One of the boys on our shift, Jocko, was a bit of a wide-boy, always had something to sell at a bargain price. Sometimes it was cigarettes or pipe tobacco, sometimes hard liquor. Newly married and still only fresh in the job, I never had the brass to buy any of the stuff he was selling, so I stuck to Wood-bines and the occasional pint of brown ale. Jocko, always a chancer, was not averse to taking a drink on duty and one memorable occasion sticks in my mind.
We were on night shift on the centre beats. I was working an adjacent beat and we had met up a couple of times during the earlier part of the night. Now, it was getting on towards midnight and I received a visit from the patrol sergeant, Alf Bottomly. Alf was genial fella, big, bluff and an ex-commando. Very fair to his guys, he was not a guy to bugger around with.
"Seen your mate over there," he nodded towards the adjacent beat.
"Not for a while, Sarge, he must be doing the backs of his property."
"Think I'll take a squint around for him, never know what that bugger is up to." With this he strode off across the road and disappeared up a side street.
I carried on, strolling a little faster as the chill crept into the night. I had done most of my property checks and was pissed off with shaking hands with door handles. I returned to the main street, hoping for a bit of action; maybe a late drunk wending his weary way home. Just as I rounded the corner, I spotted Alf Bottomly and my neighbor on the adjoining beat, strolling up the street towards me. It struck me as funny that Jocko would be wearing his heavy felt cape, it sure wasn't that cold. However, I just shrugged, gave them a wave and disappeared up a side street.
An hour later I was at the bottom end of my beat, down by the river, when I spotted the two of them, still together. Funny, I thought, Alf is spending a lot of time with Jocko, wonder what's up. I waved out to them and turned into the inner reaches of my beat, working my way around the backs of business premises and having a quiet smoke in a secluded corner.
Returning to the main street, I was amazed to see Alf and Jocko still patrolling together, like a pair of Siamese twins. There was a strained look about Jocko's face, but Alf was chatting away in an amiable fashion. Giving them a wave, I crossed the intersection and headed for my supper. 2.0 a.m.! Some bloody time to have "supper." No wonder a copper's intestinal plumbing was all buggered up and the old farts like Horace were always complaining about gas.
Halfway through, Jocko came in, as we had overlapping coverage from the guys on the two upper beats. He was muttering away to himself and looked really pissed off.
What's the matter, mate? I inquired, he looked really worn. "You looked as though you and Alf were going to form a bloody partnership out there. Has he got the hots for you or something?"
"That bloody prick! I was at the back of the Lamb and Flag, picking up me usual pint o' beer that the landlord leaves out on the windowsill for ma when Alf came around the corner. I just had time to shove it under ma cape when he came up. Let's go for a stroll says he, and he spent the next two bloody hoors wi' ma, I couldn't do anything but carry the bloody pint, could I?"
Hardly able to contain my mirth, I asked him, "What did you do with the pint, Jocko?"
"Och, I'd got so sick of holding the bloody thing, I dumped it down the drain when he left me. And the cheeky prick had the audacity to say that a good stroll does wonders for strengthenin' the right arm, so he must have known I had the pint the whole time."
I just about pissed myself with laughter, but the story had a sad ending for Jocko. The next night shift I picked up a message from the phone pillar to get Jocko from his patch and come on into the station. Thinking there might be some excitement in it, I scurried onto his patch and soon located him, funny enough at the back of the Lamb and Flag. I told him that they wanted us both at the station and he groused that it was probably some shit job like guarding a couple of prisoners the CBI had hooked or summit like that.
When we got there the grim-faced Station Sergeant said, "Sun, take Jocko into the interview room and stay with him, if he attempts to leave, restrain him." With that he turned away. I just gaped at him, "But, but..."
"No bloody but buts, there's some things in this job we don't like doing, but just bloody do it," he snarled.
Jocko and I went into the interview room and sat down, both lighting cigarettes and nervously puffing. I gave him a couple of sidelong glances before asking, "What the fuck's this all about, Jocko? What the hell have you been up to?"
He gave me a wry smile and said, "Just write this down in your notebook; 'The prisoner had nothing to say.'" With that he lapsed into silence, staring morosely at the floor.
Half an hour went by with a pregnant hush between us, broken by the door opening and the entry of a burly Detective-Sergeant. He ignored Jocko and looked at me. By this time I was crapping myself, feeling as guilty as sin for something I hadn't done, or if I had, I didn't know what it was.
"Has he said anything to you," the D.S. asked formally.
I glanced over at Jocko, gulped and replied, "He told me to write down in my notebook, 'The prisoner had nothing to say' and that's it."
"Stick in a report on what exactly took place between you two from the moment you saw him after being instructed to report to the Station. Don't leave anything out." With a look of utter distaste on his face, he turned to Jocko and said, "Come with me, scum, you're under arrest."
That's the last I saw of Jocko. It transpired that the cigs, tobacco and booze were all stolen property from an American airbase about eighty miles away. Jocko and a dodgy mate of his who owned a restaurant had a thing going with a couple of Yanks in the PX who were fiddling the books. Jocko got six months, and that would have been hard time for a guy like him, as he liked things soft – too bloody soft.
