or when it would finish.

      A distinctive voice crooned in my ear, caressing the air with a tone like velvet. ‘Aren’t you cold, my dear?’

      I was startled and compelled to look up. I fell into pools of sparkling blue as his twinkling eyes smiled at me. Wow! This man oozed sex appeal even though he must have been thirty or more years older than me. Age didn’t matter on this cold autumn night.

      I smoothed down my skirt, coarse under my fingertips and unbecoming as a fashion item for a young girl like me. ‘Err … a bit … yes … chilly,’ I stuttered.

      He was much taller than I’d imagined.

      ‘Don’t they give you trousers these days?’ he asked, eyes sparkling, mouth crinkling, everything about him charming and easy.

      I smiled back. ‘Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years, when they catch on.’

      ‘In my dad’s day,’ he said, ‘when he was a sergeant at Bow Street Police Station …’

      And that’s how I became star-struck for a man older than my father. I spent a very nice half an hour with this gorgeous man, alone in his company. He told me all about his father who policed like policemen should back in the wartime years. He told me about his childhood and what it was like to have a policeman father and how he was both in awe and just a little bit frightened of him. How they were given oranges and lumps of Christmas pudding in their stockings at Christmas and if they were lucky they’d get a sixpence. Or maybe half a crown.

      He asked questions about me and appeared interested in the answers, things like why I’d gone to London, what my ambitions were and what did my family think. He said he hoped I’d live my dream, just like he was living his.

      He might have been acting, or he might have meant it. I don’t know. I was sorry when he had to go back to filming. Like a true fan, I was enamoured. I was also a smidge embarrassed when I asked for his autograph. I still have