In these pre-CPS 1960s and 70s, when officers regularly prosecuted their own cases in magistrates’ courts, it was in the matron’s room next to the cells that summary justice was often administered, writes James Morton.

Some were run by ex-police women, who kept the place spotlessly clean and provided good food and coffee. Some, however, seemed to be rubbing margarine on the court cat’s boil with one hand while the other cut the sandwiches.

In courts where lay magistrates held sway, there was very often a coffee break at around a quarter to eleven. At one court the chairman would announce ‘we’re going to look at the exhibits’, irrespective of whether there actually were any in the case.

Nor did the lay magistrates necessarily have coffee while they were making a decision. They would retire to consider their verdict, and then retire immediately afterwards to consider the Nescafé.

Some matron’s rooms were almost a club, with admission by invitation only. If you weren’t persona grata then you could enter, but you would not be served. It was there that deals were struck over bail, and pleas sorted out. Buy the officer a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, and you were halfway there. That’s how corruption starts, of course. And it also worked the other way round: ‘If she doesn’t plead to the cheques, I’ll put on a conspiracy,’ for example. Since in those days at the Old Bailey that could mean a couple of years inside, it concentrated the mind wonderfully.

At another court at which I appeared frequently, I took the precaution of buying my own mug, and keeping it in the jailer’s room away from the slatternly matron’s washing-up cloths. One day she asked me to look over a letter she was writing. At the time, the governor of a women’s prison in an Australian TV soap had died, and the matron, confusing life and art, was applying for the position. ‘I have had many years’ experience, as I will be able to tell you when I sees you,’ it said. Over the weeks and months she would say: ‘I haven’t heard from them yet but Eric and I are ready to go on a moment’s notice.’ Eric was her husband, who sat silently in a corner when he wasn’t distributing single sheets of lavatory paper (two would be used to block the system and cistern – on the jailer’s behalf). I hadn’t the heart or, perhaps, the courage, to tell her Melbourne would always be out of her reach.