Confessions of an Undercover Cop. Ash Cameron

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      I took Mark Stamper to the station and sat with him in an interview room off the front office. I gave him a cup of tea and took his statement, reminding him that in signing it he was making a true declaration. He decided he couldn’t remember which ‘little place’ he’d been to as he wasn’t familiar with Soho and he certainly wouldn’t be coming back. The cashpoint was at the bottom of a busy street, near Regent Street. I knew which one it was and I told him it had had CCTV installed recently.

      Mr Stamper then decided he didn’t want to make a complaint after all.

      I gave him my details and reminded him again that assault was serious and we would certainly like to deal with that, even if he changed his mind about the robbery.

      I knew he knew that I knew. I also knew he wouldn’t pursue it further.

      It was a familiar story. These ‘little clubs’ – clip joints – smaller than a sitting room, advertised Girls, Girls, Girls who, for a fee, would sit with gentlemen and encourage them to buy drinks, drinks that were 2 per cent alcohol, not what it said on the bottle. They’d charge the guy £45 for half a glass of watered-down fizzy Pomagne, companion service included. When he made to leave, he’d be stung for a bill of £300, £400, £500 or more. The price included the ‘company’ of the short-skirted, usually stoned hostess who’d waggled her bikini-topped breasts into his face and stroked his trouser leg. When these men wouldn’t, couldn’t pay, they’d be frog-marched to the nearest cash machine to withdraw everything they had. Protestations were met with a threat, maybe a head-butt, and sometimes a jab or two. The money would be withdrawn and handed over. The majority of these men refused to tell the truth, ashamed, embarrassed and caught out having to admit they’d been in a girly club, so we’d receive an allegation of cashpoint robbery instead of the real version of events. Most of the victims had families and could ill afford fifty quid, never mind five hundred, so they reported it as a street robbery, a credible excuse to their partner to account for the missing money because there was no way they were going to tell the truth – that they’d been in a club with women of lower moral standards.

      I don’t know who they were trying to kid: us, their wives or themselves. It was robbery, and often menacing, and it did sometimes include assault, but the perpetrators got away with it because nobody wanted to say they’d gone to a clip joint. The thugs knew this and exploited the situation.

      Sometimes, someone surprised us and told the truth. We’d then go back to the club and demand their money back. The door gorilla would produce the small print at the bottom of the sticky menus that listed the extortionate prices for company and for drinks. It then became a civil dispute because what these men hadn’t realised was that by sitting down with a girl and ordering drinks, they’d agreed to the terms and conditions. If there had been an assault, we could arrest the attacker, but more often the victims refused to cooperate with police when they realised they’d have to give evidence in court.

      On some occasions we’d carry out an operation to stop it, but there are always guys wanting to take a chance with a girl in a club and while there’s demand, there will always be heavies who won’t let them get away with it.