A Copper at the Yard: Inside the Real Sweeney

By John Woodhouse

Being a copper at the yard was definitely an exciting time for the author, John Woodhouse, but it did take it's toll on social and family life. From east end detective, to the Bomb Squad in London's fight back during the IRA bombings of the 1970s, to the Flying Squad in the fight against organised crime. But amongst all this there was a lighter side, from Morris Dancing, to a cross dressingdbutante at Ascot's ladies day, to undercover copis all in a days work, until out of the blue he was told he had terminal cancer and to go home and die.This book is an insight into the life of an ordinary guy who has led an extraordinary life, who has opened deaths door and closed it again, but still had time to smile at life as he endured the battle with cancer. Fighting his way back to return to duty at the yard with one lung and continuing his career, thisis the story of guts and determination. To take on the Chinese triads in their own back yard and and come out the other side is astonishing in itself, but along with all the ups and downs in his life this ordinary guy's approach to life is one of optimism and fun. This book will certainly make you laugh at times and cry at others, you can live his lifealong side him on every page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781473822450

John Woodhouse

John Woodhouse (DPhil, Victoria University of Manchester) served as principal of Moore Theological College in Sydney, Australia, from 2002 to 2013. Previously, he worked in pastoral ministry in a suburb of Sydney. He has published articles in various academic journals and is the author of three volumes in Crossway’s Preaching the Word commentary series.

Book preview

Prologue

What a start to the day, but cold wet early mornings were becoming the norm these days. I sat there in the back of a old battered Transit van with six other guys waiting for the off, via a radio message from New Scotland Yard to tell us the villains were on their way to our location, but that could be hours yet. I was getting used to life on the Flying Squad, New Scotland Yard’s most successful and best known thief-catching squad in history, just sitting in wait, armed to the teeth, well a 2in snub-nose 38 Smith and Western actually, and although quite small, it was digging into my side. These shoulder holsters were very good hiding a gun when standing, but a bugger when sitting in a cramped old van. It was no good, I had to take it out and push it into my coat pocket, so I could relax a bit before world war three started. According to an informant, these villains we were expecting at this location had pulled off an armed robbery some days previously, so we had to be prepared for a possible shootout if things went wrong. But as I sat there trying to snatch a quick five minutes shut-eye after only three hours sleep the day before, my mind played funny tricks on me in that halfway world of nodding off, but still not asleep, one eye open ready to jump into action.

Memories of where it all started just a few years previously crept into my thoughts. I could see in my mind’s eye me standing five floors up on the outside of a scaffold surrounding a tower block, in the city of London. I was a self-employed bricky foreman with my own gang working for me, chasing the big penny, or the lump, as it was known then. Whilst I was earning very good money for those days, there was something missing in life, but I couldn’t put my finger on it – was it excitement, a bit of danger or just plain insecurity, who knows? Some people take forever to find what they’re looking for in life, but one sunny day in May 1967, I found what was missing in mine. Whilst having a casual smoke leaning over the guard rail of the scaffold all the way up there, overlooking the city, I watched the ash from my cigarette tumble down the outside of the scaffold and I noticed a young copper, about my age, in the street below. He was in short-sleeve uniform, chatting up two young female tourists, and was he in his element.

Then out of the line of traffic emerged a police car. Blue lights flashing, sirens going, forcing other cars to drive up on the kerb, it roared to a halt and one of the back doors opened for the PC in question to jump in and off they went screaming into the sunset, or rather down Tottenham Court Road with, I should add, my future along with it. Something inside told me this is what I had been looking for.

Later that night I had a long talk with Sue, my wife, who was always there to encourage me in whatever I did. The following day I made a written application to join the Metropolitan Police and waited for a reply.

Chapter 1

A Change of Direction

Not knowing what kind of a reply I was going to get, Sue and I didn’t mention my application to join the police to anybody just in case it all went wrong. Unbeknown to me, the police made quite a few background enquiries, including unannounced visits to my home address to check on my personal circumstances. I should add that by this time Sue and I had moved into a small ground-floor flat in South Woodford, which was the venue of many, many parties. So you can imagine our surprise one Sunday morning some weeks later, at about 9am after one of these parties, when we were awoken by knocking at the front door. ‘Who the hell could that be?’ I whispered to Sue, as we lay there between the sheets. There followed a frantic scramble and tidy up, which meant chucking everything into the bathroom. This was necessary because it was a very small flat, in fact, the double bed was on a pulley system attached to the wall and the base of the bed, so to change the bedroom into a true ‘bedsit’ I had to pull the bed up against the wall.

I’d covered the underside of the bed in timber to simulate a fireplace. It looked quite effective, but we were in a mad hurry, and it seemed to take ages. But eventually we were both decent, albeit out of breath. However, as I gently opened the front door, which faced straight onto the street from our lounge, I was greeted by a man dressed very smartly in a suit. My first impression was that he was going to make a complaint about the noise the night before, but no, he just introduced himself as a detective inspector from the local police station.

This was getting worse, I thought, but it appeared he was merely checking on my application to join the force. There he was, standing at my front door surrounded by crates and crates of empty beer bottles and a couple of those red and yellow plastic road cones, which someone had brought to the party the night before. I never realised that police inspectors worked that early on Sunday mornings. Nevertheless, he came in, sat down, then proceeded to put a few questions to both of us, but all the time I’m sure he was aware of our embarrassment. It must have shown on our faces because on leaving you could see a wry smile on his face, as if to say, ‘Oh, to be so young and not a care in the world.’ That was just it, life was so much fun then – after all, it was the Swinging Sixties!

My decision to try and become a police officer surprised most of my family and friends and devastated others, who had always thought I was one of the ‘Chaps’, as it was known in certain fraternities. The initial interview in London, some weeks later, seemed to go quite well, and I was informed the following week by way of a very impressive letter that I was to report to Hendon Police Training College in North London on 17 July 1967.

Although at the time I had some second thoughts, I felt I had to give it a go – what had I to lose? In fact, a drop in wages to about a fifth of what I was earning as a foreman bricklayer, but it would mean one small step up the social ladder, and a job more in keeping with what I really wanted in life, a change in direction.

The three months of training at Hendon that followed were traumatic to say the least. First, it was residential and I could only come home at weekends. This proved very difficult to get accustomed to at first, as I had only been married about a year, and was used to home comforts as it were.

I was also used to being in control of my life and when and how I did things, but this was to alter. My attitude towards authority also had to change, bearing in mind I was more at home dealing with fellow building workers as opposed to authoritative figures in uniform. Always having the last word with the instructors was not the wisest thing in the world. This soon became apparent when every time an instructor wanted a volunteer in the practical exercises or a simulated situation it was always, ‘We want a volunteer, Woodhouse step forward’, which was almost a class joke. Eventually I realised that to think twice and act once was the sensible thing to do, and to keep my mouth shut, which was extremely difficult for a know-it-all, cockney, gobby Jack-the-Lad.

One particular role-play incident that springs to mind was that of a pub-fight situation, set in the college restaurant. The entire class, including me, was gathered outside the closed doors and was told by the class instructor, ‘This is the situation, you are on your beat passing a pub and you can hear a lot of noise coming from the supposed pub, i.e. the restaurant, what do you do?’ Turning to the class, the instructor continued without drawing breath, ‘Volunteer wanted. Thank you Woodhouse.’ Naturally, I’d come to expect it and true to form I just stepped forward and dashed in. I think this was the way I generally looked at life, just get stuck in, but on this occasion I was promptly and unceremoniously thrown out again on my backside by at least six strapping drill instructors. Undeterred, I dashed in again for the same thing to happen. After one more try the instructor must have taken pity on me and said, ‘Think about this Woody, there must be a better way to go about this.’ Then it suddenly dawned on me, ‘Shall I call for assistance before I go back in?’ This was greeted with, ‘Thank God, the penny’s dropped.’ This was accompanied with lots of laughter from the other members of the class, who, of course, were standing well back within the safety of a crowd where they could hide and didn’t have to think on their feet. Taking charge of situations and being in the public eye at the same time was a very new concept for us raw recruits and some found it easier than others.

This cockney know-it-all was gradually transformed into a smart, uniformed, well-trained, knowledgeable, cockney know-it-all police officer.

This was probably the first time in my life I couldn’t get away with not studying hard. I found it so difficult to concentrate with the damn dyslexia, and of course the bad spelling didn’t help, but I struggled on, thinking it was me. It was no surprise that although I put in an enormous amount of work, I was still only getting average scores at all the written tests, but good marks for all the role plays in taking control of situations. In fact, on one occasion shortly after lunch I was summoned to see the Commandant of the school. I was marched into his very large and impressive office by my class instructor and ordered to stand to attention, whereupon I was asked to resign because I was in the bottom 30 per cent of the class.

I was devastated as I had made such an effort and secretly I was beginning actually to enjoy the hard work. I wasn’t going to give in now without a fight, so I just replied, ‘No, Sir, you’ll have to throw me out.’

‘That’s the spirit, lad, carry on,’ came the reply from a smiling and rather overweight Commandant. I was then quickly marched out of his office. I couldn’t believe it, the whole thing was all a set up to see how we recruits would react under stress and pressure, all part of the training, very clever I thought. Well, that wasn’t the only thought that crossed my mind as I left that office, perhaps the marriage status of the parents of the Commandant came into question. But there were a couple of lads in the class who just caved in and resigned, not knowing it was a test.

But looking back, of course, they were training us to think on our feet. Life isn’t always straightforward. In fact, it rarely is.

Mind you, I did get my own back on a few occasions with the instructors, who on the face of it appeared very strict disciplinarians, hard-faced, no-nonsense guys. So one morning, prior to going on parade, I secreted a small roll of white cotton thread in my top breast pocket with one end protruding down over my dark-blue uniform, just enough for the instructor to see. The trap was set! There must have been two-hundred or so fellow recruits standing to attention that morning on the parade ground, all immaculately turned out, all in double lines in classes of about twenty.

As our class instructor marched by on his final morning inspection, before the main parade began, he obviously noticed something, and stopped right in front of me. He leaned forward and picked the white thread hanging down from my breast pocket and said, ‘What have we here, Woodhouse, getting sloppy?’, but, of course, as he pulled the thread it just kept coming and coming. After about 3–4ft of thread was unfurled the penny dropped and the whole class burst out in laughter, including the instructor. Well, for a couple of seconds, then he reverted back to his usual shouting, bullying mode, and, of course, an early morning punishment was then dished out, a 6am start picking up cigarette ends. However, it was all worth it, and no doubt the name of the cockney copper was passed round all the other instructors so they could keep an eye on me. It did cross my mind that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

In a strange way, I must say I did enjoy the three months I spent at Hendon Police College, and although I found it very hard work, I made a few good friends there. It was a place to bring out the more reserved lads and give them self-confidence and bring down to earth the lads like myself who may have been a bit too headstrong, whilst at the same time giving us all the tools and knowledge to do the job on the streets.

On the odd occasion a couple of us would climb over the rear fence at the end of a long day and go for a pint or two in the local pub. In those days the students weren’t allowed out of the college grounds in the evening, and, of course, getting back over the fence later on in our condition wasn’t quite so easy. In fact, one night, whilst returning from the pub, a mate and I managed to scale the fence alright. However, when I got into the darkened dormitory, or sleeping hut, it was pitch black and I couldn’t put the lights on because it would wake everybody up. I just felt my way down the line of beds until I reached my one, except my bed wasn’t there, which I couldn’t understand. Mine was the eighth one down from the door, nevertheless it wasn’t there and there was just a large space. Bearing in mind I’d had a couple of drinks, it all made for a very confusing couple of minutes. I even counted up from the other end of the hut, but there was still a large gap between beds nine and seven. As a result, I just fell asleep in the space on the floor. The next morning I found out why my bed was missing. Whilst I was out at the pub, some of the other lads, who had stayed behind to do some extra studying in the hut, had lifted my bed up into the exposed rafters, fully made up. No wonder I couldn’t find it in the dark. Luckily, there wasn’t an early morning hut inspection that day as I dread to think of the consequences.

There were other aspects of police training that I found quite difficult to master, things that I hadn’t come across before, for example, trying to keep in step whilst marching on the parade ground. About turn was easy, but it only took one plonker to turn the wrong way and it caused complete chaos amongst a squad of twenty officers. How I recall the words ‘Woodhouse, how many left feet have you got?’ come billowing across the parade ground courtesy of one or other of the drill instructors, on more than one occasion.

But eventually, after so many weeks of hard work, both in and out of the classroom, came the passing out parade. I can honestly say I’ve never felt so proud in my life of my personal achievements in overcoming all the academic difficulties I had faced during my training and still nobody, including myself, knew why I had found it so challenging. I had yet to discover the word and meaning of ‘dyslexia’.

It was a great day, especially for my parents who were so proud to see their son improving himself, albeit within the judicial system rather than in a different direction. This was true of Sue’s parents too, who were quite a few rungs further up the social ladder than I was used to, and could now say that their son-in-law was indeed within the law! A police officer had much more standing in society than a mere bricky, not that I did it for them. I merely wanted a bit more excitement and direction in life.

Standing there on parade on that sunny October morning in 1967 amongst dozens and dozens of fellow officers and in front of friends and relatives made all the hard work that we had gone through over the past three months worthwhile. I remember thinking at the time that life was about to kick-start in a new direction, and I couldn’t wait to take it on.

Chapter 2

Now the Real Thing

The next eighteen months were spent in Leytonstone, a fairly working class area in the East End of London. This was the birthplace of a number of famous names, including Alfred Hitchcock, the film maker, and David Beckham, the footballer, and one infamous person passed through, reputedly staying at the Green Man pub (now O’Neill’s) at the north end at the border with Wanstead. He was Essex born and bred, the highwayman Dick Turpin. He was en route to Norwich, on his trusted Black Bess and eventually his appointment with the hangman at York in 1739. Although a bit before my time, this seemed as good place as any to start my new career within the Metropolitan Police Force, as it was known then.

During the next few weeks I gained valuable experience in dealing with people and situations. For instance, never rush into a pub during a fight amongst a dozen or so market traders, on your own and shout at the top of your voice, ‘You’re all under arrest’. Does this ring a bell? I remembered too, but not as quickly as I should have done, in fact, I think a little late! However, I soon returned to work after a short period of sick leave a little wiser. Following this episode, together with more and more experience, some of it more unexpected than the rest, I began to increase my knowledge of practical police work, unlike the first time I came across a dead body.

I recall it was a fairly overcast day in October when, whilst out on my beat, about midday I think, I got a message on my radio to go to a small terraced house at the top end of Leytonstone, where a neighbour hadn’t seen an old man for some days. On my arrival at the little two-up, two-down semi, I found the house locked, so I went round the back with the old lady who had called the police, and found that locked as well. I couldn’t just leave it at that so I forced the back door with my shoulder, pretending to smell gas, see? Initiative was beginning to show already. I went inside with the neighbour, but nothing seemed to be out of order except a rather unpleasant smell, which appeared to come from upstairs. Putting my handkerchief over my mouth, I went upstairs and found an old chap in the front bedroom. He had sadly passed away in bed, but true to my training I immediately notified my sergeant back at the station via my radio. I was instructed to search the house for any kind of correspondence to trace any possible relatives, whilst he notified the police surgeon to confirm the death and the Coroner’s Officer, who would attend the house in due course.

I should add at this point that the old chap was sitting bolt upright in the bed, in the corner of the room, leaning against the walls with his eyes open as if he was watching over his belongings, very spooky. Nevertheless, I started to look though his chest of drawers in the bedroom, but all the time I was aware of his eyes on the back of my neck. Suddenly, without warning, he must have slumped forward, possibly as a result of the circulation of air from the door I had left open, which could have been enough to gently ease the position of his body. As he sank forwards, the movement forced air out of his body, but all I heard was this groan from someone or something behind me.

Well, I was out of that house in two seconds flat, scaling the stairs three or four at a time and screaming like an adolescent schoolgirl. I found myself standing in the street trembling, shouting into my radio, ‘Serge, he moved and spoke to me!’ ‘Pull yourself together, he’s been dead for a week’, came the reply from the old sergeant back at the station, and, of course, in the background I could hear roars of laughter from all the old sweats in the control room. It took some weeks for that particular story to die down,