by Dan Bilefsky
“I’ve been thinking you know how the fuck that Bill got involved,” Perkins fumed to Jones.
“Brian,” said Jones, barely able to disguise his contempt as he mentioned Reader’s name.5
The two men fretted that someone could have easily stolen part of their stash from under Collins’s nose, since he was such a “thick cunt.” Or Collins himself could get greedy.
“You’re never going to know if anything has been taken out of there,” Jones complained.
“Not in a million years, we could have lost two million pounds,” Perkins said, sounding frustrated. His real estate investments aside, he lived in a simple nondescript house. But his greed seemed to have no limits. The thought that he was being ripped off irritated him. There was a twelve-carat diamond in the stash he had heard about on the telly during a news bulletin concerning the burglary. What if it was gone?
“Kenny has been fucked 24–7 all of his life,” Jones said, referring to Collins. Jones, who had hidden part of his stash in the cemetery near his house, decided he was going to keep that for himself and Perkins, and not tell the others. “It’s only a packet like, ain’t it,” he said to Perkins.
Perkins was also worried about Collins’s memory lapses and reliability. “He’s been fucked every day of the fucking week, every day of the week he gets fucked,” he replied. “It’s human nature. What if that soppy cunt gets a 12 mil stone and fucking sells it for 30 quid or something?”6 He lamented that Collins was such a terrible thief that he had once targeted a shoe store!7 Enough was enough. They had to get the jewels back.
Meanwhile, Perkins, who had good contacts stretching back decades in London’s underworld, forged ahead with finding someone to fence the jewels, gold, and diamonds. The gang seemed only too happy that Reader had jumped. But without his thieving savvy, they were fumbling badly.
London City Metals
It was too risky to try to resell the stolen jewelry in the Garden, but to dispose of the gold, bangles, and watches in their possession, one place immediately came to mind for Perkins: London City Metals Scrap Company and his old family friend Charles “Chick” Matthews.
The scrap yard in Silvertown, on a dusty industrial strip in east London of car dealerships and warehouses, had long been a front for fencing the illegal booty of burglaries, according to Scotland Yard. Hot emeralds. Gold necklaces. Stolen Mercedes. Marble busts yanked from stately homes. What better way to spirit them out of the country than in a huge truck hauling scrap metal?
For nearly a century, the capital’s gritty East End had been the stomping ground for some of London’s most notorious crime families: the Krays, the Hunts, the Adams. And the borough of Newham, which hosts London City Metals, remains one of London’s poorest. (Tell a Flying Squad detective you are going down to London City Metals to investigate the gang’s fencing operation and they will skeptically size you up, ask if you have a death wish, and express admiration for your courage.)
The area also hosts Tate & Lyle Sugars, one of the world’s largest sugar factories in the world. On the first night of the Blitz in 1940, Nazi bombs landed on the refinery, sending tens of thousands of gallons of smoking molasses flowing into the River Thames and filling the air with the smell of burned sugar. Now it is stolen goods that flow through Silvertown.
When police raided London City Metals in 2006, they uncovered a treasure trove of stolen goods from truck hijackings across the capital, including more than £1 million ($1.5 million) worth of gold and jewelry. The scrap metal outfit is owned by Charles “Chick” Matthews, fifty-three, a short and stocky man with a thick neck and sparkling blue eyes. His Irish grandfather started the business after the Second World War.
Located on the northern bank of the Thames in the shadow of Canary Wharf and across from the Millennium Dome, the area around Silvertown has hosted a teeming criminal ecosystem stretching back decades. The nearby Royal Docks, London’s principal docks after World War II, received dozens of ships each day, arriving from Rotterdam, New York, and India and crammed with everything from giant crates of fruits and vegetables to cars and fine French porcelain. At the height of its success in the 1950s and 1960s, the Docks employed more than 100,000 people. They also provided a fertile thieving ground for canny young apprentice thieves growing up in the surrounding impoverished area, who would sneak in at night and steal from the ships at berth.
On Saturday, May 9, 2015, several surveillance officers from the Flying Squad’s specialist crime and operations directorate team were quietly parked near Perkins’s home on Heene Road in Enfield when Perkins suddenly appeared in the doorway and headed toward his car. He was wearing metal-framed glasses, a neatly ironed black sweater, and a white dress shirt as he entered the blue Citroën Saxo.8 He had dressed up. It seems he wanted to make a good impression.
The London underworld was small, and ever since the burglary had been publicized, every crook in town wanted to get his grubby little hands on some of the booty. Guessing where the gang had stashed it had become a parlor game among the fraternity. The longer the gang waited to turn it into cash, the more they risked, not only getting caught by police but having some of it get “nicked” by the other thieves circling them.
Those apprehensions were likely milling through Terry Perkins’s head as the Saxo pulled up into London City Metals at 10:25 a.m. The scrap metal yard is tucked behind a barbed wire fence mounted with CCTV cameras. Large metal containers brimmed with scrap metal, the carcasses of old and abandoned cars, pieces of bridges, the urban detritus of dozens of factories across the capital. If a black SUV with tinted windows squatted out front, its yellow license plate with the letters CM—or Charles Matthews—then it was likely that Chick Matthews, or “Frank,” was in his office.
A large blue sign in front of the scrap metal warehouse said TODAY’S PRICES and listed the prices for, among other items, DRY BRIGHT WIRE, ELECTRIC MOTOR, and ALUMINUM WHEELS—on a recent day, respectively, £35.00, £380 and £950.
As Perkins made his way toward the scrap yard’s interior, where Frank had his offices, there were large heaps of granulated cables that would be pulverized in a mill and turned into copper. There was an industrial scale outside the warehouse entrance where trucks carrying metals could be weighed. The glittering world of Hatton Garden seemed a world away.
Chick Matthews was a very respected fence in the London underworld, according to police. But Perkins knew that such a service wouldn’t come cheaply, especially if he wanted to get payment in cash. Police suspect he wanted Matthews to hide some of the stolen jewels in the scrap metal yard until the frenzy surrounding the heist died down. Perkins wanted to find out what price he could get for the gold bars in the safe deposit boxes and the dozens of diamonds the gang planned to pry off from the stolen rings.
But while Perkins expressed hope that Frank could fence the gold and the diamonds, he wasn’t sure about the rest of the jewels. “I ain’t got a fucking clue with stones,”9 he told Jones. He explained that while it was more straightforward to fence gold by melting it down, it was far more perilous to off-load gems, as they were easier to trace.
About a week after his visit to Frank’s scrap yard, Perkins informed Jones that they couldn’t afford to be tightfisted when it came to Frank. “Any shit I’ll give to Frank I want to give him a bit of cream as well do you know what I mean and I know that he will take it. ’Cause he will say to me, ‘What’s all this shit, where’s the cream?’ ”10
Jones and Perkins regretted that many of the stones would be hard to appraise and sell, but they could melt down the necklace chains for cash. But Perkins also warned Jones that getting any money for anything other than gold—including the hundreds of silver chains they had stolen—would be difficult, given that Frank had a scrap metal yard, and had an abundance of metals of every type. Marveling at an eighty-year-old antique diamond they had in the shape of a flower, he also lamented that Frank was wary of jewels that could be traced back to their owners.
“If you take it to someone like Frank,
he would laugh at me,” he said to Jones. “He’d say, ‘oh fucking shut up. What do you want for it,’ he would say, ‘six grand? You are fucking mental.’ ”11 As for the dozens of silver chains they now had in their possession, he added that the owner of the scrap metal yard hardly needed it: “He’s got fucking 98 tons of that stuff, brass or whatever it fucking was.”12
Time to Move the Jewels
The gang decided that they would bring all of the stolen jewels together on the morning of Tuesday, May 19, at Terri’s modest house on 24 Sterling Road in Enfield. Never mind that the area was covered with CCTV cameras.
The plan was for the exchange of the gear to take place in a parking lot outside Hugh Doyle’s plumbing workshop so the thieves could avoid being seen by passing police officers. On Sunday, May 17, Terri would be leaving on a previously planned vacation in Portugal—paid for by Perkins, who had a new infusion of cash following the burglary. It was a good pretext to get her out of the house and make sure that the place was empty. But Perkins wanted to keep the gathering small. He was house-proud and meticulous, and he was worried that his cronies and their dogs would make a mess.
As the men put the final touches on the operation in the days leading up to an exchange fraught with the very heavy risk of getting caught, Perkins once again fumed to Jones that their previously close-knit fraternity had now grown into a cumbersome network. Strangers couldn’t be trusted, including Harbinson, Bill Lincoln’s taxi-driving nephew, recruited by his uncle to transfer the goods.
“I don’t want the taxi driver at my daughter’s den, no way!” he said.
“Bullocks!” said Jones.
“No fucking way.”
Jones said they had to be more careful. To avoid detection, he said he also planned to go to the cemetery, dig up some of his stash of jewels, and bring them to his house, the eve of the transfer, under cover of darkness.
Perkins suggested he conceal the jewels in a jacket and dress as a painter, and carry paint and a bucket. Mindful that he was about to oversee the divvying up of the proceeds from the biggest burglary in English history, he wanted to make sure that every detail was accounted for. He even worried Jones’s omnipresent pooch, Rocket, could cause a mess while they distributed the jewels.
“Don’t bring your fucking dog with you, I don’t want a dog running ’round me daughter’s house,” he chided Jones. “Fuck that, she ain’t got a fucking mansion but you can tell it’s clean, you know.”13
On Sunday—two days before the exchange—the men rehearsed a play-by-play of the handover operation. First, Jones and Collins would meet in the back of the Wheatsheaf pub, where they would retrieve the stashes of stolen jewels from bags in the trunk of Harbinson’s taxi. Then they would transfer the bags to Collins’s Mercedes and drive to Terri’s house, where the diamonds, gold, watches, and jewelry could be separated and organized before it was to be sold and laundered for cash. Then Perkins would return to Frank’s for an appraisal. He told Jones that he hoped that his portion could fetch at least £1 million ($1.5 million).
The logistics had to be seamless. The exchange speedy and discreet. “We can’t just change over in the streets in taxis, we will lose the gear, you’ve only got to have Old Bill drive past,” Perkins said referring to the police.
“Get the cab driver to pull up,” he continued, alluding to Harbinson.
“Pretend like you’re going on holiday,”14 Jones replied.
The men even discussed what they would do if they were pulled over by the police and arrested.
“If someone comes to pull you over, say ‘no comment,’ ” Perkins instructed. “We are arresting you for Hatton Garden, ‘no comment.’ ” It was a rare moment of self-awareness—and paranoia—about the possible consequences of their crime. But it quickly passed. Age seemed to have emboldened their sense of invincibility, or at least a powerful sense of resignation. Or maybe they felt they had nothing to lose. Perhaps being fêted in all the newspapers and on the telly and the radio had intoxicated them. Whatever happened, they were back in the game!
But contingencies were considered. Perkins mused that if Scotland Yard nabbed them, they could use their old age and various infirmities as a cover for their crime. “I’ll say, ‘What you dopey cunt, I can’t even fucking walk!’ ” Perkins boasted to Jones that, after he was arrested for the Security Express robbery three decades ago, he had used a similar technique of obfuscation and denial.
“That is what I said on the thing thirty years ago. I said, ‘you’re fucking joking, int’ya?’ I said the only way I got my fucking money is buying and selling houses, no comment, no comment.” He neglected to mention that feigning ignorance hadn’t worked, and he had spent nearly twenty years behind bars. But selective memory was a form of self-protection. Or maybe he was getting a bit forgetful from all the stress?
Perkins once again confirmed the time—before 10 a.m.—and address of the “cut up.” Surveillance officers watched Jones and Perkins move garbage bins from the sidewalk into the driveway in front of Jones’s house, which they planned to use to store some of the loot.
“Sterling Road, I know it, number 21, ain’t it?” Jones asked.
“24,” Perkins replied.
“24, I know where it is.”15
After listening in on devices planted in Perkins’s car, the Flying Squad surveillance officers could barely contain their excitement. They now knew the time and the day of the transfer, and Johnson was ready.
Chapter 13
To Catch a Thief
AS THE DAY APPROACHED, JOHNSON, CRAIG TURNER, and Jamie Day gathered in a small room at the Flying Squad’s headquarters in Putney to plan their strategy. Two nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the room overlooked the Thames, and the serenity of the river below provided a tranquil counterpoint to the high-stakes operation. One false move could set the investigation back months, or, worse, send the aging thieves underground.
It was around 7 a.m. when Johnson, Turner, and their team huddled and went over the details. Four teams would tail the suspects at four addresses across the city—including the Wheatsheaf pub; Brian Reader’s home in Dartford, Kent; Perkins’s home in Enfield and—crucially—Terri’s house at 24 Sterling Road. One team would be floating in case reinforcements were needed. Altogether, there would be some two hundred officers, who would use unmarked cars and a battering ram to knock down doors. The raids would happen simultaneously so that none of the thieves could be tipped off and flee. The police had one advantage: other than Jones, most of the gang suffered from joint pain and were poor runners, and the bags of jewels were heavy.
The Flying Squad also decided that the officers charged with nabbing the men would not be armed. In contrast to the United States, the police use of firearms in Britain is far more tightly restricted, and while Flying Squad officers have the training to carry arms, it was reasoned that the geriatric thieves hadn’t physically harmed a flea during the heist, and wouldn’t resist arrest. And even if they did, they were old, and wouldn’t get very far. Each unit would keep a radio line open during the operation so that Turner and Johnson, back at headquarters, could monitor every move in real time, and send reinforcements, if necessary.
“We knew that Perkins was taking his daughter to the airport and waiting for her premises to become available to transfer the goods,” Turner recalled. “We overheard them saying on one of the listening devices that ‘today is the day.’ So, we decided to spring into action.” But the police weren’t exactly sure when and where the jewelry would appear and the surveillance teams assigned to Perkins and Collins had to tread carefully, to avoid being detected. One false move, and the men could escape or go underground.
“It was quite exciting,” Johnson said with rare exuberance, then qualified by his usual dose of skepticism. “But if you work on these kinds of operations you get used to the intelligence saying something is happening today and then it happens a month later. Up until then, the probe had been pretty reliable every time the team said they we
re going to do something,” he added, referring to the bugs placed in Perkins’s and Collins’s cars. “But it is better to not expect anything to avoid disappointment. It was like D-Day but you don’t know if it is going to happen.”1
ON TUESDAY, MAY 19, at 8:10 a.m., with Flying Squad detectives monitoring their every move, Collins left his home in Islington in his white Mercedes to pick up Jones.
“Shut that door Ken, in case the dog jumps out,” Jones warned Collins, whose dog was on the front seat.
“In the back, in the back, Pugsey, go!”2 Jones said, trying to coax the dog toward the back seat.
If Collins and Jones were nervous, they didn’t show it. It was only after nattering about the warm weather and the relative benefits of wearing shorts or trousers, that Collins warned Jones that they needed to be cautious when they moved the loot. “You don’t want someone thinking we’re doing a drugs changeover or something,” he said.
“It looks like you’ve come off holiday, innit, shorts on and that,” Jones replied.3 The men were about to embark on a perilous trip, the culmination of three years of planning that would get them one step closer to the cash they so desperately craved. But it was their sartorial choices, the weather and Collins’s apparent suntan that was dominating the conversation. Collins was wearing a black jacket and dark trousers. Jones was wearing beige shorts and a gray sweater.
“I love the old shorts on, don’t you?” Jones asked.
“I did but it said it was going to rain all day long,” Collins replied.
“Yeh, but you’re so relaxed with ’em on.”
“Oh ten times better, a little but when I came out this morning I thought you sure it’s going to rain ’cause I’d like to put shorts on.”4
The risk of what they were about to try and pull off didn’t appear to be preoccupying them too much, at least outwardly. Perhaps the scent of money had had an anesthetizing effect. Jones seemed drunk on the gang’s growing notoriety. He had conjured a fantasy that he was part of the Special Air Service, Britain’s most renowned special forces unit, and this appeared to give him unwarranted confidence.
