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 The money would be withdrawn and handed over.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.
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 it, written on a piece of Metropolitan Police memo paper.
I’ll never forget the night I spent half an hour with Roger Moore.
He was the first of the big stars I was to fall for …
To be authorised to drive a police car you have to pass a police-driving course. This meant six weeks of intensive training, at the end of which you had to pass a final test. This was far more advanced than a normal driving test. It was exhausting, hard work and rigorous, with a lot of theory to learn.
In the Metropolitan Police, the driving school is based at Hendon Police College, now known as the Peel Centre. Each course would have five or six teams of three officers posted with an instructor. We would work all day driving fast and strategically in unmarked cars through country lanes, in towns and on motorways. We had a day on the skid pan, which most of the guys loved, a day driving a double decker bus on an airfield, and a day changing tyres, fan belts and learning about other mechanical things.
I took great care and concentrated hard but it didn’t come easy to me. My head spun every night of every day of the course. It didn’t help that my instructor, Frank Parrot, wasn’t a very nice man. He was a civilian trainer and fancied himself as a cop. He also had old-fashioned ideas and asked me why I wasn’t at home looking after a husband and some children. He said he didn’t understand a woman wanting to do a man’s job.
‘Unless you’re one of those lesbos? Are you?’ he asked me on the second day.
I didn’t reply. He said many objectionable things. I didn’t agree with his views, and he had many, but I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to pass the course.
One of the guys in my car, Laurie, was chatty, a bit of a wide-boy, which was okay because he kept the instructor talking and I didn’t have to say much. The other guy was Rhys. He was Welsh, about my age, married and a bit quiet. He was lovely.
We were in the fifth week and it was a baking hot day. The rapeseed was vibrant yellow and the air pungent as we drove through the country lanes of Essex. My eyes were fuzzy and I thought I might have a touch of hay fever to add to the fatigue.
I’d driven about a mile when the instructor told me to put my foot down and drive faster. I was already doing sixty. I wasn’t familiar with the roads and I wasn’t that confident. He was encouraging me to do an overtake I didn’t feel safe making. He prodded me in my ribs, sharp and hard.
I gasped.
‘Are you an excessive overeater or just naturally fat?’ he said.
‘What? What?’ I couldn’t believe what he’d said. I tried to keep focus on the road. I was furious. How rude. How nasty. I wasn’t even fat! My face burned bright red. The sun glared into my eyes as I drove around a blind bend, and I sneezed.
Up ahead I saw an indent in the road, a farmer’s track or gateway. I pulled in and stopped the car. I got out and slammed the door. I didn’t want to but couldn’t help crying at this point. Hot tears spilled down my face. I’d had enough of being baited and bullied by him, pushing me to fail. I knew I would fail. He didn’t like me and he’d make sure I didn’t pass. He made