In the 1970s, Soho was a neon-lit jungle of vice, glamour, and criminal enterprise. It was the heartbeat of London’s underworld, where strip clubs, gambling dens, and illicit drinking haunts thrived in the shadow of Piccadilly Circus. At the centre of it all were the bent coppers—uniformed officers who treated the law not as an obligation but as a lucrative side hustle. Corruption wasn’t just a dirty secret; it was a business model, a well-oiled machine that made fortunes and ruined careers in equal measure.
The Rotten Apple Theory? Try a Whole Barrel
The idea that corruption in the Metropolitan Police was limited to a ‘few bad apples’ was laughable. In reality, the whole orchard had gone bad. The ‘Flying Squad’—a supposedly elite unit tackling armed robbery—was so compromised it became known as the ‘Sweeney,’ not just for rhyming slang (‘Sweeney Todd’ = ‘Flying Squad’) but for the way its officers sliced off a piece of every criminal enterprise they touched. The CID (Criminal Investigation Department) was another festering pit of compromised officers who had a curiously friendly relationship with Soho’s most notorious gangsters.
If you were running a dodgy club, running a protection racket, or just running from the law, the best way to stay in business was to ensure the local officers were on your payroll. And plenty of them were more than willing to oblige.
Who’s Watching the Watchmen?
Enter the Obscene Publications Squad—also known as ‘The Dirty Squad’—a unit meant to crack down on Soho’s booming trade in pornography. Instead, its officers made fortunes by taking bribes from pornographers in exchange for warnings about upcoming raids. If you were a publisher of risqué material in the ‘70s, it wasn’t the law you had to worry about—it was whether you were paying the right officer the right amount.
One of the most notorious members of this squad was Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Moody, a man whose surname could not have been less appropriate. There was nothing moody about his approach to corruption—it was industrial-scale. Moody and his colleagues weren’t just accepting the odd backhander; they were making tens of thousands of pounds a year (serious money at the time) from turning a blind eye to illegal businesses.
The arrangement was simple: pornographers, club owners, and racketeers paid a monthly ‘insurance’ fee to the police. In return, their doors stayed open, and any inconvenient legal troubles simply vanished. Those who refused to play ball would find themselves raided, shut down, or, worse, suddenly on the wrong end of a fabricated charge.
The Men Who Knew Too Much
Of course, the problem with running a corrupt empire is that people talk. And in 1972, people started talking loudly enough for Scotland Yard’s internal investigators to take notice. The anti-corruption unit, A10 (which later inspired the TV series Line of Duty), began quietly looking into officers whose lifestyles seemed suspiciously lavish.
One of the biggest scandals erupted when Detective Sergeant Harold ‘Tanky’ Challenor—a man who had a reputation for ‘verbaling’ suspects (fabricating confessions)—was found to be planting evidence on criminals who hadn’t paid their dues. His tactics were so extreme that he was eventually declared mentally unfit for duty, though many suspected this was a convenient way to avoid an embarrassing trial.
Then there was Commander Kenneth Drury, head of the Flying Squad, who was caught accepting luxury holidays from known criminals. Drury’s downfall came when it was revealed that he had been spending an awful lot of time with porn king Jimmy Humphreys, who was eventually persuaded to turn informant. Humphreys’ evidence painted a damning picture of a police force more interested in profit than justice.
How the Bent Coppers Operated
Corrupt officers in Soho had a number of ways to ensure their pockets remained lined. One of the most common schemes was the ‘tip-off’ system. Officers who were meant to be investigating illegal gambling or vice would instead warn the operators ahead of time, allowing them to move money, hide illicit materials, or temporarily close shop. In return, the officers would receive envelopes stuffed with cash or, in some cases, favours such as free drinks, drugs, or even access to prostitutes.
Another widespread racket was ‘fitted-up’ arrests. If an officer wanted to make an example of a criminal who wasn’t playing by the rules—or simply wanted to settle a score—they could plant evidence or fabricate witness statements. Some officers were known to carry ‘emergency’ evidence on them at all times: a bag of heroin, a stolen watch, or a roll of counterfeit notes that could conveniently appear in a suspect’s pocket when needed.
Protection rackets were also rife. In Soho, certain clubs and porn shops effectively had police patrons. A business could pay a fixed amount each month and operate without interference, while those who refused to pay would find themselves subject to repeated raids, licensing issues, and, in extreme cases, violent intimidation.
Some officers even went so far as to act as intermediaries between rival criminals, ensuring that disputes were settled in a way that kept the money flowing. If a dispute over territory arose, certain members of the Flying Squad or the Dirty Squad could step in—not as law enforcers, but as corrupt brokers making sure everyone got their cut.
The Fall of the Bent Coppers
By 1977, the corruption had become so blatant that the government had no choice but to act. Sir Robert Mark, the then Commissioner of the Met, launched a full-scale purge of corrupt officers. Mark had famously said, “A good police force is one that catches more criminals than it employs,” and he set about proving it by overseeing a series of high-profile arrests.
Drury, Moody, and several other high-ranking officers were sent to prison, their carefully constructed empires of bribery and blackmail collapsing overnight. In total, over 500 officers were forced out of the Met during the crackdown—an astonishing number that hinted at just how deep the rot had gone.
But even as the trials were taking place, Soho’s underworld barely flinched. The venues kept operating, the dodgy deals continued, and the police presence remained a mixture of honest officers, indifferent bureaucrats, and new recruits ready to pick up where the old guard had left off.
Legacy of a Lawless Era
The bent coppers of 1970s Soho didn’t just take bribes—they shaped the very nature of London’s criminal scene. Their collusion allowed gangsters like the Richardson brothers and porn barons like Paul Raymond to flourish. They turned the law into a commodity, something to be bought and sold like a dodgy Rolex on Berwick Street.
In the years that followed, the Met would make various attempts to clean up its image, but the scars of that era remain. Even today, stories of police corruption have a familiar ring—suggesting that while the faces may change, the game stays much the same.
And Soho? It’s different now, slicker and more sanitised, but if you look hard enough, you can still find the ghosts of the old days: a whisper of a deal done in the dark, a nod to the past in a lingering look between those who know how things really work. The bent coppers may have gone, but the spirit of Soho? That’s something no crackdown can ever erase.