In the weeks before an HMI inspection the Force is put on alert and arrangements made to ensure that a maximum number of personnel are available to gather in the Briefing Room during the afternoon of the inspection day. In that setting the Station's records are gathered and the HMI will go through the various incidents and events recorded and question those members involved as to their actions during that event.

The morning is spent touring the various Headquarters sections and questioning members as to their performance in various aspects of the Force's operation. As far as the Criminal Investigation staff were concerned, the less members in the office during the visit, the better.

At about 9.00 a.m. on the morning of the inspection, the Detective Sergeant of our shift, Big John Cowley, came out of his office and said, "C'mon, 85, lets get out of here." We exited the station and strolled the sidewalks on a bright summer's day.

"Take a good look at him. That gentleman is on the road, son," said Big John, "see, his shoes are scuffed and worn and his shirt cuffs are frayed. Look how he's glancing around, probably looking for something to nick. He'll spend a few days here and move on to somewhere else to harvest any goodies he can find laying about."

We watched him for a while and sauntered on, doing a circuit of the city centre, then heading back to the station. When we got there, Big John told me that I should take Jack Sharman out for a stroll to keep us cut of the Office. Jack was one of a new scheme, transferring Uniform Branch officers to CID as an aide to a Detective for a month to give them an insight into what was involved, in order to break down the 'us' and 'them' situation that existed between to two branches.

"Do the Downtown area and call in at Knight's Pawn Shop and see if he's got any stolen gear today. The bugger needs a surprise visit now and then." Big John had told us. Alfie Knight was well known for fencing stolen property and was an easy mark for us as he wasn't too intelligent; cunning mind, but not too intelligent.

Jack and I headed out towards the Downtown area, called in a couple of pubs to see if the were any snouts (informers) about, chatted up a couple of business owners we knew and had a cup of coffee at the Railway Station buffet, then wandered towards the bridge over the river.

Just then I noticed a figure I recognized approaching on the other side of the street. It was the Old Gentleman I had seen earlier that Big John had identified as an itinerant, but this time he was lugging a fairly hefty new-looking suitcase, puffing with the effort.

"Hey up, Jack," I said, "see that old geezer across the road with the suitcase. He's nicked it."

"How the hell do you know that?" Jack said. Not wanting to let on that I had seen him before that morning, I said, "Instinct, mate, instinct," tapping the side of my nose to indicate secret knowledge. "We'll let him go by, then cross the road and come up behind him, one on each side, I'll do the rest."

We crossed over and caught up with the Old Geezer. I caught his arm above the elbow and said, "Good morning, Squire, you've just nicked that suitcase from the top of a car in the car park across the bridge. You are under arrest, and you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so and all that bollocks. Now, you can haul your spoils up to the Nick and we'll find you a nice cold cell to bring your temperature down."

"It's a fair cop, Guv," said the Old Geezer, giving me the clue that it wasn't the first time he'd been nicked. He tottered on with us and struggled up the Station steps and laboured up the stairs to the CID office.

To our shocked surprise, the office was crowded. The HMI, resplendent in full uniform with all the silver braid that his position demanded, accompanied by the Chief Constable and Deputy, all in full uniform. Also there was the Detective Inspector in his black jacket and striped trousers, looking like a tailor's dummy.

He barked, "What does this mean, 85?" I must explain that to senior ranks, the White Shirt Brigade, us underlings were never accorded the courtesy of a name, just our identity number which we carried right through our careers up to the rank of Inspector. When I joined, PC85 had been the Station cat, so I robbed the poor bugger of his identity.

I gave them the full chapter and verse. How Jack and I had been on foot patrol and spotted the offender with the suitcase. How our suspicions were aroused by the disparity of his apparel and the expensive suitcase he was carrying. That we approached him and identified ourselves, then requested that he prove his ownership of the property he was carrying. That he had stumbled with a reply and, at that stage we confirmed our suspicions and arrested him for possession of stolen property, cautioned him and escorted him to the Police Station.

The audience was nodding its approval of our textbook arrest. Of course, I didn't tell them that it was due to Big John's acute observation on our earlier sortie that I had sussed the Old Bugger (sorry, Geezer) out. That would have taken the gild off the lily.

The HMI turned to the Chief Constable and said, "Chief Constable, see that both these men's record reflect that they have been commended by me for their impeccable police work.

They are a credit to this Force." With that, and a congratulatory nod to us the HMI, trailed by his entourage, floated out of the office. Jack and I completed the paperwork, recording a list of other offences the Old Geezer admitted to, then lodged him in the cells until his court appearance next morning. "Jack," said I, "we deserve a pint after that Royal Command Performance."

Settled in to the bar of the Bunch of Grapes pub we supped a grateful ale; this paperwork is a bloody nightmare. "You know, Taffy," said Jack, "I've been in the Job for twenty-five years, done Beat, Motor Patrol, Coroner's Officer, Sub-Station, and this is the first commendation, and to boot it's a bloody HMI's commendation, with a bonus of a Chief's commendation on top. All down to you, mate. We'll be bloody heroes for this"

As I was phrasing a modest reply, a large figure loomed in view and lowered himself down at the table. "You can buy me a drink, Taffy. I think I deserve a scotch, eh?" Big John said, with a wink.