THE DAY 'BOMBER' DROPPED HIS BOMBSHELL.

THE DAY 'BOMBER' DROPPED HIS BOMBSHELL

If you are going to be a police officer, then sooner or later, you are going to meet with grief. If it's not your own grief then it will be someone else's misfortune that you find yourself dealing with in the course of duty; and their sorry tribulation will probably touch you anyway.

You are getting paid for doing things that others will instinctively recoil from and it's no good whinging about it because you knew what you were getting into before you signed-up. That said and accepted, I have seen even the most

'seasoned' and 'hardened' police officers buckle and crack under the strain of grief; it's nothing to be ashamed of; I have suffered on a number of occasions, sometimes pretty badly.

So it is that sort of experience I want to share in my Blog but the trouble is, if I'm not very careful, it will end up as a catalogue of doom and gloom and one big turn-off. Most of my ex-colleagues and peers will relate to what I am about to say and will be able to recall examples from their own experience, at least equally stressful, if not even more traumatic. 

I'll wager that all my peers will readily agree that things really do get tough when dealing with the injury or death of babies, small children and young adults; whether they are purely someone's victim, simply a casualty of tragic circumstances, or perhaps, unwittingly author's of their own misfortune.

For example, the young couple from Ellesmere Port, who had little income or possessions but what little they had was spent on desperately trying to put a home together, for themselves and their three months old little girl. One winter's morning they awoke and crept over to the cot only to find their 'princess' cold and lifeless. Yet another victim of the mysterious 'cot death syndrome' as it used to be known; sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS) at it is now termed.

How do I, a father of children just a little older, explain to them that this devastating situation is none of their fault, that they couldn't possibly have changed the outcome and especially, that we will probably never get to know the real reason why they must now arrange a funeral instead of a christening.

Or the blonde, curly haired five year old boy playing with his friends outside his home in Swinnerton Street, just off Nantwich Road in Crewe; when he ran from behind a parked vehicle and was struck by a passing Volvo estate car. He lay in the roadway at the back of the vehicle, lifeless, with bright, fresh blood issuing from one ear. He was fitfully breathing, just; but all police officer's will know that silence from a child victim and bright, fresh blood from a head injury are ominous signs. I turned him gently into the recovery position and angled his head to allow the blood to flow away from his bleeding ear.

His mother clung to my shoulders and screamed in abject agony and utter despair. The driver stood there watching, in deep shock. When I later examined the underside of the car it was clear that the child had been rolled from front to back leaving traces of skin, hair and tissue, particularly on the exhaust.

Crewe Memorial Hospital

He was rushed to what was then Crewe Memorial Hospital in Victoria Avenue in the west end of Crewe and treated in casualty. Quite unbelievably, the child spent less than two weeks in hospital and returned home, proudly showing off his stitches and grazes to anyone who cared to look. The powerful message; never, ever despair.

I did descend into despair though following an incident involving children and that awful experience left me bereft for weeks, months and even years afterwards. The day started normally, I had arrived at Crewe police station in the town centre for an eight until four day shift, a civilian jacket over my uniform. As I entered the traffic office the 'phone began to ring and I picked it up. It was the Force Control Room and the male voice said in a controlled but nevertheless urgent manner, “We're taking a call about a house fire in Moat House Drive and there are reports of children trapped”.

That was enough. I grabbed some keys, ran down to the yard, jumped into the Morris Marina Patrol car and zoomed off with everything blaring towards the scene. I raced down Wistaston Road, Stewart Street and into Moat House Drive, I don't know exactly how far but perhaps a distance of two miles or so.

The estate has all changed there now, all the blocks of maisonettes are gone but at that time the housing in Moat House Drive consisted of several council owned maisonette type buildings. The one in question was an end of terrace, surrounded by by grassed, open lawns.

There was a small crowd gathered outside at the front as I drew up and clearly there was agitation and distress amongst them. I was the first emergency responder on scene.

A man ran towards me and pointed to the front door which was slightly open, “There's kids inside” he shouted, “I've tried to get in but I can't there's too much fire and smoke. They're in the bedroom. Get them out, get them out”.

He was right. I arrived at the open front door and inside was an inferno. Flames and smoke from the seat of the fire somewhere in the kitchen, swirled and billowed toward the doorway, fuelled and turbo-charged by the air rushing in. The smoke and intense heat funnelled up the stairway opposite to the landing area above. There was simply no way in. I tried to reach the door to pull it closed and stop the oxygen feeding the fire and perhaps deaden it down but heat and smoke forced me to retreat.

Someone raged that the kids were in the back bedroom. I ran along the side of the house to the back and looked up. First there were two and then three little heads at the window. The room was rapidly filling with smoke. I frantically shouted and gesticulated to them,

“Open the window. Open the window and jump. I'll catch you”.

I aimed my frantic instructions specifically at the elder child in the middle, a girl of about ten or eleven. From their height I surmised that they were standing on a bed placed under the window. I opened my arms to show that I would catch them. Then there were two. I weighed-up a drainpipe near the end of the building but judged that even if I did climb it there was just no way across to the window. And all the time I could hear the bells and klaxon's of the fire brigade getting ever closer. Please, just open the window.

Suddenly, there was a dull boom from downstairs. The heat generated by the fire in the kitchen had reached such a critical intensity that the gases had combusted, exploded and expanded throughout the building. A phenomenon know as 'flashover'. And now they were gone.

The firemen arrived with ladders and placed two up to the windows. Two firemen wearing breathing apparatus rushed up the aluminium ladders, smashed the windows and fearlessly climbed inside. They couldn't have known if the floorboards would take their weight or whether they might end up in the kitchen and perish at the seat of the fire. Stirred by their brave actions I vowed that I never would call them 'water squirter's' ever again.

Other firemen tackled the blaze from the front of the maisonette and yet others climbed the ladders in support. One by one they brought out the limp bodies, the three of them, and lay them down gently on the grass. The girl, in her pink nightdress, her brothers aged eight and six, in their striped pyjamas. All were smoke blackened and lifeless. The whole thing was over in just a few minutes. I'd aged several years in those moments.

Crewe Fire Station

We had been joined by an ambulance crew with oxygen packs and so began a frantic battle to revive the mites and we were to keep at it for as long as it took. One by one the kids were placed into ambulances and rushed away to Crewe Memorial Hospital, still receiving the best efforts at CPR.

Valiant efforts by emergency doctors and nurses to bring the children back to life failed. It was a dark day. Oh, how we cried. Bloody hell how we cried.

I thought it at the time and I still do, that if, just if, I had been more forceful I might have convinced the eldest sibling to open the large casement window and throw her younger brothers out to safety before jumping herself. There was a good chance that I and others might catch them or at least break their fall, and they would survive their terrible ordeal.

And so the inquest began. Not at the behest of the Coroner or anyone else for that matter. But gremlins in my own head playing the 'What if' game.  What if I'd have?;  What if there'd been?;  If only...? But mainly,  I have asked over and over, should I have heroically dashed up the stairs without regard to my own safety, at the very moment that I had arrived?  Could I possibly have led them to safety?  What might have been the result?

And so it went on and on and it persists.

I am reminded of a time many years later when I was an inspector on a course at FTC and being given a talk by the then Assistant Chief Constable (Operations) about the police use of firearms and aftermath of a fatal police shooting. We were told that the force had introduced new arrangements which were now in place to provide professional counselling for the family and friends of the deceased.

I asked the boss what arrangements are in place to look after the interests of the real victim in all this and his family?  He said I've just explained to you, weren't you listening?  I said that I was referring to the police firearms officer, who had just taken a split second decision to pull the trigger and intentionally extinguish a person's life; and whose own life was likely to have been changed irrevocably. What about his welfare and that of his family? Who was going to give him counselling and keep the press and media at bay?

There was an awkward silence and murmuring in the group; and then he said, “You have a point Roy”.

This then was a time when the term 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder' didn't exist and there was scant chance of having a handy shoulder to cry on, let alone trauma counselling and practical help.

Like many of you, I can cite many similar examples of stressful events. Like the time a young woman driver, turning right from the A51 at Stamford Bridge was hit by an oncoming car and died cradled in my arms before the fire brigade could cut her free. No fault of her own.  Oh, what unfairness...

Or the Bank Holiday Monday on the A52 at Hough, south of Crewe when several vehicles were involved in a collision, one a Ford saloon with the driver and his heavily pregnant wife, who lay mortally injured, firmly trapped by her legs in their car. The woman died in-situ but a surgeon, rushed out from Crewe Hospital, attempted to perform an emergency cesarean-section in a desperate attempt to at least save the baby's life. In the event both mother and child perished. Oh, in private, how we wept.

And on Tuesday 27^th May 1969, just a day after the Bank Holiday tragedy involving the racing driver Paul 'Hawkeye' Hawkins (Blog - The Day I met 'Hawkeye') another two deaths by fire in a burning vehicle. This time on the M6 near Holmes Chapel when a couple died trapped in their burning Triumph 1300. Seven vehicles had collided in heavy rain. Another 11 people were badly injured. Note the lack of crash barriers.

Of course some of the stress suffered by police officers (and others) was
generated by the 'home team' and might well be considered 'a home goal'. I was instructed to prepare a prosecution file for Driving Without Due Care and attention against an elderly Indian gentleman who had been the author of his own misfortune when he overturned his Bedford Dormobile camper-van on a hump backed railway bridge. No other vehicle was involved although his pride and joy was written-off.

Bedford Dormobile

His wife received fairly severe injuries herself but he had broken his neck and back in several places and was set to become a paraplegic for the rest of his life. We escorted his ambulance the following day at crawling speeds of between 5 and 10 miles per hour to avoid 'jarring' on the uneven roads; to the orthopaedic hospital at Gobowen, Oswestry.

What amounted to a very minor driving error resulted in catastrophic injuries to himself, a disproportionate penalty in anybody's estimation for the alleged traffic offence committed. I questioned what good would come of a prosecution in these circumstances. What would be achieved by wheeling him into the Magistrates' Court, under traction in a hospital bed, I conjectured.  After a lengthy and heated debate with senior officers which resulted in prolonged almost child-like animosity, the crass idea was dropped.

This variant of self-imposed stress cultivated by the organization was avoidable, wilful and totally unnecessary.

Right now, pause. It's time to move on. I think enough has been said and the point well illustrated that police officers, from time to time, are called upon to engage in unspeakable situations; and that they are often temporarily; sometimes more permanently, 'damaged' by their experience.

Anyway, having reached my milestone target of gaining my Advanced Motor Cyclists certificate, then progressing to my General Vehicle and Advanced Car authorities, I settled smoothly into life as a member of Crewe Divisional Traffic Unit.

We had a great bunch of blokes around that time but Bill Ward, George Holt and myself were offering dual purpose roles; on bikes mostly and in cars occasionally. To keep us in check, Sergeant Ray Sweeney, himself a youthful and enthusiastic supervisor, 'dualled' as well, himself a keep fit fanatic and adeptly swift driver of anything on wheels.

Bill Ward was a natural on bikes and cars, presenting awesome skills with both vehicles. Sometimes I thought that he was just a bit loco when we were 'doubled-up' at weekends. No jest, but when he got behind the wheel of the Austin 1800 he could make it sing like the famous fat lady. One night I stupidly challenged him, “Congleton to Holmes Chapel on the A54; five minutes or less”. I lost. If that vehicle were still around you would find my nail marks in the passenger side of the dashboard and a disgusting stain on the passenger seat.

George was always fun to work with and wouldn't ever permit a dull moment. One night we had clocked on at ten and I drove towards the west end of Crewe. It must have been mid-summer because it still hadn't gone completely dark. As I drove around Queens Park a rabbit suddenly ran across in front of me and I inadvertently bowled it over; I saw it in my rear view mirror lying doggo, perhaps more accurately, 'rabitto'.

I said, “Do you want it George?”.

“Oh, go on then, I'll take it to my cousin's, she'll make a decent meal of it”.

He picked the road-kill up and placed it in the boot. We went to his cousin's home nearby and George got the poor thing out and walked down the pathway to the kitchen door, which was partly open, and I followed.

“There's tomorrow's dinner then”, he said to her, swung the corpse in the air and deposited it on the kitchen table with a mighty thump.

A black haze ascended from the rabbit and hovered for minutes before gently descending onto the table. The bunny was infested with fleas, thousands of them, and they had all decided to 'jump ship', so to speak, at the same moment. The car boot was unfit for purpose for weeks.

Blaster with local constabulary

Another good source of protein was hunted game: rabbit, hare, partridge, pheasant, wood-pigeon, duck, wigeon, you name it, supplied on a fairly regular basis by Special Constable Bates. One night he even turned up with a freshly dispatched unicorn; (no he didn't it was a deer), culled legitimately from some stately estate or other, and he portioned that for general distribution to the troops.

Laughter with a bang

Derek Mackintosh 'Blaster' Bates joined Cheshire's Special Constabulary in 1968; an engineer, demolition expert, stunt-rider, raconteur, giant of a man at six foot four, and bloody decent bloke. He died at the age of 83 in September 2006.

For those who don't remember him and especially for those who have never heard of him, you should go straight away to YouTube or Google where there are, fortunately, many examples of his unique humour on video and vinyl. He was regarded one of                                          Cheshire's finest characters and a Constabulary asset.

Derek Mackintosh 'Blaster' Bates

He would often turn-up at Sandbach nick with a couple of rabbits or brace of hares, the product of his many countryside pursuits and they would often be destined to supplement the diet of police families. If you acted daft enough he would be keen to demonstrate how to efficiently skin and gut them ready for the pot. 

On one occasion on nights he did just that and in the morning I popped the carcase, curled up, into a large saucepan of cold water on our kitchen drainer. When Lorraine went down and lifted the lid she screamed blue-murder, thinking it was something altogether more humanoid. I chuckled, turned over and went back to sleep.

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I've mentioned before how poorly paid police officers were in those times and the situation wouldn't begin to improve much until the Judge Edmund-Davies Review kicked-in, well into the mid-seventies. It was particularly hard when five weekends fell in the same calendar month and it was then that the likes of Frank Bebbington kept us all from going hungry. 

Frank, a kindly man, had a butcher's shop in a side street off Victoria Street and we had an 'account' with him, that is to say, 'we often owed him money until after pay-day'. I asked him once if he had any thick sausages.

"Thick sausages?, thick sausages?", he said, "The people round here want as many to the pound as they can get, thick sausages!". We chuckled.

Frank Bebington would often throw in an extra faggot or couple of sausages; or occasionally chuck-in some 'spare' pork ribs to make soup. We were for ever in his debt.

The coal merchant, Tom Heath from Manor Way, was adept at keeping our young family warm in winter months through his sheer kindness and concern. He would park his wagon in the roadway and knock on the door,

                                    “Any coal this week?”.

“No thanks Mr Heath, we're fine, we've still got some left”. The last shovel full of 'slack' in the coal-hole, actually.

“I'll just have a little look then”, and seconds later, “Right'o, I'll just leave you the one bag, just to be safe”.

What top citizens. We always repaid these purveyors of vitals in full, well eventually we did; but they knew only too well our fragile situation and very much valued the role of the police.

Another massive service provided for young police officers was that given by a local licensee and her husband. Sylvia and Robert Humphries ran a fine pub, the Boot and Shoe in Hospital Street, Nantwich. 

It was a favourite haunt, especially for CID officers but it always provided a good hospitable night out and the ales were always kept 'on-point' by the landlords, both of whom incidentally, were 'tea-total'. She a lifelong abstainer, he a little more reluctantly so.

When month end approached, Sylvia provided another hospitable service over the tap-room bar, that of banker and money lender. She had an old, worn, leather money wallet that contained both bank-notes and cheques. Post dated cheques. 

Bobbies, who were currently 'skint' until the first of the month, would exchange their 'pd' cheque for a small loan of cash and then on, or about the third of the month, the kindly lender would deliver them to her bank. No charge made; one vital service provided.

Crewe Traffic Division had considerable areas and distances to cover from the boundary with Chester and Northwich Divisions through to the county boundary with Staffordshire. Once we were called late at night to Scholar Green near Congleton to assist the section investigate a report of a female screaming for help in a woodland copse. After an exhaustive search of the area we were 'stood down' by Sergeant 'Torchy' Fisher, who endorsed the Occurrence Book, 'Clearly, in my humble opinion, the mating sounds of a female vixen'. A female vixen?. .

Another occasion found us backing-up the Motorway Patrols who were being
stretched by several accidents in fog. There were multiple reports of pile-ups on both carriageways at Thelwall viaduct in thick fog. The visibility wasn't all that bad on the way so we made good progress but as we approached the Mersey valley it suddenly became dense. 

As we slowly approached the scene, directly over the ship canal, it became the scariest place on earth. From both directions all you could hear was the sound of heavy lorries and other vehicle bearing down on the bridge, the sound of tyres skidding, metal impacting and then screams of distress; over and over and over again, from both directions.

Lancashire Constabulary vehicles had approached from the north and occasionally there was a glimpse of their red flashing lights (they chose red at that time because they allegedly provided better visibility than blue ones; and, anyway, they wanted to be different to every body else). We concentrated on damage limitation, evacuation of the injured and self-survival for several hours.

Unbelievably, a couple of hours later the fog had lifted and visibility was restored. The sun came out. The sight that was left of abandoned damaged vehicles on both carriageways, as far as the eye could see, could make a nervous person agoraphobic.

As a police officer I had always wanted to engage in traffic patrol duties. Many

of my friends, colleagues and contemporaries, however, preferred the even more mysterious and glamorous life in the Criminal Investigation Department.

OK, so some went for Scenes of Crime, fingerprints and taking photographs with an ancient and cumbersome plate camera; some wanted a big dog as companion and others even wanted to don rubber suits and flippers and immerse themselves in dark, murky waters.

But many of my mates chose the CID route and went on to become really distinguished detectives in their own right, solving many of Cheshire's notorious crimes.

I'm thinking especially of the likes of Derek 'Luxie' Malam (so named because of his collar number 208, which was the pirate radio station Radio Luxembourg's transmission frequency); Vic Williams, John Skellon, George Jones, Roy Woollacott, Tony Taylor, Peter 'Grumble' Jones (so named because of his tendency to grumble a lot, allegedly), Kieth Boucher and Mick Rooney. 
There were several others of course but these people all did well in their chosen careers and went on to make a real impact on crime and criminals in the Crewe and Cheshire County area.

These guys were blessed with great supervisors and mentors, Detective Sergeant Cyril Fairhall, for example a father figure to many a young 'jack', cool calm and collected. Loved his horse racing did Cyril and for many years after retirement went each year to York races with one of his proteges.

Detective Sergeant Frank Morgan, a 'go-get'em' sort of boss who regarded most rules ripe for plucking. As you know, it was he personally who had introduced me to the British justice system at the tender age of sixteen.

When I say that Mr Morgan was a 'Go-Getter' I speak from experience because he once 'go-got' me in a head lock.

It was three o'clock on the morning and I had wheedled my way into the home of a career burglar called Wilf Wainwright at the bottom end of Mill Street. I'd met up with Wilf in Earle Street, didn't believe his story so went with him to his grotty little place, where his heavily pregnant 'wife' was waiting. 

There had been a spate of about seventy burglaries, all in modest dwellings in the last six months and the CID, let's say, hadn't got very far with their enquiries. If I'd searched him there and then I'd have found on him the tools of his trade and a load of cash, recently burgled. But I didn't.

I noticed that he was sporting a little Brooch of a hedgehog, It had a wooden face, two pearly eyes and its 'spikes' were rabbit fur. It looked out of place on his jacket but...

A car drew up outside and in came Detective Sergeant Morgan.

“What you been up to Wilf?”

“Nothing Mr Morgan, nothing”.

“Well, for a start that hedgehog's from a burglary in Henry Street, What else have you got?”

“Search me Mr Morgan, I ain't got nothing”

We did and he had. Screwdriver, pliers and gloves, a load of silver change and a roll of notes in a National Provincial Bank bag.

“Your nicked Wilf”.

“If you say so Mr Morgan”

We searched the rest of the house and it was like a poor Aladin's cave. We stacked-up what was to go in the van and left all the food items, tins of ham, corned-beef sock-eye salmon, crab, soups and such improbable purchases; for consumption by the soon to be nursing mother and twins. Another lesson in common decency from Mr M.

Wilf Wainwright was already contemplating his route back to prison.

We were rooting about in the light-bulb-less upstairs back bedroom where more stuff was stashed; Wainwright, Frank and me.

The detective sergeant suddenly announced, “We've suspected you for ages Wilfred, yes I'm afraid it was only going to be a matter of time”.

If I had ever in my life possessed a scintilla of common-sense at all, it had suddenly deserted me, because instead of keeping my big mouth securely shut, in an aberration, I sarcastically blurted,

“Oh bloody hell sarge, don't give me that bullshit...”

It was at that precise moment Mr Morgan deftly grasped me tightly around the neck...and squeezed like an adult Boa...the constricting snake, not the furry scarf.

I was nineteen and raw. He was all grown up and well seasoned.

The last thing that I saw in that darkened, dingy room was the fearful whites of Wilfred Wainwright's eyes.

See what I did there? I drifted off storyline in a majorly way again.

And, my favourite and namesake, Detective Sergeant Roy Suckley, who would have looked comfortable and very much at home in the Metropolitan Police Flying Squad. Roy Suckley was a gentle-man in the truest terms and at every level; kind, jovial and caring (ask Gail Wellman). He was the sort of bloke that you would run to with a job related problem or personal issue any time of the day...and he was the last person that you would consider crossing. Believe me, I saw it happen to someone once.  Just the once, mind you.  It wasn't pleasant.

As detectives go, take Detective Constable Roy Woollacott for instance. He was unnaturally handsome, to the extent that when he walked through the town centre in his uniform days, young women 'swooned' and 'came over with 'the vapours', such was his magnetic attraction. We became good friends.

'Woolley' had finished his evening shift at two in the morning and asked for a lift home. We were nearing his home in Shavington when I got a call to a violent burglary that had just taken place at a large house in Audlem, Stan Smith's Rural Beat. Roy didn't hesitate, “Come on let's go”.

It had been snowing on and off all night but now it was really coming down and drifting in places. We met with Stan, who was off duty, and hatched a plan to search the area for three men, probably from Liverpool, who had terrified an elderly couple, stolen money and jewellery, and made off on foot. They would likely have a vehicle somewhere nearby. The nearest dog handler was in Macclesfield.

A short while later we came across some freshly made footprints in the thickening snow, leading to a pathway and into a field. Three sets of male, sized tens. Detective Woollacott was smartly attired in one of his several Slater's bespoke suits, Barbour Country-Set waxed jacket and brown, real leather brogues; on account that he was on plain clothes allowance, don't you know. Nevertheless, we followed the track and into the field, occasionally relying on the beam of my trusty torch. I was on torch allowance, see?

All the while we had the feeling, without any justification whatever, that we were getting closer to the prey. Every so often we would stop and quietly listen and hear nothing, except the chimes of Audlem's church clock. After an hour or so, with the fresh tracks still in our sight, we began to lose the will.

I had developed a stitch in my side, needed a pee and was desperately thirsty. Woolley suggested making a snowball and sucking it but that didn't in any way sate my thirst and I didn't really want to lose the comforting 'hot water bottle' provided by my distended bladder.

Just before six o'clock we regained the road into the village and met up with Stan Smith, Detective Constable William 'Bill' Whittaker of Crewe CID, another neighbouring rural bobby who had turned out to help, the Macclesfield dog handler and his dog 'Zak' and two uniformed blokes in a car from Chester. We unanimously agreed after a short debate that the little toe-rags had probably got away by now and were likely tucked-up in bed in Fazackerly by now.

“Do you fancy a brew lads”? said Stan. What a fantastic speech!

We all piled into Stan's warm, comfortable living room with flames licking up the flue from the blazing logs in the hearth, having first left our boots and shoes in the front porch. I could have gone to sleep on the settee there and then but Stan's wife, in her fluffy dressing gown, came in from the kitchen with a tray full of mugs brimming with steaming, sweet tea. 

It was almost like a dream, I swear that as she swished past I could smell the distinct aroma of bacon frying in the kitchen, I thought that I even heard the spitting sizzle of hot pork dripping in the pan. I wiped the saliva with the cuff of my tunic sleeve from each side of my recently parched mouth. The others seemed to be emitting similar incredulous looks.

'Crackling rind, still sprouting singed porcine hairs'

Mrs Smith disappeared back into the kitchen and a short time later emerged with the same wooden tray, this time piled high with butties of doorstep proportions; thick, hand carved fresh white crusty bread and layers of oozing bacon. 

It wasn't the sort of rind-less middle-cut watery stuff you get from Tesco's, mind you, the sort that you can hold up to the light and becomes translucent. 
No, it was real farmer's bacon, thickly sliced and with an ample portion of crackling rind, still sprouting singed porcine hairs. 

Heavenly purfick, just bloody purfick.

Thank you Mrs Smith, thank you Stan, sorry we didn't get hold of the buggers for you. See you. Back to bed then, eh? 

We all, now sumptuously fed, watered and mightily content, made for the front porch, conscious of outstaying our welcome. Between us, we sorted out the muddled footwear situation, adjusted our outer attire and braced for the outdoors.

We opened Stan's front door and stepped out into the cold morning air.

Good heavens, would you Adam and Eve it?. Walking in the middle of the road toward us were three bedraggled varmint's, chunnering to each other in their gutteral, scouse accents. They were in such a wretched condition that when they saw us emerging from the porch, they stood statuesque and it took less than a nano-second for them to weigh the odds before throwing their grubby little hands into the air; in an act of abject surrender.

“Now that's the way to do it”, Detective Constable Woollacott said.

“Yep. That's the way to do it”.

Oh, how we laughed.

Chief Constable's Commendations
Back row 2nd left Stan Smith, 3rd Me. Front 2nd left William 'Bill Whittaker,
Chief Superintendent Hugh Kenworthy, ACC William Marshall, right John Owen

If my memory serves me well, Constable Stanley Smith and Detective Constable Whittaker both received a Chief Constable's Commendation for 'Initiative, intelligence and tenacity which led to the arrest of three men at Audlem' and, of course, instrumental in preserving Stan's 100% detection rate for crime in this rural idyll.

I had experienced the odd moment or two myself with a number of serious criminal acts, for which the Criminal Investigation Department had offered their begrudging appreciation.

About twenty minutes to two in the afternoon, a short time before I was scheduled to clock-off, I received a call to a violent domestic dispute at a house in Lime tree Avenue, Crewe. I was in nearby Coppenhall, heading for the police station so it was only a matter of minutes before I arrived at the house.

I got out of the car and walked down the driveway at the side and a young woman, hands dripping blood, came running towards me, clutching a smallish serrated knife in her right hand.

She kept repeating over and over, “What have I done? What have I done?”

I carefully disabused her of the weapon and enquired,

“Well, what have you done?”

“I've stabbed him, he's in the kitchen, I think he's dead”.

I continued to the side kitchen door which was wide open and looked inside. What a mess. I've never seen so much blood in my life. The kitchen floor was reminiscent of an abattoir. There was blood running down every cupboard, the cooker, the walls, spats on the sink and the connecting door. Lying on his back, feet widespread toward the door was an adult male, with a hole in his chest and blood soaked 'T' shirt.

He was clearly dead, there were no vital signs whatever but I risked putting one foot inside just to get a closer look and make absolutely sure. Nope, there was nothing to be done. I led the sobbing lady to my car and sat her in the back seat. I formally cautioned her and arrested her on suspicion of murder. I called for back-up, the CID, SOCO and the duty police surgeon. And just to be on the safe side, an ambulance.

I began to keep a log of activity and shortly, one by one, all the services that I had requested turned-up. One of those was the detective inspector, who examined the scene in a cursory way then asked me, “What's the craic ?”.

This isn't him!
But there are similarities

I briefed him with what I knew. He bent forwards, invading my personal space, whilst tapping the side of his nose with his index finger and whispered in my ear, “I'll be arresting her”.

“No need, I've already done that sir”.

“No, no”, he said, “Something with gravity like this requires rank, substantial rank. My name will go down for the arrest and I will be charging her later”.

And so it did. And so he did.

The woman was later charged with the murder of her husband during a heated domestic dispute. At her trial at Chester Assizes she plead not guilty, explaining to the jury that she had been 'using the serrated steak knife to slice a (pre-sliced) loaf for her husband's work sandwiches when a row suddenly broke out. If I remember correctly, the row was about something really pithy; she'd given him eggie ones and he wanted boiled ham.

Her husband had run towards her in anger, she explained to the twelve jurymen and women and had accidentally impaled himself on the knife, which she happened to be holding at chest height and at right angles; pointy end safely away from her.

After due deliberation of several hours, the jury were unanimously convinced by the lady's account and she was duly acquitted. That was then, the end of that.

I'm reminded that some years later, when I was an inspector in Chester, a similar lunchtime incident happened in Gladstone Road. On this occasion the husband stabbed the wife to death in the kitchen, dropped the weapon in the living room and went to the front door and smoked a cigarette whilst he waited for arrival of the police. If my memory serves me right, a dog handler was first on scene and arrested the bloke without resistance.

I arrived shortly after that, together with Constable Barry Hayes. I directed Barry to start a log and allow nobody, absolutely nobody, to enter the house. I went inside to make sure the woman was dead, noting a kitchen knife on the living room floor, and ensured that the necessary back-up resources were en-route.

A short time later I heard a kerfuffle at the front door; it was Constable Hayes determinedly attempting to halt the progress of a senior uniformed officer from entering the house, as he had been instructed to do.

The senior officer overruled the constable, pushed past the sentry, blundered into the house and promptly kicked the knife under the couch. Strewth and this a well disciplined organization with well established practices and procedures!.

And while we are still over Chester way; one lunchtime I was on traffic patrol duty when a call was broadcast that there was a disturbance taking place in the car park of The Anchor public house in High Street, Saltney, just into North

Wales. I responded and within minutes to find a middle aged man lying dead with blood pouring from a single head wound.

Standing nearby was a well built man wearing a long mack and holding a heavy looking metal instrument in his hand, a tool with which I wasn't familiar. It was a bolt-action stun gun from an abattoir, I later found out. The bulky chappie was a Polish worker from Clutton's Knacker's Yard who had been pursuing a long standing dispute with a fellow worker, the recently deceased.

Stunning

The Polish guy didn't resist arrest, I'm relieved to say, meekly handed over the weapon and was taken under arrest to Saltney police station, just along the road. When we gained entrance to the nick I handcuffed him to the leg of the metal office table that was conveniently bolted to the floor. A Welsh sergeant and inspector arrived and I explained the situation. I bade them farewell; witness statement to be forwarded. Job done.

This Blogging malarkey is all very well but I keep getting distracted by my random, undisciplined, thoughts and shooting-off at a tangent. There, I've done it again.

I had a very happy time in the traffic department at Crewe and worked with some really splendid policemen, policewomen and civilian support staff.

23 Moreton Road

We were happy too in our little house, had really good civilian neighbours next door at 25, Frank and Joan Carr and their lovely schoolgirl daughters Beverly and Karen. Frank had a rare and responsible job driving a mobile crane on the railways, the sort that forms part of a special train for recovering derailed engines and rolling stock.

We got on pleasingly well, probably because they were well used to having interchangeable police families, flitting in and out, next door.

Lorraine modelling hair and
costume for Madam Klara

Lorraine found a part time job with Madam Klara, a charming Polish lady and locally celebrated ladies hair stylist. Anita found new friends at nursery school, which gobbled-up Lorraine's wages and a bit more besides. Still, it was all good and Lorraine, now pregnant with our second child, confidently modelled both hair style and costume for Madame Klara in her annual Hair and Fashion Show at Nantwich Civic Hall; the venue also chosen for the Police Divisional Annual Ball.

Madam Klara (back row 5th from right)

The song 'Edelweiss' with Julie
Andrews, was at number One in the charts; and somehow springs to mind.

Edelweiss, edelweiss, Nantwich Civic Hall

Our second daughter Natalie was born on 12^th October 1969 at The Barony Hospital in Nantwich and, of course, delivered by Doctor Simeon Oshinsky, our General Practitioner, still toting his 'Roy Cropper' style gubbin's bag. Well, he was keen, reliable and insisted. I too was cordially invited on this special occasion to be present, to witness the birth.

This was a 'first' for me, to be present at both the conception and the birth; it was all so very different then.

2527 WPC Natalie
Aldington (Jolliffe)

Some of you may know that Natalie went on to become a Cheshire Police Officer herself (2527 Woman Constable Natalie Jolliffe) and served Cheshire Constabulary for twenty years in various departments, including a long stint in Child Protection and also worked on many major criminal enquiries as a HOLMES operator. For the record, she is now a librarian and well settled with her family in sunny Perth, Western Australia. She and her husband Kevin make us (make us, mind) visit for several weeks each winter. What?

Anyway with our expanding family we needed reliable transport and by pure luck I inherited a motor car from an elderly professional gentleman, who no longer required it. My Mother used to work for the family as housekeeper for several decades. I knew the car well because when I worked as an apprentice mechanic I would service and clean it for the owner at various times. He remembered this and donated it to me. I was thrilled.

I was now the owner of a very stylish Vauxhall Victor De-Luxe in two tone blue and grey. By now the vehicle had seen better days and the bodywork required some attention but the mechanics were generally sound. I spray painted the bodywork using borrowed facilities at Ken Broomfield's Shavington Garage and it looked great.

We had grand days out in it with trips to Southport, North Wales and Lake Vyrnwy, where we had to search for a mother with a similar small child as I had forgotten to pack the baby milk. It was greedy (the car not the baby) and so it wasn't long afterwards that I realized that we couldn't afford to run it, well not and keep it legal anyhow. I reluctantly put it up for sale, George Holt bought it and had it for some time. At least it went to a good home.

We got along well with Ken Broomfield and his wife Beryl and once went on a touring caravanning holiday to Teignmouth in Devon, all of 250 miles on 'A' Class roads. Ken had a Morris-mini Cooper fitted with a tow hitch which pulled the tiniest touring caravan you ever did see.

The journey was quite an ordeal with Ken undertaking all the driving, Lorraine who was seven months pregnant, Anita now two and me. Beryl had the front passenger seat surrounded by her personal needs, sweets, snacks, tissues, drinks, reading material; and we made do, stuffed in the back. We played endless games of 'eye spy' until Beryl asked if we could mime the sightings as she was developing a migraine, what with all this noise and hillarity.

I can only begin to think what our fellow campers' with their stylish, self sufficient, mobile palaces, thought as we turned-up at the camp-site and pitched-up, Beryl still occupying pole position and sucking on another barley-sugar stick to combat car sickness. 

The sleeping arrangements were a bit ad-hoc too, with Beryl sharing her spacious, interior sprung 'Slumber-Right' double bed at the rear, with her exhausted husband. Lorraine and our unborn child occupied a bottom bunk for safety's sake, me on top in a sort of canvas cradle formed by two poles and a length of sail canvas and Anita on half an army camp bed in the middle aisle.

What on earth did the neighbours think when we opened the door on the following morning and all five and a half of us tumbled-out onto the grass, steam billowing out of the door and condensation streaming down the windows.

What fun we had and oh, how several of us nervously laughed along with our neighbours, watching behind twitching curtains.

By the way, Beryl snored all night long.

Despite the holiday, rather than because of it, we remained good friends and when I mentioned to Ken that we were finding it difficult without a car, he came up with a fantastic idea.

“Buy two”, he said, “Buy a good front end and a good back end, cut them in half and stitch the good front end to the good rear end. It's easy, I've done it many times”.

“What?”

Two 'good' halves fixed together

So that's what I did. It wouldn't be legal these days of course but back then it was done surprisingly often. We went to Pace's scrapyard at Arclid near Sandbach and bought a primrose yellow and white Ford Anglia with a raked-back rear window. It was badly damaged at the rear end and had been 'written-off' by the insurance company. We then went to somewhere in Shropshire and bought another, a sky-blue one with the front stoved-in.

I didn't know where to start but we parked them in a quiet corner of the workshop and Ken set to work. Sparks flew everywhere but in a short time he had cut both vehicles in two, following a line just behind the front door, over the roof and under the floor panel. When the two good bits were offered-up together I began to see what he meant.

You just couldn't make this up!
Registration ROY10(8)5

More sparks flew as he welded them together in a very impressive and professional way. “There you are”, said Ken, “I've done the hard bit, now the rest is up to you”. I spent weeks on the mechanical parts; restoring the bodywork and preparing it lovingly for a final respray. How proud was I with the final outcome and now the growing Aldington family had independent transport once again.

Meanwhile, Crewe traffic department had welcomed a new leader to the fold. Inspector William “Bomber” Brown had transferred from Wirral Division to take charge and some of the older officers either new him or knew of his colourful reputation. Apparently, the “Bomber” epithet was a left-over from his old RAF days, “What a character”, said one, “Top bloke, real man's man” said another, “Bloody loose canon if you ask me”, said an anonymous eves-dropper.

Allegedly, one top wheeze if his was to drive a patrol car at speed whilst playing a harmonica and steering with his knees. Crikey, what a 'spiffing' chap, then.

He was too. He was amiable, jovial, a bit of a raconteur and generally the centre of attention. I grew to like him more as time went on and even if his reputation that came before him was exaggerated, there was certainly never a dull moment.

“Bomber” made the usual 'sweeping' changes in the unit, as 'new brooms' tend to do, but the old methods gradually crept back over time, probably because they were tried and tested; and worked much better. All in all things continued well but it was noticeable that our leader was coming under increasing pressure from the top. 'Bomber's' response to the pressure of it all was to pass it down the line in the form of uncharacteristic, illogical and                                                                            unnecessary petty requirements.

Things came to a head when the Divisional Chief Superintendent decreed that the Inspector Traffic would, in future, on a daily basis, report to the Divisional Superintendent at 8.50 am for briefing purposes and to himself at nine o'clock, prompt. It was anybody's guess why he should be subjected to this imposition, if you disregard his erratic timekeeping, but it went on for several months and was demeaning to him.

It was Annual Appraisal time again and Bill Ward and myself eagerly awaited our Sergeant's and Inspector's assessment of how we were performing, after all there was nothing to fear, surely. We had already seen Ray Sweeney's comments and they were positive and constructive; in the main, more of the same please.

At last we were called in to 'Bomber's' office, one by one.

After the opening pleasantries he said, “I'll read you what I've put about you”.

He then pretended to read aloud his own assessment about my work during the last twelve months and although the words he spoke were recognizable and neatly joined-up, it all sounded a bit theatrical. Nothing great but nothing that bad either. Like I said, nothing to worry about.

Bill went in next and I waited for his outcome.

“That was bloody strange”, he said, “ It was surreal, he read his comments to me and, 'laa, lalaa, lalla,' it just didn't sound right”.

And another thing, “How the hell could he read that feint carbon copy with his bloody reading glasses stuck on his forehead?”

We both smelled a rat and it concerned us greatly.

We were both on nights the next week and on Monday we

unexpectedly came across a brown file (no pun intended) of copy personal appraisal assessments, including our own. Being third or fourth level carbon copies they were difficult to decipher but as we got into them they became really painful reading. We read our own then each others and neither assessment could be regarded middle of the road critiques. They were bad, unjustified, hurtful and damning. And they weren't what he'd read out to us, either.

What were we to do about that?

We decided to take the bull by the horns and ask for a joint meeting with him on the following Wednesday.

We explained to him that it had been brought to our attention that both our appraisals were not as we had been led to believe but they had been 'adjusted' and drafted in highly critical terms that were neither reasonable or justified. We were not prepared to put up with it.

Amazingly, we were never challenged as to our source of information, but what he said next beggars belief.

He turned sideways and addressed the wall, “Granted", he said, "your assessments aren't good but if you both go away and work a bit harder I will do you an interim report in, say, six months time indicating that there's been substantial improvement”.

Dreamstime.com

Bill was never one to 'suffer fools gladly.'

Our faces must have said it all.

What made him do that?  Was it the pressure from above getting to him?  Stress? It seemed so uncharacteristic but there was no doubting that this was:

The day that 'Bomber' Brown had dropped his bombshell.

A short while later I said to Inspector Brown, “In Weekly Orders this week there is an advert for a three months training course in the Force Information Room. If I fill in an application will you recommend me for a place?”

“Yes”, he said, “Let's do it now”.

"The dogs, they do bark...and the caravans move on”, Winston Churchill once famously said.

It was time to move on.

Coming up next time...

New horizons, fresh challenges and loads of commuting in my shiny, yellow, mongrel Angela...

But would the Information Room's 'supremo' Constable Alan Danson take me under his wing and train me well in the art of communication?   

More importantly, would I recognize just what that may mean to my, as yet, unblemished reputation?

Was Des Southwell right to back my refusal of a police house in Bla...?