‘Mickey Green is the original gold medallion man with a taste for the booze and birds,’ a former buddy told the Independent newspaper.
As an ironic footnote to the life and crimes of Mickey Green, DCI Tony Lundy, named the ‘Supergrass Master’, who raised the efficiency of the supergrass system to new heights, running it from a police station in Finchley, retired aged 49 to the Costa del Sol, where Mr Green was, or still is, one of his neighbours.
10
Bert Wickstead – Gangbuster
‘I look for three main qualities in my officers – honesty, integrity and professional capacity.’
COMMANDER BERT WICKSTEAD
Born Monday, 23 April 1923, in Plaistow, the son of a railway foreman, Albert ‘Bert’ Wickstead was the UK’s answer to Eliot Ness. He was educated at Burke senior school, and then took up factory work. His chosen career would have been as a West Ham footballer, but two broken legs put paid to any possibility of him kicking a ball around a pitch; he did, however, go on to kick a large number of criminals into touch.
During World War II, he served with the SAS, and was stationed in India, Burma and Ceylon. He joined the police after being demobbed, encouraged by his uncle, also a police officer.
As a young inspector at Stoke Newington, north London, he solved 19 murders in two years – a record that has never been equalled. In 1965, he investigated a series of arson attacks on synagogues by the neo-fascists of the National Socialist Movement. The perpetrators were jailed. He was dubbed ‘The Old Grey Fox’, and was renowned for jumping up and disappearing almost as quickly. He was affectionately known as ‘Gangbuster Wickstead’, one of the last of the high-profile Scotland Yard detectives, part of an era when men in belted raincoats and trilbies would stand on the steps of the Old Bailey after a trial and pronounce on the latest twist or a successful verdict in underworld-related trials.
Unlike many of his contemporaries at the Yard, Wickstead was an honest cop and a man never to take a bribe. In fact, when the chance arose, he pursued the Met’s bent policemen with as much relish as he chased the villains.
Bert was promoted to the rank of commander to run what was then ‘J’ Division, in London’s East End. In 1970, he headed the investigation into what was then Britain’s biggest bank robbery, committed by the Wembley Mob. A year later, he was given a free hand to form his own team, the Serious Crimes Squad, to tackle major professional crime in the capital. The group was the first of the specialist units set up by the Metropolitan Police in the 1970s.
Perhaps Wickstead’s most controversial case was the torso murder investigation of 1976–77, at the end of which Reg Dudley and Bob Maynard were both jailed for life for the murders of Billy Moseley and Micky Cornwall. At 135 days, it was the longest murder trial in British history, and both men furiously protested their innocence from the dock. Between them, they would go on to serve more than 40 years behind bars.
The thrust of the case was that Moseley had been having an affair with another criminal’s wife and had also accused Dudley of being a police informer. For this, he had supposedly been murdered in September 1974, and his body had been chopped up and dumped in the Thames – hence, ‘The Torso Murder’.
According to the prosecution, when Moseley’s friend, Cornwall (a character known as ‘The Laughing Bank Robber’ because he was always smiling) was later released from prison, he went hunting for the killers. He, in turn, was murdered. He was shot in the head and dumped in a shallow grave in Hertfordshire in September 1975.
Dozens of people fell under suspicion for the murders before the police charged the seven who appeared at the Old Bailey. The prosecution evidence came primarily from two sources – the alleged confessions made to the police by Dudley and Maynard, who worked at the illegal end of the jewellery business, and their so-called admissions to a fellow inmate, a young bank robber called Tony Wild, while they were awaiting trial in Brixton Prison.
According to police, Dudley had, during a journey in a police car, said, ‘The cunt [Moseley] had it coming. He tried to fuck me so I fucked him good and proper.’ Later, Dudley was said to have told the police questioning him about Cornwall, ‘You can take it from me it is not on my conscience… He deserved what he got and that’s it.’ For his part, Maynard had supposedly told the police after his arrest, ‘It’s about time you came for me.’
The police investigation was led by Bert Wickstead, and although he was not a man to accept a bribe, it was a well-known fact that he was prepared to do what was necessary to ensure that those whom he believed to be guilty were brought to justice.
The trial, in front of Mr Justice Swanwick, seemed everlasting. Maynard and Dudley ran a criminal empire which was named the ‘Legal & General’ – a nickname the two men had been given after walking into a pub dressed like two characters from a Legal & General television commercial. In reality, there was no gang.
The dramatic high point in the trial came when Wild – a prison snitch – walked into the witness box. A handsome figure, he gave evidence that he had met the two accused men in prison. He said that Dudley had boasted about killing Cornwall, who had apparently said, ‘He went up in the fucking air, didn’t he, boys?’ Wild also claimed that Maynard had said, ‘I didn’t know guys would squeal like a pig.’ All in all, Wild made for a compelling witness, although later events would prove it all to be something less than the truth.
To put no finer point on it, the evidence was, at best, slim – anorexic would be a more suitable term. Of the seven accused with varying degrees of responsibility for the murder, three were acquitted, including the man whose wife had been having an affair with Moseley. When Maynard was sentenced, he shouted to the judge, ‘I am still innocent, sir.’
Dudley then let loose against Wickstead. ‘Are you happy? You have fitted us all up, but don’t worry – you’ll be fitted up in the end by your own kind.’
In the years to come, Wild finally came clean and told the press that he had stitched up the two men in return for a lighter prison sentence, and that Wickstead was in on the deal. There followed a campaign to free the men and, after a three-year examination of the evidence, the Criminal Cases Review Commission recommended that the matter should go to the Court of Appeal. Dudley was paroled in 1997, and Maynard was released on bail in November 2000.
Wickstead also played a leading part in the investigation of Soho pornographers Bernie Silver and Jimmy Humphreys, whose revelations led to the jailing of thirteen corrupt members of the Met’s Obscene Publications Squad.
On 25 June 1956, a Tommy Smithson was found dying in the gutter outside a house in Carlton Vale. His last words were said to be, ‘Good morning… I’m dying.’ A handsome man, who, in his chequered and largely unsuccessful career, suffered at just about everybody’s hands, was an ex-fairground fighter with a liking for silk shirts and underwear. He was a man, as James Morton described in his book East End Gangland, ‘of immense courage and little stability or ability and was known as Mr Loser’.
It was some years before Bert Wickstead got to the bottom of the matter, and he set his sights on Bernie Silver, a club and brothel owner, whose operations could be traced back to the 1950s. In a nutshell, Silver lived off immoral earnings as part of a highly lucrative business venture. Prostitutes were worked liked slaves, and charged for the privilege of doing so. Bert Wickstead had been called in to investigate the Soho vice syndicates, and he was immensely successful. Two Maltese criminals were eventually charged with Smithson’s murder, although both were cleared after a key witness mysteriously disappeared.
Thereafter, Wickstead became known as one of the country’s finest detectives, a man who would also investigate the case of the prostitute, Norma Levy, which was to lead to the downfall of the Conservative minister, Antony Claud Frederick Lord Lambton, 6th Earl of Durham.
During his three years with the Serious Crimes Squad, Wickstead was often in the newspapers for his gang-busting exploits. His critics query whether the gangs, who were supposedly trying to
fill the vacuum left by the Kray twins, were quite as mighty as he claimed. And, if the truth were known now, and as we have seen in previous chapters, the Krays were not on a par with many of their modern-day contemporaries as far as their ill-gotten gains were concerned. Consider wheelers and dealers such as the Adams family, for example.
It would be fair to say, however, that some of these firms were just extended families back then – people with violent tempers. But among those he jailed as career criminals were the Tibbs, the Dixons, and Philip Jacobs – standing just 5ft 2in, he was known as ‘Little Caesar’.
The Dixon family had grown up at the end of the war in Limehouse where, in time, they controlled the local pubs and clubs. In the borough of Tower Hamlets, Limehouse is on the northern bank of the River Thames opposite Rotherhithe and between Shadwell to the west and the Isle of Dogs to the east. Primarily ‘debt collectors’, they had worked as freelancers for the Krays and, until his marriage broke up, and drink and drugs consumed him, Alan Dixon had been a ‘running-mate’ with Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie. Although the Dixons had known the Krays for some time, it hadn’t stopped Ronnie Kray from attempting to shoot George Dixon one night in a mock trial held at the Green Dragon Club in Aldgate over some alleged misdemeanour. As described earlier, Ronnie had pushed the gun barrel into his mouth and the gun misfired. Ron gave him the cartridge, telling him to wear it as a souvenir on his watch-chain. He did. For a fuller account of the Dixons and the Tibbs, James Morton’s book, East End Gangland, is a must-read.
Unimpressed by the trappings of wealth which dazzled many of his less-than-honest colleagues, Wickstead lived for many years in a council flat in Plaistow, east London, with his wife and three sons. His squad – whom he liked to call the ‘Incorruptibles’ – was devoted to him, as he was to them, sending flowers to sick wives and showing great concern for their welfare.
He was to become one of Britain’s best-known and most active thief-takers. As a former colleague later remarked, ‘He didn’t take money and, if you’re a policeman, you have to deal with scumbags every day. You have to go down to their level to achieve results, so I understand why he did what he did.’
Bert Wickstead retired from the police to become a security adviser to what was then News Group Newspapers, which serialised his memoirs in the Sun. He later became seriously ill with emphysema, but he remained, to the end, one of the Yard’s legendary figures.
Bert was far removed from today’s insistence on performance figures, civilian officer managers, budget restraints, and the need to satisfy the stringent requirements of the CPS, who will not prosecute unless there is a 99 per cent chance of a conviction. He was admired and often hated by his colleagues, and abhord by the villains, yet they always called him ‘Mr Wickstead’ out of old gangland respect; it was the way he would have wanted it.
Bert Wickstead died on Monday, 19 March, 2001. He was survived by his second wife, Jean, their two sons, and a son from his first marriage.
11
The Securitas Crew
‘It was a horrific experience… it was the worst night of my family’s life. I was angered beyond belief. It was brutal and traumatic.’
COLIN DIXON
£50 million is an awful lot of money, and an awful amount to spend, and that’s what Kent’s newly-appointed Assistant Chief Constable Andrew ‘Andy’ Leppard pondered upon when between 1.00am and 2.15am on Wednesday, 22 February 2006, a gang of men robbed the Securitas Cash Management Ltd, Vale Road, Tonbridge, Kent, of precisely £53,116,70 in used banknotes. It was an audacious operation that netted the crooks the largest amount of folding money in British crime history. At least six of the crew had abducted and threatened the family of the manager, tied up fourteen staff members and escaped with their haul into the night.
As nuts go, the Securitas depot was a tough one to crack. The holding company, Securitas AB, is Swedish-based, and the largest provider of security services in the world with over 230,000 employees. The firm specialises in uniformed security officers, consulting and investigations and cash-in-transit. Their cash handling division, the one that was robbed, oversee the transport, packaging, counting and storage of cash and precious metals.
On paper, at least, there are few companies as experienced at handling extraordinarily valuable cargo as Securitas. But they have had a few misfortunes. Shortly after the depot snatch, a Securitas van was rammed by criminals in a stolen tractor who subsequently hot-footed it with hundreds of thousands of pounds. The heist, which took place in Warrington, Cheshire, on Wednesday, 8 March 2006, also involved a low-loader lorry which had forced the security van to stop at the junction of Hardwick Grange and Kingsland Grange, in the Woolston area of the town at 8.15pm. Two men in balaclavas and carrying crowbars attacked the windows of the van and set it alight. The two guards were uninjured, but police acknowledged that ambushes on cash transit vans were on the increase – there had been scores of attacks in 2005 alone – and this one was less than a mile away from a Securitas facility. A Volvo V40 had been the getaway vehicle, and was found dumped less than a mile away.
In 2006, an armed gang robbed a Securitas van as it unloaded money at Gothenburg’s Landvetter Airport in Sweden.
Another incident occurred on Thursday, 4 October 2007, when two armoured truck guards were shot dead, execution style, with a 9mm automatic in north-east Philadelphia. Another man was critically wounded. The guards, retired police officers, died at the scene. Hit once in the chest, William Widmaier, 65, married with grown-up children, and Joseph Alullo, aged 54, with three daughters, shot three times in the chest and abdomen, were not wearing bullet-proof vests. The third guard was hit by glass as a shot slammed into the windscreen.
The fatal robbery seemed ill-planned. The FBI believe that 36-year-old Mustafa Ali, aka Shawn Steele, simply followed the truck on the spur of the moment and murdered the guards as they serviced an ATM machine. Ali would have got away with the robbery had it not been for several tip-offs to the police. A dark-coloured Acura saloon was recorded leaving the area on CCTV, and Ali owned the same type of car.
In 1993, Steele, then 21, had been convicted of stealing $25,000 in eight Philadelphia robberies during 1992.
Then, on Friday morning, 19 October 2007, the cash-strapped company, now renamed ‘Loomis’, was hit again – on Highway 70, just south of Hedemora, Sweden. This time, however, two robbers, both aged 25, were unlucky. They were arrested as they fled the scene in a car. Less than an hour later, two teenagers were also arrested.
In the aftermath of the extraordinary heist perpetrated on the Securitas facility in Kent, ACC Andy Leppard knew very little of the crime on his patch, but what he did know was that the robbers would have had to have used a lorry, or a large van, to carry such a large amount of money, and they would need a discreet location where they could park up and distribute the haul. The gang would have had to dump any sequentially-numbered or traceable notes, and plan to launder the rest in sizeable chunks, around £1 million at a time. The cop reasoned that if he could find the vehicle, he could trace the crooks; unless, of course, an informer gave the police a tip.
One option of disposing of the money was to buy JCBs, diggers and earth-movers which can cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. Many of these nearly-new models are traded at auctions for cash. Another option was diamonds. One of the few industries left in the world where cash is the preferred method of payment, diamonds also have the advantage of being small and easily smuggled. Stones can be bought in one country, taken elsewhere, repolished to remove distinguishing marks and resold.
A third option, one that Leppard considered, was the setting up of ‘legitimate’ bureaux de change. The money could then be fed through the accounts alongside the takings.
And yet a forth option is ‘Hawala’ (also known as ‘hundi’), an informal value transfer system based on performance and honour and, for £50 million, Leppard knew the gang would need a huge network which would have to be primarily located in the Middle East, Africa or Asia.
Successfully robbing a Securitas depot was one thing; laundering the loot was a different problem altogether. Perhaps a Kenny Noye might be able to pull it off, but the Securitas boys, maybe not.
An ancient Indian system increasingly used by gangs, the cash is deposited at an office in one country and can be collected in local currency in another – like a type of illegal Western Union network. In the most basic variant, money is transferred via a network of hawala brokers, or hawaldars. The money is deposited with the hawala, who, in turn, calls another hawala broker in the recipient’s city, gives disposition instructions (usually minus a small commission), and promises to settle the debt later.
The unique feature of hawala is the total absence of a paper or electronic trail. In addition to commissions, hawala brokers often earn their profits through bypassing official, and often extortionate, exchange rates. Most governments do not favour the system, and accusations have been made in recent years that terrorist funding often changes hands through hawala networks.
The Securitas depot robbery was planned with military precision. It started when manager Colin Dixon was abducted at about 6.00pm on 21 February 2006, in a tactic known as ‘tiger kidnapping’, due to the way a beast follows its prey before it strikes. Coerced, often at gunpoint, the employee takes the robbers through the coded alarm systems, in the knowledge that one false move could mean the end of his or her loved ones. Although it’s a method commonly associated with paramilitary groups such as the IRA breaking into banks in Northern Ireland, a similar heist on the British mainland sent shockwaves through the security industry as long ago as 1972.
Gangland UK Page 17
