David Watson - Thas Locked Up: Memoirs of a West Yorkshire Policeman

I ambled along the canal towpath at a policemans pace, a steady two miles an hour, hoping that I looked the part. It was midmorning in February. Today had started out just like yesterday, my third day of working the early turn shift and another morning of pounding the beat.

Right now I didnt have a care in the world, alone with my thoughts and pondering on how my life had changed in recent months. That change had been so dramatic that sometimes I pinched myself when remembering that now I really was a copper. Five months ago it was a different story. Back then, in what seemed like a former life, I was struggling to make a living as a carpenter in the building trade. The sheer pace of that change sometimes took me by surprise, like this morning when I suddenly saw my own reflection in the window of the Co-op. I just happened to glance to my left and saw a uniformed copper staring straight back at me. Hard to believe, but that reflection was indeed me! Now, at least when Im on duty, I have the title of PC 1021 Watson of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police, a hell of a shock to the system, but definitely a change for the better. I walked on, dragging myself away from those melancholic thoughts and back to the present. So this is it then, out on foot patrol, pounding the beat like generations of coppers before me.

I allowed myself a moment of self-satisfaction, feeling rather content with my lot. After all, I was outside in the fresh air. How many people, I asked myself, can earn their living by taking gentle exercise? Yeah, I thought, being a copper is not bad after all. I walked on, noticing the stark contrast between the murky water of the canal and the brightly painted narrowboats tied up alongside. How cozy those boats looked on this cold winters day, the condensation running down the windows and smoke billowing from their metal chimneys.

Ahead, and to my left stood the nearest row of market stalls. Just about every type of trader was there, greengrocers, butchers and confectioners. Other stalls displayed childrens clothing or hardware or kitchen utensils. There were traders selling books or pet food or handbags and suitcases. Pop music blasted out from the far side of the market with the latest hits, which probably annoyed the older generation. For the people of Brighouse this thriving little outdoor market catered for their every need. The raised voices of the stallholders rang out in the cold still air, each one competing with the constant pop music and all adding to the general hustle and bustle of the place.

It seemed to be just another perfectly normal day, but it would soon turn out to be anything but normal. I left the towpath and made my way through the market place, slowly wandering between busy stalls, smiling at the locals and saying my good mornings to faces that were starting to become familiar. The older stallholders had seen it all before, been here for generations and I was just the latest new copper to cut his teeth on their patch. Some couldnt resist sharing the odd comment or banter, they would joke about hiding the stolen goods until I had cleared off. Who will give me 5 for this beautiful China Tea Set? bawled one stall holder, women stopping to gawp or carefully examine the goods. The same booming voice continued to ring out.

No, I wont charge you 5 ladies, its not even 4, this beautiful crockery is available to you today for just 3, yes, you heard it right first time. I repeat, 3 ladies, now isnt that a real bargain?

And so continued his familiar patter. One potential customer was already reaching for her purse, he pressed on with his polished performance, had them well and truly hooked and now he was reeling them in; but still he didnt let up.

At this price I know what you lovely ladies are thinking, you think that this stuff must be stolen dont you? Well thats hardly surprising is it? I couldnt even buy them myself at this price. He held centre stage in his carefully rehearsed piece of street theatre, and it wasnt the first time that hed used this next line either.

Oh bloody hell, he suddenly yelled, whilst at the same time trying to appear shocked by my appearance. Here come the coppers, he said, pointing an accusing finger in my direction, half a dozen heads simultaneously turning to face me. Without pausing for breath he continued with the bizarre sales pitch, shouting out to a youth on the other end of the stall, Quickly now Tony, come on lad, get a move on, get this stuff hidden under the stall till this bloody coppers gone.

His performance was all part of a game, a game adopted by stallholders to get customers to part with their money. It was a routine that I was starting to become familiar with and the sort of thing I often heard when out on foot patrol. I was enjoying the friendly jovial atmosphere. I walked past the butchers stall, listening to his sales pitch as he tried to compete with the banter of his neighbour. He held up joints of beef, or lamb, or fresh chickens. His booming voice promising shoppers the bargain of a lifetime. I gave him a friendly wave, acknowledged by him with no more than a discreet nod of the head. I ambled past, deciding that Id been there long enough for now. See and be seen, that was my sergeants advice when walking the beat, but that would be for later in the day. Right now I intended to walk through town on my way back to the station, time to take the weight off my feet and sit down in the police canteen, enjoy a brew and a bacon sandwich for breakfast.