by V E Rooney
QUEEN OF GREEN
Copyright ©V.E. Rooney
2015
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
SCOUSE TO ENGLISH DICTIONARY
Bell-end = derogatory reference to male genitalia
Bevvy/bevvies = alcoholic drink or drinks
Blag/blagging = to lie or boast
Blert = an idiot
Bonce = head
Brewsties/brewstied = From Brewster’s Millions; to have or get money
Brassic = to be poor; to have no money
Busy/Busies = Police
Cacky = of poor quality
Chinwag = a chat; to have a chat with someone
Ciggie = cigarette
Craic = Irish word for fun or entertainment
Cuzzies = HM Customs & Excise
Dickhead = an idiot
Doley = someone on the dole
Dosh = money
Dusty = to leave somewhere quickly enough to leave a cloud of dust, i.e. Roadrunner
Effing = the act of swearing using the word ‘fuck’
Epi = an epilectic fit
Gob = a mouth or the act of spitting
Gobshite = an idiot
Kecks = trousers
Knobhead = an idiot
Lecky = electricity
Mardy = miserable
Meff = a tramp
Mobey = a mobile phone
Mong = an idiot
Monged = to get high on cannabis
Mooch = to look at; to check
Offie = an off-licence; liquor store
Ollies = marbles
Prozzie = prostitute
Reccy = a reconnaissance mission
Ruck = a fight
Sarky = sarcastic
Scally/scallies = working class youths
Scouse = the Liverpool dialect
Scouser = from Liverpool; someone from Liverpool
Scran = food
Scrote = from ‘scrotum’; derogatory reference to male genitalia
Shite = excrement
Skint = to be poor; to have no money
Smackhead = a heroin addict
Social = Department of Health & Social Security
Spacky = a derogatory reference to someone with learning difficulties
Sprog = a baby or small child
Ta-ra = a Liverpudlian colloquial form of saying goodbye
Toe-rag = a low-class individual
Tosser = an idiot
Trackie = a tracksuit
Welly = a Wellington boot or the act of gaining speed or acceleration
Woollyback = a derogatory reference to someone not from Liverpool; most commonly used to refer to people from Lancashire or Cheshire
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE
1. PLANTING THE SEEDLING
2. ENVIRONMENTAL FACTORS
3. POLLINATION
4. THE FLOWERING STAGE
5. THE BUDDING STAGE
6. HARVESTING
PART TWO
7. MISSION STATEMENT
8. COMPANY BACKGROUND
9. RESEARCH & DEVELOPMENT
10. HUMAN RESOURCES
11. PRE-LAUNCH PREPARATION
12. SEED FUNDING
13. OPERATIONAL INFRASTRUCTURE
14. PRODUCT TESTING
15. MARKETING
16. MANUFACTURING CAPACITY
17. ACCOUNTS & BOOK-KEEPING
18. COMPETITOR ANALYSIS
19. HOSTILE TAKEOVER
20. INDUCTION
21. PROBATIONARY PERIOD
22. COMPANY MEETING
23. PROJECT MANAGEMENT
24. NETWORKING
25. TEST RUN
26. RISK ASSESSMENT
27. CAPITAL EXPANSION
28. BRANDING
29. INSIDER TRADING
30. DIVERSIFICATION
31. LOGISTICS
32. SILENT PARTNERS
PART THREE
33. COMMUNION
34. PENITENCE
35. FLAGELLATION
36. REDEMPTION
37. CONFESSION
THE AFTERMATH
AUTHOR’S NOTES
PART ONE
Lucy Daniel, friend:
We moved into the Kirkby flats around 1981. Before that we were in this horrible dump in Fazakerley. It was falling to bits, had rising damp all over the place. And our mum had asthma, so it was becoming a health hazard. So we got to the top of the housing list and the council said we could have this three-bed maisonette in Kirkby. Ali and her mum lived on the top floor on one side and we got the top floor flat on the other side, right next to each other. Her mum and my mum became mates straight away. They were the same age, you see. They’d take it in turns to babysit each other’s kids and then when we were old enough to mind ourselves, they’d go out. The bingo, the pub up the road, sometimes they’d go into town for a night out. They were as thick as thieves, those two. To be honest with you, I didn’t really like Ali that much. Not when we were kids, anyway. Me and Lauren were proper girly girls, and she was a bit…well, a bit strange. She had her own mates round there anyway so we didn’t spend that much time together.
John Barnett, friend:
I started smoking dope when I was about 14, I used to get it off one of the lads at school. I couldn’t do it at home though. My mum and dad would’ve gone mental at me if they’d found out, they were strict like that. So I’d go round the park with my mates or to someone’s house to do it. So I got to about 16, I was round at my mate’s house one night and he brought out a baggie and said, try this, lad, it’ll knock your socks off. So I did. And it did. And I’d smoked a lot of stuff in my time. I’ll never, ever forget the first time I tried Ali’s weed, I thought I was flying into space. It was fucking brilliant. So I said to my mate, you’ve got to put me in touch with this girl. So he did and I started buying off her. That’s how we became mates.
Lucy Daniel:
I suppose it was my mum and what she was doing at the time. My mum wasn’t a proper dealer, it was personal use, you know. Sometimes she’d sell it to her mates but that was just so we could pay the bills, yeah? There wasn’t much money around in those days. Not in Kirkby anyway. I couldn’t wait to leave home and get out of that dump. But yeah, I guess that’s how Ali got started with it all, through my mum. My mum stopped doing that years ago, by the way. But Ali carried on with it. I suppose you could say it was her hobby. While other girls were going to Brownies, dance classes and what have you, she was growing pot in the spare room.
Paul Forrester, a member of Sean Kerrigan’s crew:
Sean was pissed off because some of the regular customers stopped buying off us. These were customers who’d buy in bulk, who fancied themselves as small-time dealers. They’d want ounces, kilos off us, not eighths, you know. So business started dipping, people we’d been selling to for years were fucking us off. We started hearing rumours that a few of them were going up to fucking Kirkby to get their stuff. Kirkby’s a fucking shithole, by the way, it’s even worse than Toxteth. So one day, we got one of the lads to tail one of the customers over there to see who they were buying off. He would meet up with this lad, John, who lived up there. So we started tailing John to see what was what.
Alan Montague, friend:
Oh, Ali was a sweetheart. Lovely girl. Not like those thugs Sean had around him. And I was thrilled because I could have proper conversations with her about all sorts, intelligent stuff, you know. Which was far preferable to having to
listen to Paul and that lot grunting all the time. She was very switched on, do you know what I mean? Very intelligent, a hard worker. She was always watching and learning. I had a lot of time for Ali. I did feel a bit sorry for her, because as you know, it’s a very macho world she lived in. I mean uber-macho. I don’t know how she put up with Sean’s crew, because they gave her a very hard time at first. But as time went on, as people saw how good she was, they started to respect her, you know, treat her like one of the lads.
John Barnett:
She was like Percy fucking Thrower, you know that gardener off ‘Blue Peter’? She knew everything there was to know about plants. I’d see her reading gardening magazines and books out the library about horticult, whatever it is. She was always trying to make it better so that the punters would keep coming back for more. And they did. They couldn’t get enough of the stuff. I guess that’s how we got busted.
Paul Forrester:
So we were tailing this John lad. He kept going backwards and forwards between these flats in Kirkby town centre and the industrial estate up the road. So we followed him there. He kept going to this little place, this small factory unit. So we were watching from the car parked further down. He was in and out of that place like a blue-arsed fly. There was these two other little scallies, Brian and David, they kept turning up as well. And then we saw the big bastard, Ste. Built like a brick shithouse, he was. We thought he was the main man. So we thought, aye aye, got ourselves a small-time operation here. Which is taking business away from us. Can’t have that. Time to get tooled up and have a mooch inside.
John Barnett:
Well, yeah, I suppose it was unusual, you know. I mean, most girls, they’re not interested in stuff like that, are they? They’re into clothes and make-up and shoes and all that shit. But she wasn’t like most girls. We just saw her as one of the lads, know what I mean? And who’s gonna say no to some regular cash-in-hand for selling a baggie here and there? The dole doesn’t buy you that much. So when she asked me if I wanted to sell for her, I was like, too fucking right, girl. Fucking suited me down to the ground. Here we are, this bunch of kids fresh out of school, and we’re already raking in more money than most of the fucking adults around. And that was all down to her.
Alan Montague:
I did think it was a shame. It was such a waste of her talents. Because with her brains, she could’ve done anything. Lawyer, businesswoman, company boss, you name it. She could’ve walked into any job, any profession, and excelled straight away, show everyone how it’s meant to be done. But that was what she wanted to do. And unfortunately, it led to her downfall. I miss her.
Lee Halley, a member of Sean Kerrigan’s crew:
Ali? Fucking smart arse. Had a gob on her, know what I mean? She was always taking the piss out of me.
Paul Forrester:
So me and Lee are in the car keeping an eye on the place, trying to work out their routines, you know, what kind of security they’ve got in place. Sometimes they’d be in and out loads of times a day, at all hours, sometimes the place would be deader than a graveyard. And we couldn’t see anything through the window, it was just this small office with a desk, chair, a phone. Just like any other business on the estate. So we’re sat in the car one night, and the big bastard turns up outside. He goes in and comes out again after about 10 minutes. The door shuts behind him so we’re wondering whether to follow him. But then the door opens again and this little scrap of a girl comes out, stands in the doorway and shouts him back. So we were like, aye aye, who the fuck is that? Never seen her before. We thought it was someone’s bird, you know? So they’re standing in the doorway chatting for a bit, and then she pulls out this fat wad of notes and gives it to him, waves him off and then shuts the door. So we were like, aye aye, what’s all this? We carry on keeping watch over the next couple of days and we see that this bird is usually the first one there and the last one to leave. And we clock on that these lads are her bag lads. So I got on the mobey to Sean and said, you’re not gonna believe this, boss.
Alison Reynolds, drug dealer, drug smuggler and member of Sean Kerrigan’s crew:
So you want to know how I got started?
Well, you could talk to the people I grew up with, you could talk to old friends and neighbours, some of the people I worked with. But there are some people who won’t talk to you. Some are in jail. Some have disappeared. Some are dead. And some of them would sooner rip your head off and shit in your neck than talk to you. And you may find your house firebombed as a warning to you to stop being nosey and mind your own business.
You may want to dig up the newspaper reports, Police files, talk to Customs officers, lawyers, judges, politicians. Do you seriously think any of them will cough up? That lot are all covering their own arses. They know that if they spill, they are as good as dead, because they were balls-deep in the whole thing themselves.
You could even read one of those ‘true crime’ paperbacks narrated by small-time knuckle-dragging pricks who were nowhere near the centre of the action, and ghost-written by some lowly-paid local newspaper hack who fancies himself as the next big crime author.
For a bottle of Scotch, for a few notes, for a bit of blow, for the promise of renewed notoriety, these pricks will say anything to make it sound like they were at the centre, how they were in with all the big men and heavy hitters, how without their unique skills and insights, some of the biggest jobs might never have happened. How they suddenly had an epiphany and became grasses, and how they were instrumental in taking down some of the Mr Bigs.
Talking out of their arses, each and every one of them. It’s funny how all these newly-literate arch-criminals are now on the bones of their arses, skint and stuck in some crumbling council flat and with nothing to show for all their criminal endeavours over the years. I suppose these books are their way of reclaiming and reliving their past glories in order to blot out the misery of the present day, and no matter if their roles are embellished and revised to make them sound more important than they were. The readers lap this crap up like they’re getting a first-hand account of what happened. It’s all bollocks.
Well, I have plenty of time on my hands and it’s time to correct some lies, dispel some myths and give it to you straight. You may be wondering whether I’m exaggerating or making stuff up. After all, on the surface, it does sound far-fetched, even to me. Sometimes even I can’t believe how it all happened. But I have no reason to lie. This is how it all happened. I was at the centre of it. I made it happen.
1. PLANTING THE SEEDLING
Wednesday, 14th of April, 1999
My taxi comes to a stop outside the foreboding walls of HM Prison Holloway in north London, the largest female penal institution in the UK. First opened in 1852 as a mixed prison for both men and women, it became women-only in 1903.
Over the years, Holloway has housed some of the UK’s most infamous female convicts, such as Myra Hindley, Diana Mitford and Ruth Ellis. Ellis, the last woman to be executed in the UK, was hanged here in 1955 – one of five executions that took place in the prison before the death penalty was abolished in 1957. Holloway also has its own unique place in the history of women’s rights, as it was used to detain members of the Suffragette movement, including Anne Miller Fraser, Constance Markeivicz, Charlotte Despard and Mary Richardson.
Today, I am here to meet Holloway’s most notorious current inmate, who, after several months of legal to-and-fro with both her and the prison authorities, has agreed to talk to me about the events that led to her being detained here at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Alison Clare Reynolds is a 26-year-old native of Kirkby in Merseyside, on the outskirts of Liverpool. In 1997, she was convicted for her part in organising one of the UK’s largest and most audacious drug smuggling conspiracies, which involved a consignment of 520 kilos of cocaine with an estimated street value of almost £40 million being shipped directly from Venezuela to the UK.
Two members of the ring received lengthy prison sentences, b
ut it was Reynolds who was given the longest sentence – 25 years – due to what the Police and Customs officers claimed was her central role in organising the plot. Reynolds attained instant notoriety when the verdict was handed down, and was labelled the UK’s single biggest cocaine importer, a female criminal the likes of which the UK law authorities had never seen before.
She has been compared to some of the senior female figures in the Mafia and other organised crime networks around the world, placed on a par with the likes of Griselda Blanco, the so-called “Cocaine Godmother” of Colombia’s Medellin Cartel; and Rosetta Cutolo, Mafia head of the Nuova Commora Organizzita and the sister of former Cammora boss Raffaele Cutolo.
In the wake of Reynolds’ arrest and subsequent conviction for the Venezuela plot, fevered tabloid journalists printed lurid articles of her alleged exploits, including her supposed links with Irish Republican Army weapons dealers, her infiltration of various law enforcement agencies via bribery and corruption, and tales of her gruesome methods of retribution against those who had incurred her wrath.
Although Reynolds herself insists that she never killed anyone by her own hand, former associates and rivals tell stories of her enemies being strapped to concrete blocks and thrown alive into the River Mersey in Liverpool, whilst others met their ends after being savaged and mauled to death by Rottweiler dogs specially trained to rip apart human beings – all on her orders. According to one source: “People knew not to cross her. They’d say: ‘If you fuck with Reynolds, she’ll set the hounds of hell onto you.’ People who had never even met her – and I mean proper hard criminals - were petrified of her.”
Newspaper articles have eagerly speculated on the true size of her wealth, with figures ranging from £6 million to a staggering £350 million, accumulated through years of carefully planned and executed deals arranged with organised crime rings both in the UK and around the world.
