Peter Guttridge - The Thing Itself

Strangely, neither Mancini’s landlord nor landlady had a sense of smell. They had noticed nothing.

The two Trunk Murders were front-page news; didn’t matter what else was going on in the world. Well, except for about a week later when the front pages were taken with the story of how on 22nd July, in Chicago, John Dillinger — America’s Public Enemy No. 1 — had been shot to death by FBI agents as he came out of the Biograph Cinema. One policeman apparently shook hands with the corpse. A mob gathered to dip their hankies in his blood. Later, at the autopsy, someone stole his brain.

Needless to say, every copper in Brighton went to see the film he’d been watching when it came out over here, probably hoping the glamour of police work Chicago-style would somehow rub off. It was Manhattan Melodrama , with William Powell as a public prosecutor sending up his best friend, Clark Gable, for murder.

Dollfuss, the Chancellor of Austria, was murdered on 25th July but that was buried somewhere on page three. A bloke in Ohio who had slipped on a banana skin and died made the bottom of page one.

Anyway, to cut a familiar story short, Mancini was eliminated as a suspect in the Brighton station trunk murder (it was being called No. 1) but put on trial for murdering Violette Kay (No. 2). His barrister, name of Norman Birkett, got him off, claiming that Kay had been murdered by one of her clients and that Mancini had come home and found the body and panicked that he would be blamed so he’d packed her in the trunk.

By mid-September, with 12,000 letters, cards and telegrams on file — plus notes of phone calls — the police were no nearer finding either the identity of the first trunk murder victim or her murderer. Nor ever were. No policeman ever had a clue. Except one. Me.

Victor Tempest exercise book one cont.

Now I need to go back a couple of years to just after I joined the force. I came under the influence of Charlie Ridge, who rose through the ranks and eventually became chief constable in the late fifties before being brought up on corruption charges. He ran crime in Brighton by the fifties but even in the early thirties he had his arrangements.

I don’t mean I became crooked. This was something else. He’d been in the force in 1926 and got stuck in against strikers in Brighton during the General Strike. He’d been befriended by a bunch of toffs who’d provided a mounted auxiliary volunteer support for the police just so they could break a few working-class heads. They regarded strikers as communists who should be treated like dogs.

Quite a few were members of the British Fascists and Charlie joined them. He persuaded me and my friend, Philip Simpson, to join Sir Oswald Mosley’s new party, the British Union of Fascists.

Simpson wasn’t slow to put the boots in dealing with what he called ‘oiks’. He was a bit of a bastard, actually. He had a vicious streak although he didn’t have the muscles for it — he was a long streak of piss. So he was always ready with his baton. He would disable with blows to elbow and neck, and once they were down he started kicking.

I heard about one occasion he almost went too far. He’d started to get into it with this bloke. The bloke had been around. He could see the way this could go.

‘Don’t knock me about,’ he said. ‘If I’m doing any wrong, take me down to the station and charge me.’

But Simpson kept pushing and shoving him, trying to make the man retaliate so he could book him for assault. The man wouldn’t, though, so Simpson used his baton to knock him down, then gave him a good kicking.

Charlie Ridge came along. The future chief constable was a sergeant then. He didn’t stop the fight. He ordered the bloke to get up and fight like a man. The bloke wouldn’t (he had more sense) so Simpson kept kicking him between his legs. Eventually, Ridge told Simpson the bloke had had enough and the two bobbies left him passed out in the street.

The man later complained officially. The kicking had ruptured his urethra. He was in hospital for three months being operated on, then a month convalescing. Simpson and Ridge denied anything had happened and, of course, they were policemen so they were believed.

You could always count on the magistrate to side with the bobby when it came to giving evidence. They were pretty uncritical, however unlikely your story was.

Simpson hated costermongers, I don’t know why. He was always moving them on — at least until he worked out a system of getting them to pay him to look the other way. God help them if they didn’t pay up.

I didn’t go for any of his kind of behaviour. Bobbies had to be tough, of course. Generally, they were pretty rough — their batons weren’t just for show. I didn’t use mine much. You had to be careful. A mate of mine walloped somebody over the head and killed him.

My way was fists and boots. But they’d know what I was doing. I wasn’t like Simpson. I’d take my tunic off, fold it and put in on the floor, put my helmet and belt on top of it. Nobody would ever touch my uniform during the ensuing fight.

It was a fair fight, except I always aimed to get my retaliation in first. We were taught only to use sufficient force but we’d also been blooded — well blooded — in the boxing ring. We boxed all the time. And, of course, they taught us a few things about self-defence when we signed up.

But speed and the first good blow would usually do the trick. You had to be fit then — not like coppers today who couldn’t chase a thief down a street if they wanted to, which most of them don’t.

I did try to play fair. I didn’t always come out on top, but if I did come unstuck, I’d never complain of assault, unless they started it. If I started it, then the most they had to fear was a charge of obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty.

I would explain away the injuries by saying I’d fallen or walked into a wall because other bobbies saw it as weakness to be beaten, whatever the odds. Having said that, most policemen in Brighton got hurt sooner or later. It was just part of the job.

Some districts of Brighton were particularly hostile to policemen. Policemen who were a bit uppity were given these roughest areas as punishment beats. One street was known as Kill Copper Row. Generally, it made more sense to give someone a leathering for something small instead of nicking him. Problem was, in these no-go areas, kindness was taken as weakness.

And come closing time every pub in Brighton was a potential trouble spot. Gangs fighting when the pubs had closed on a Friday and Saturday night would turn on any bobby daft enough to try to break it up.

I liked night duty, even in the bad weather, because you could give it to them hotter then. The real hooligans, I mean, not some poor bloke who’d just had a couple of drinks too many.

For me it was the razor gangs. Nobody carrying a cut-throat razor, a switchblade knife or a knuckleduster is a man in my eyes. If I came up against anyone like that, then my truncheon did come out — and I didn’t much care how I used it.

Victor Tempest exercise book one cont.

So there we were, Ridge, Simpson and me: fascists together.

Oswald Mosley intrigued me. He’d started out Tory, then gone to Labour, then struck out on his own with his New Party when Ramsay Macdonald headed the new National Government in 1931. And the secretary of the New Party was a crime writer I liked called Peter Cheyney.

The New Party had been trounced in the 1931 general elections. On 1st October 1932 Mosley had launched the British Union of Fascists with a flag-waving ceremony in the old New Party offices at 1 Great George Street up in Westminster.