by Robert White
He cricked his neck.
“Anyway, never mind that for now, like I said, there’s another job for us to do… tonight. And if it all goes according to plan… we’ll be going into the ice cream business ourselves… and the whole town will be talkin’ about us.”
Tony smiled failing to grasp the seriousness of the conversation, “I like ice cream Frankie.”
Verdi placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “I know you do Tone, but don’t worry, all will be revealed.”
Frankie turned businesslike. “Now… Eddie… you go tell that grass bastard what we agreed… he’ll tell that detective pal of his… what’s his name? Hacker… that’s him… Hacker… he’ll tell the coppers up Stockton… Oh, and Eddie… soon as your done with Fat Les… get back here with your motor.”
Eddie knew better than to ask questions. Frankie would divulge his plans as and when. He simply pushed his chair back, lifted his jacket from the back and slipped it over his massive shoulders.
“I’ll go see the cunt now… no time like the present lads.”
Frankie turned and pointed a warning finger, “Slip it in all casual Eddie.”
Eddie gave Frankie another look that told him he was stating the obvious, and stepped from the room, his unusually light footsteps disappearing toward Fat Les’ house three streets away.
Frankie returned to his seat at the table and poured more tea for Tony and himself.
He took a sip.
If Eddie Williams’ eyes were a sharp, dancing blue, Frankie’s were at the other end of the spectrum, a deep chocolate. That said, his irises were unusually small and were overpowered by the jet of his pupils. This gave the impression of a dark, flat void at the very centre of his eye. Despite his diminutive stature, those eyes gave him something the other two would never truly wield.
Frankie Verdi had the power to strike genuine fear into another human being without saying a single word.
Tony took a noisy gulp of his brew, opened a new twenty-pack of Embassy and lit one. He dropped the cigarettes on the table with a nod.
Frankie took one, tapped it on the pack, just as he’d seen Al Pacino do in The Godfather, and pushed it into his mouth.
Before Frankie could find a light, Tony had his Zippo open.
Frankie lit up. “Nice,” he said, exhaling slowly and eyeing the lighter. “Where’d you get that?”
Tony snapped the gold-plated Zippo shut and gave it to Frankie to admire further.
“That tobacconist shop in town, bottom of Fishergate, near the station, y’know?”
Frankie nodded appreciatively and rubbed his thumb over the cool smooth surface of the item.
“Think I’ll nip in tomorrow and get me one. I like the old way, simple, classy, just a wick, flint and petrol. I’m sick of them new disposables.”
Tony smiled. It was a broad natural beam that lit up his eyes.
He loved it when Frankie approved of something he did or had. Frankie and Eddie were his world.
Only they understood him; they never took the piss when he got mixed up or made a mistake; never called him thick or retard or spaz.
The two sat smoking in comfortable silence for a while. Some kids began playing in the garden next door, and their giddy laughter filtered through the open window and into the warm smoky room.
Frankie listened to them and tried to remember if he had ever been so innocent.
Ever since they were small boys, kicking cans in the street, Frankie knew he’d have a special responsibility for Tony. He knew the lad needed a little extra care and attention. Attention that only he could provide. Frankie knew he must protect Tony from his worst enemy… himself.
He pushed the pack of Embassy back across the table.
“Remember, at school when that fat kid punched you in the face and nicked your fags Tony?”
Thompson squirmed in his seat. He didn’t like to hear about the school bully; it made him feel weak.
“Course I do.”
Frankie allowed himself a kind smile. He loved Tony, and Tony needed to understand the strategy of the group; the reasoning and rationale. Not words he would know, but Frankie would simplify his message. No one would be excluded from any decision he made; especially Tony.
“What we did to that kid… the three of us… that was because we look after each other, you know what I’m saying mate?”
Tony was wide-eyed.
“Yeah, course Frankie; I know what you’re sayin’. You’re dead clever mate, I know that.”
“Do you Tony? So, do you know why we did that screw in? Messed him up so bad?”
Tony’s lip curled. Frankie and Eddie had taught him all he needed to know about vengeance and retribution, even if he could never spell the words.
He shook with anger.
“He… he wanted to do bad things with me… to me… I mean. He beat me Frank. He beat me hard.”
Frankie rested a hand on the shoulder of his lifelong friend. “And we could never allow him to get away with that… could we?”
Tony grimaced and balled his fists until his knuckles were white, crushing his cigarette between his fingers and dropping ash onto the tablecloth. He looked deep into Frankie’s eyes.
There was a tremor in his voice.
“I enjoyed killing that fucker mate. Smashing his face to mush, like a… like a lump of mincemeat eh Frankie? He fuckin’ screamed Frankie. Just like he wanted me to scream eh? But I wouldn’t would I? He beat me… and beat me… wanted to play with my cock… remember? Dirty fucker he was… always after feeling up the lads… but not me Frankie… not me… no chance.”
Verdi’s eyes turned black as coal. He grabbed Tony’s fist in his warm hand.
“He’s gone now mate. The only thing that matters is us eh? Me, you… an’ Eddie, The Three Dogs!”
Tony lifted his tea cup and toasted his friend.
“The Three Dogs!”
CHAPTER TWO
Fat Les Thomas was an ice cream man and a cannabis dealer. He kept his business ventures secure, by occasionally grassing up one of his customers. Now you wouldn’t think that a man like Les would be allowed to survive on an estate like Moor Nook, but somehow, he managed to keep his balancing act going.
Maybe it was because he chose who to grass up very carefully. Maybe it was because he sold the very best Moroccan resin available; or maybe, it was because his brother was Mickey Thomas, the most feared brawler in town.
To Les, one less dope smoker was a cheap price to pay for the smooth running of his empire.
Today, however, Fat Les had a dilemma.
He’d just had a visit from one of those kids who the papers were calling The Three Dogs, and what a big dog Eddie Williams had turned out to be. The last time Les had seen him, he was a skinny fuckin’ runt playing in the gutter. Now he was built like a brick shithouse and dressed like a millionaire.
The kid bought a quarter of “rocky” from Les and cool as a cucumber let the bombshell slip.
Now Les was perfectly okay dropping a stoner to the cops. But some fuckin’ nutter who casually mentions that he and his two mates had battered a screw to death up Kirklevington… well that was a different matter. The alarm bells were going off in Les’ empty head.
Trouble was, Fat Les, was fat for a reason.
Les was greedy. Greedy with his food and greedy with his business ventures.
He considered his options, and decided to go where the money was; besides, who was going to cross him, when his brother was the hardest man in town?
He pulled on his denim jacket, fired up his Cortina and went to see Detective Jim Hacker.
Within the hour, The Three Dogs were in the frame for the Morris murder.
Eddie opened the boot of his Mini 1275GT and gently placed the bag of items the Dogs would need for the night’s business inside. The car was bright
yellow with black flared arches and was his pride and joy. Just a year old, the Mini had been in a front-end write-off. Eddie had lovingly repaired the car and returned it to its former glory. It was now worth three times what he’d paid the guy for it. He really wanted a Capri or better still a Triumph Stag, but, for now, those cars were out of his reach.
For now.
Eddie jumped into the driver’s seat whilst Frankie lolled in the back. They passed a spliff, made with Fat Les’ Moroccan between them, and drove to Tony’s house two blocks away.
As they pulled up outside, Eddie hit the horn and waited for Tony to emerge.
The car had a brand new eight-track stereo and Eddie’s favourite Northern Soul tunes blasted out. Needle in a Haystack and Jimmy Mack could be heard all along the street.
“This fuckin’ music is shite!” bellowed Frankie over the din. “Have you no modern stuff?”
“Like what?”
Frankie was the epitome of the Italian gangster caricature. He hunched his narrow shoulders, tucked in his elbows, palms up. “Like… y’know… Blondie… Boomtown Rats… The Blockheads.”
Eddie was flat, dry, northern muscle. “Anything beginning with ‘B’ then?”
Frankie leaned across the front seat and passed the spliff over. “Sometimes you are a real wanker Eddie!”
The argument over the stereo was temporarily forgotten as the passenger door opened and Tony flopped into the seat.
“What’re you two shouting about? My mum can hear you in the kitchen.”
Eddie handed the joint to Tony. “Sorry pal, just that Frankie has no taste in music.”
Tony took a long pull and exhaled slowly. “Mmm, good shit man.”
“Fat Les,” acknowledged Eddie.
Tony raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Fat Les?”
There’s a Ghost in my House filled the car.
Frankie leaned between his two compatriots.
“Yeah, Fat Les… grassing cunt!”
The car exploded with laughter.
Sunday evening was all about having fun; a few early drinks before work Monday.
This Sunday, however, was different.
Eddie drove slowly along Deepdale Road. The early summer evening was doing its best to keep the skies bright and the girls scantily clad. Frank, Eddie and Tony whistled their appreciation at the short skirts and flimsy blouses as they passed by.
The girls giggled at the three young, handsome, well-dressed boys.
Eddie had to stop Tony from waving his penis out of the window.
Days earlier Larry Holmes had fought for the heavyweight championship of the world and the Army and Navy pub on Meadow Street was showing a tape of the fight. The place would be packed with boxing fans, but it was one fan in particular The Three Dogs wanted to see.
Eddie pulled the Mini up outside the pub. Tony was out in a flash and through the door. Less than a minute later, Thompson was back on the pavement. He gave the slightest of nods.
Their target was inside.
Detective Jim Hacker
When Lesley Thomas turned up at the nick that Sunday, I was ready to leave for the day. “Fat Les”, as he was known, was a small-time drug dealer, who liked to think he was big time. Even so, it was still somewhat of a surprise when he told me he had information about a murder.
When he dropped the names, I instantly knew it was the Kirklevington job. I knew what he was going to say before the words dripped from his scheming fat mouth.
I should’ve sent him packing.
The murder that was committed in Stockton on Tees was way out of my remit. The only evidence came from the mouth of a seventeen-year-old boy, who would simply say he was bragging to make himself look cool in front of his criminal peer. It was worthless without corroboration.
I should probably have given Fat Les his fiver, swept the whole thing under the carpet, and taken my wife out for her birthday as planned.
But I didn’t.
Before I left, I sent a telex to the murder incident room at Stockton, with the details and descriptions of The Three Dogs, together with the dates they were incarcerated in Kirklevington.
I had my toe in the water and I was never going to be completely dry again.
I drove home that evening and did my best switch off cop, and switch on my best husband impression.
I remember we had a sitter for the first time in months and I was taking Marie to Angelo’s on Avenham Street, her favourite Italian.
She looked lovely in her new summer dress and we had a wonderful child-free evening. Laughing and talking, just as we had ten years earlier on our first date. As I recall we even managed a dance. I’d hoped to take my good fortune back home with me as far as the bedroom, but on our return, our sitter had bad news.
Fat Les Thomas had been franticly ringing the CID office, in an attempt to contact me. Against my better judgement and my wife’s advice, I reluctantly returned his call.
To say he was petrified was an understatement. He begged me not to use the information he had so willingly sold to me hours earlier; he even offered his fee back a hundred times over. No mean amount to a struggling cop with a growing family.
Sadly, for him, and for me, I could not undo what had been done.
Now, I want to be clear here. I cannot prove any of this next part of my story, as no witnesses or complainants ever came forward. It is no more than a piece of Preston criminal folklore, if there is such a thing. A tale told in hushed tones, between drunks on a Friday night. Nonetheless, this is what I gleaned from the slivers of that myth and legend.
Shortly after seven o’clock on that Sunday 18th June 1978, Fat Les’ brother, Michael James Thomas was enjoying a drink in the Army and Navy public house on Meadow Street, with his two regular accomplices in violence, Jack and Steve Phillips.
Jack and Steve were Mickey’s paid minders. The “king” of Preston was becoming older and slower with the passage of time and needed some protection from would-be crown stealers.
Despite Mickey’s age and ballooning size, he was still a fearsome figure, and together with the Phillips brothers, ruled the streets of the town, giving no quarter, often preying on the weaker souls of the parish.
The landlord of the establishment had secured the latest in video technology and was showing the world heavyweight boxing contest between Larry Holmes and Ken Norton. Mickey Thomas and his two goons had pride of place in front of the screen.
Frankie Verdi, Eddie Williams and Tony Thompson allegedly entered the Army and Navy unnoticed. Tony and Eddie brandished what some called truncheons, some called bats. Whatever they carried, they used them to devastating effect. They struck the Phillips brothers with both accuracy and fearsome force, directly behind their knees. Both men dropped on their backs winded and shocked. Before they could recover, Eddie and Tony began raining blows down on the heads of their victims. Legend has it, the noise of Jack Phillips’ skull cracking could be heard across the street.
In all the carnage, Frankie Verdi stood defiantly in front of Mickey Thomas, the hardest man in town. Verdi was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. People say his staring eyes were the devil’s own.
He calmly pulled two knuckle dusters from the pockets of his jacket, slid them on his hands and set about a man seven inches taller and seven stone heavier than himself.
They say, that within seconds, Frankie stood over his foe, as he lay unconscious in a pool of blood, glass and beer.
How accurate the story is, only a handful of people truly know. What I can say as fact, is Mickey Thomas and the Phillips brothers were all hospitalised that night. Thomas received a fractured eye socket, burst eardrum and several broken ribs. Jack Phillips still walks with a stick to this day.
After visiting his brother in hospital that night, Fat Les “gave” Frankie Verdi, Eddie Williams and Tony Thompson his ic
e cream van, and with it his cannabis business.
Frankie, generous to a fault, gave Fat Les his job, in his father’s kitchen.
Les never came to me with information again.
It took Stockton Police six days to react to my telex, but on Saturday 24th June 1978, two burly red-faced detectives finally arrived at Preston nick with the intention of arresting The Three Dogs for the murder of Prison Officer Morris. They also held search warrants for their family homes.
In a new development in the case, a petrol attendant at a Shell station, just off the A67, close to Kirklevington prison had reported fuelling a bright yellow Mini car, with three young men aboard it, on the day of the murder. My descriptions of The Three Dogs matched the three in the Mini. This, and the fact that Morris had worked on the same Kirklevington wing that the boys were housed, was enough for the detective superintendent in charge of the murder inquiry to spare the two Jacks to travel south, and a magistrate to issue the warrants. After spending ten minutes with the knuckle-dragging detectives, I instantly knew that they would be no match for Frankie Verdi and his crew, and indeed, I was found to be correct.
The house searches revealed nothing except Eddie Williams’ yellow Mini car; a great find you may think; except the Stockton officers duly drove it back to the station. As the less-than-professional detectives had both visited the murder scene, this effectively ruined any chance of a forensic find in the car due to possible cross-contamination.
As I said… no match.
After three hours of questioning and receiving “no comment” answers, the boys from Stockton reverted to type and decided to beat a confession from The Three Dogs.
The result… sore knuckles and silence. Frankie, Eddie and Tony were bailed eight hours later… no charges.
On Monday 26th June 1978, three battered and bruised faces were plastered across the front page of the Lancashire Evening Post. The headline boasted “Cruelty to Animals” The same crime reporter that had branded the fifteen-year-olds with their nickname now seemed intent on immortalising the seventeen-year-olds as wounded, working class heroes.
