How I Got My Police Issue-Style Flat Feet (20 July 1973)
You have heard about policemen’s feet – yes? They got that way from pounding the beat for about 20 years. But you haven’t heard about my feet, have you? They got this way from pounding the news beat for many more years than that.
What the policemen’s feet and mine had in common was the road to the police station. The first unaccompanied news call I ever made was at a police station. That was up north and was over 50 years ago. The last I ever made as a general reporter was also at a police station. That was here in Bletchley not many years ago.
That particular call had never to be made by phone if a personal call was possible. If you didn’t get any police news as such, you might hear how they got on at the county police sports or that a certain sergeant’s wife had just presented him with enough children to match his stripes, etc.
Sometimes the opinion of the police about what ought to be made public differs from that of the press. Who is the better arbiter of the public interest is a lofty question hardly suitable for these notes. I usually got on with the police pretty well. They helped me and sometimes I have been able to help them.
In this connection, I advise you to keep a critical eye on what you see in television fiction about police and press. No reporter would ever do what I have sometimes seen reporters do on those programmes, which makes me pretty sure that the same goes for the police.
At one time in my life, I spent nearly every working day in the press seats of magistrates’ courts. I cannot say that I enjoyed it. It brought you up against what is called the seamy side of life and was depressing in the extreme despite the occasional light relief. But if you played it down you would lose your sales, so it was a necessary chore in spite of your preference for the pleasanter kind of news.
In this respect Bletchley made quite a change. When I came here the magistrates held court only once a fortnight, though there were already too many times when special courts had to be held in the alternate week.
But although Bletchley was not a busy place court-wise, the old small police station in Simpson Road was the headquarters of the Bucks Constabulary’s northern division and so boasted a superintendent, in addition to the inspector, two or three sergeants and various constables.
From the superintendent downwards, I knew them all, as a reporter should. Years later my work took me less and less out of our office and today I doubt whether I know more than four members of the much-increased local force.
The inspector was William Merry, long since retired but happily still with us. I have many memories of him, but I especially like to recall one blazing hot afternoon when the court was still in session. The magistrates allowed themselves and everybody else to be in shirt sleeves. But Mr. Merry was the only policeman there and he soldiered on to the end with his collar hooked up to the chin in the old style.
Several of the young constables of my early years in the town were to rise to high rank. Among them were Jack Smethurst, Walter Barringham, Reg Watkins and local boy, Vince Hankins. I think Leslie Strong was already a detective sergeant when I first knew him.
Jack Smethurst was the town’s first detective – a CID all to himself.
When I first met Vince Hankins in the police station he was still wearing his RAF uniform. Some time later the Bletchley Rugby Club played their very first match. This was at Manor Fields on the area now used by the Town soccer club and Vince was playing full back. Leslie Strong was on the touchline watching them line up for the kick-off when he turned to me and said: “I’ll say this – if Vince gets a hand on ‘em they’ll go down all right.”
I remembered that little quip years later when the same Vince but with the rank of detective inspector prosecuted the so-called Great Train Robbers at Linslade court. They went down all right – some for 30 years! Vince was the son of an engine driver.
In my own early years in Bletchley I had proof – or at least enough proof for myself – that I would never have made a detective.
A series of suspicious events occurred in the town. The results were there for all to see and small crowds naturally gathered round. On one of those occasions I approached the crowd and saw the back of a man I knew quite well. I put my hand on his shoulder and said something like “Good morning, Mr. …, do you know anything about this?” I remember that he turned his head towards me quickly. And no wonder, for it turned out later that he was the culprit. He must had had quite a shock on feeling a hand on his shoulder and hearing those words, but I did not spot it. So no marks for detection.
And now just a word about trying to keep court cases out of newspapers – DON’T. I have been approached many times on that score when I have been the only reporter in court – sometimes with offers of money, sometimes with threats of suicide and sometimes with “it’ll’ kill my mother if it gets in the paper.” The answer in all cases has to be an unequivocal “No.” The best you can do is to say nothing at all.
An approach will only draw attention to the case. And whether an approach is made or not it will be splashed, or cut down or left out entirely according to its estimated news value and nothing else.
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