Then the witness statements came through. I knew it! I absolutely knew it! At the top of the witness sheet there's a space for 'Occupation'. And what high-flying careers did these two fine, upstanding citizens pursue? What contribution were this well-adjusted couple making to the greater good of society? What noble, selfless task filled their days? Unemployed! Both of them. Now there's a shock. I was up against the Charge of the Benefits Brigade.
This is how we get treated in Civvy Street. Our society turned on its head where the layabouts get the benefit of the doubt, the cushy treatment over veterans like me who've fought for Queen and country for years and put our lives on the line so many times. So much of a welcome home for the conquering heroes. So much for gratitude at having done my duty and kept the country safe. A topsy-turvy world. The coppers didn't want to know my story. They just didn't want to know. They took the line of least resistance. No thought put into it. No intelligence. The quicker they can tick the boxes and complete the paperwork the better.
It hurt to see the card the neighbours played, a really cynical one, a real blow below the belt. In their statement it wasn't, 'Mr Winner did this. Then Mr Winner did that.' It was, 'The ex-SAS man did this. The ex-SAS man did that.' When did the world change exactly? Being in the SAS was no longer a matter of pride and honour. It now counted against you. It now meant you were an object of suspicion. The chances were you were some out-of-control, homicidal hatchet man. A wild man from the mountains.
The wheels of justice turned very slowly. I had over six months of anxiety and stress before my case came up. The big fear was that I would be found guilty. I was in serious danger of getting a criminal record for assault. Once I was on the CRB database, I'd lose my Security Industry Authority licence and that would be me well and truly stuffed for future work. No pressure, then.
I got a good solicitor on my case. It cost me an arm and a leg, but it turned out she was worth her weight in gold. It was only just before the hearing that I was told a new witness had come forward. What I didn't know was that my solicitor had sent her assistant round the neighbourhood, knocking on all the doors to ask for witnesses. 'Mrs Cheshire. She's the old lady who lives right opposite, right across the road from you. She sits in the window a lot. She saw everything. She can confirm that you were attacked first. She also saw the wife brandishing the iron bar. What's more, she's willing to testify in court.' Thank God for that. The cavalry was coming to the rescue – the cavalry in a cardigan.
Before we went into court my solicitor said to me, 'Look. Do you want to make a deal with your neighbours?'
I was aghast. 'What kind of deal?'
'Do you want to plead guilty to breach of the peace? If you do that, you don't get a criminal record. All you get is a slapped wrist, a hefty fine and that's the last you'll hear of it.'
I was very tempted. Even though we had a witness, I felt the case could still have gone either way. I didn't trust the courts one little bit. I didn't want a record. I didn't want to lose my SIA licence. So I said to my solicitor, 'Are you sure I won't get a criminal record with breach of the peace?'
'Yes. It's a much lesser charge than common assault. It's hardly worth mentioning. It's just a paperwork exercise. The other advantage is that they can't pursue you for compensation.'
That's what did it. That's what made me swallow my pride. It would have been bad enough being found guilty of something I didn't do. But to have to pay good money out of my own pocket to those two wastes of space would have really hurt. So I said, 'Have a word with the scrotes. See what they say.'
She disappeared to speak to the prosecution and came back a few minutes later. 'They don't want to deal. They want you in the box for common assault.'
That was it. They wanted compensation.
The hearing lasted all afternoon, nearly five hours. The prosecution was making a real meal of it, but I did have a bit of top cover. Pete Scholey came along to give me a character reference, but somehow they never called him. The magistrates retired for half an hour to discuss the verdict.
Innocent! It turned out the chief magistrate was very fair and the neighbour didn't have a leg to stand on. The magistrate said, 'You are a very credible witness, Mrs Cheshire. You stated that this man attacked Mr Winner first. Mr Winner was acting in self-defence.' She also confirmed that the wife had brandished an iron bar in an aggressive manner. Case dismissed.
It was a huge relief. An amazing stroke of luck to have such a witness. Luck has been with me so many times. I've had plenty of knockbacks but I've had some huge lucky breaks too. The air support arriving just in time at Mirbat, the Red Crescent ambulance appearing in the middle of the night in Bosnia, just happening to be back in B Squadron when the Iranian Embassy kicked off. And so it goes on.
I soon found out that I didn't need to beat the neighbour and his like to a pulp, anyway. I was about to find a different and much better way of getting my own back on benefits layabouts. One weekend, as I flicked through the pages of the Sunday Times in the local supermarket, a headline jumped out. 'SAS versus the Benefit Cheats'. It was a report on a team of ex-SAS soldiers working undercover tracking down and convicting benefits fraudsters. Was that up my street or what? I was so excited I even bought the newspaper.
My luck was back! The security company's spokesman and director was none other than Alistair Mackenzie –my old B Squadron troop officer from twenty-five years ago. He was a good man, Alistair, a seasoned soldier, a very experienced jungle warfare officer. A New Zealander, he'd seen action in Vietnam. Being a Kiwi, he was very down to earth, a breath of fresh air. He hadn't been through the brainwashing of the Eton Rifles. He was approachable, friendly, no airs and graces.
I dashed to my office, scrambled about in the bottom drawer of my desk and bingo! dug out his card. He'd given it to me when I'd bumped into him at the SAS Golden Jubilee celebrations in 1991. I never throw any contact away, no matter how old. You can't afford to in this game. Amazingly, his number hadn't changed and I got through right away. It was just like the old days. When you've done surveillance work together in South Armagh like we had, you're friends for life. After the mini-Regimental reunion over the phone, we got down to business. He described the work his firm was doing and asked if I was interested.
Do I want to do help in a covert operation to crack down on benefit fraudsters? Is the Pope Catholic? Now it was time to take my revenge.
* * *
It seemed at first like just another routine day at work. My job was to train specialist anti-fraud investigation officers of the Benefit Agency in foot and mobile surveillance, so they could track down and prosecute all the bad-back merchants that we find grafting on building sites and pumping iron in gyms. I was standing in an anonymous-looking room in a nondescript building in a suburb of Birmingham. This was the crew room and sat before me was a team of surveillance operators. There was a blonde in the front row. Laura, she was called. Baby-faced, very pretty, she seemed way too young to be doing this kind of work.
I did a last-minute check of my training aids and began my briefing. 'Exercise Fiddlers on the Hoof. Foot surveillance. Area: Bearwood.'
I placed a magnetic counter on the sketch map indicating the main area of the exercise. 'Situation and background: members of the Fiddler gang have been visiting post offices and financial institutions in the area.
'Subject: Pete Fiddler.
'Age: 45 to 50.
'Build: stocky, athletic.
'Clothing: red T-shirt, blue jeans, Nike trainers.
'Distinguishing marks: broken nose.
'Height: five foot ten to six foot.
'Hair: medium brown.'
There were a couple of smirks at the realization that I was describing myself.
'Execution of task as follows:
'Team: same as yesterday – eyeball, backup, tail-end Charlie.
'Timings: on plot for 1300hrs – HSBC Bank, 526 Bearwood Road.
'Route: as per sketch map.'
I traced the route to th
e exercise area with my laser spot marker.
'Emergency rendezvous point: back here in the crew room. Any questions?' I looked around the room. 'No questions. I am impressed. You must be good. Remember, you're only as good as the information you get.'
'Give me fifteen minutes' start.' With that I was out the door, heading for the centre of town to lead them a merry dance up and down the high street.
Twenty minutes later my earpiece crackled into life. 'Standby– standby–standby. The subject is heading in the general direction of the exit of the bank. Wait. Wait. The subject is out–out–out into the main. Can anyone take?'
'Roger that. Laura has the eyeball. Subject has gone left–left–left and is walking up Bearwood Road towards the junction with Sandon Road.'
I stopped outside a large shop, using the window as a mirror to see what Laura was up to across the other side of the road. Not good. She was the eyeball, she should have been behind me – not across the road. How could she check what I was up to from that distance? If I was drawing cash from a cash machine how could she shoulder-surf me from thirty metres away? That meant her backup was out of position too. He should have been behind her, on my side of the street too. Only the tail-end Charlie should have been on the other side, so the team could get two angles on the subject. Laura would learn. It was just her lack of experience.
Suddenly I saw in the reflection of the window this huge Mike Tyson lookalike approach Laura. I could see his lips moving. He was talking to her. That's odd. Maybe they know each other. Nothing to worry about. She's obviously bumped into a friend. Next minute, the finger was going. He'd started to poke her in the chest. I could see him looking agitated. Oh, no. Either a lovers' tiff – or something more sinister.
It was at this point that she cracked. This was no friend. Forgetting to deliver her cover story, she panicked. No matter how much you drill people in the training room, tell them to always have a reason for being out there, tell them not to do anything that makes them stand out, live the cover, act naturally, think ahead – no matter how much you train them, it can all come crashing to pieces in an instant.
She ran across the street to me, her eyes wide with fear. 'Pete! Pete! That guy. He's onto us. He thinks we're the drugs squad. We're compromised. What are we going to do?' She was in shock.
Suddenly a simulated exercise had turned into a real exercise. I pressed the Pressel switch on the radio concealed in the pocket of my jacket. 'Compromise. Compromise. Bomb burst. Bomb burst. Back to the crew room at your own speed.'
The rest of the team were OK. He hadn't spotted them. But Laura and I were committed. He'd seen her run across the road to me and knew I was involved too. I said, 'Right Laura. Nice and easy. We'll walk up the street at a leisurely pace, turn left at the top and make our way back to base. Don't worry. We'll be fine.'
No such luck. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a man. He walked down a side street and jumped into a really flashy, top-of-therange BMW. 'You don't get one of those selling the Big Issue,' I thought as he pulled out into the high street. I knew straightaway he was the main man. He drew alongside us and started crawling along at walking pace, shadowing us, trying to intimidate us. I thought, 'I'm not having this. He could be leading us into a trap. He could have been on his mobile calling for half a dozen of his mates to meet us up at the top of the street. And before you know, we're in the deep brown stuff. The whole thing's escalated.'
Time to take control. I stepped into the road in front of him and flagged him down. I went round to the driver's side and tapped on his window. The window wound down and before I could say anything he jumped in, 'You're drugs squad, aren't you? What are you doing round here? What are you doing in my area? You and that girl. What are you up to?'
Talk about brazen! You'd think he owned the place. But like the Russian mafioso, that's probably pretty much what he did.
I pulled out one of my cover stories and dusted it off. 'We're not drugs squad. We're property developers.' That threw him. You could see the mental cogs turning, slowly. Then he said, 'What do you mean? What are you talking about?'
I used the broken-record technique. I said, 'We're not the drugs squad. We're property developers. We're looking for run-down properties to do up. We're in the buy-to-let business. See that place over there, above that shop. That's the type of thing. That looks like it could be bought nice and cheap and done up.' I pinched myself to stop laughing and added with a straight face, 'Do you know any more like that in the area?'
'Whaaat? I saw you talking. You were speaking into a radio.'
I pulled out a digital voice recorder. 'Taking notes, mate. I give it to the girl to type up back in the office.'
'So, you guys are property developers, are you?'
'Yeah. You obviously live around here. You don't know any other run-down properties you can put us onto?'
'Errr…' He was completely bewildered. He didn't know what to make of us. In the end, he bought the pitch and drove off.
Laura was well and truly shaken up, very subdued. It was good experience for her.
* * *
A day in the life of a dole-buster. It can be hard graft, but then again, we all have to work hard. We've got a huge army to support – an army of people on benefits.
Six million on state handouts at the last count, and rising.
Postscript
'Civilian life, it's a rat race.' Tak once said to me. 'That's why you have to be the biggest rat to survive!' I replied. And somehow, survive I have – at least, my first twenty years of civilian life! Hopefully there'll be at least another twenty to follow.
I'm still tracking down and trapping the fraudsters. It's a good sector to be involved with, a growth industry. These days, there are only three things that are certain in life: death, taxes, and benefit cheats. So, it's nice, steady work. The other advantage is that it's mainstream, working for the Civil Service. After being on the fringe, on the ragged edge so often, it's now back to respectability. Let's hope I can stay there this time. Let's hope there are no more ups and downs in my roller-coaster career. I could do with a bit of steadiness and stability for a change.
I'm not only back to the mainstream, but I've now become a pillar of the Establishment! I was recently asked to work on a TV series, Special Forces Heroes, with Lord Ashcroft, deputy chairman of the Conservative Party. You can't get more Establishment than that!
I'm still banned from the Regiment. But you can't dwell on that. You have to move on in life. Even the SAS have moved on. In 1999, they transferred from their former base at Stirling Lines in Hereford to bigger facilities at RAF Credenhill, twelve miles away. Where the original camp stood, there's now an estate of smart, modern houses. So many memories tarmacked over, the Killing House reduced to someone's back garden.
Looking back over my career, do I have any regrets? What about the fight in Hong Kong and the whipping that followed? Not at all. That was self-defence. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't looked after myself. What about Big Zil and the Stingers? Sounds like a Sixties pop group, doesn't it? Sure, if things had worked out, if I'd had a few Stingers tucked away in the back of my vehicle, I would probably be a millionaire by now. But then you win some, you lose some.
Same with KAS Enterprises, the firm that gave me my first job after leaving the SAS. I was in on the ground floor. With David Stirling as chairman, Crookie as MD, and my old comrade Tak as a director, I was really well positioned. I might have been on the board by now, with Tak running the show. It's just a pity the firm got embroiled in an industrial espionage scandal and went out of business! That's life…
Do I regret being RTU'd from the Regiment? No. I managed to get back in, that's the main thing, and just in time for the Embassy siege. What about being banned from the SAS for publishing articles in the Daily Mirror? Do I regret that? No, not really. It's just part of the rough and tumble. It's part of the person I am. What about beating up Carl at the OC's wedding? He bullied Malcolm. Bullies deserve all they get.
And, being banned, I won't be there to see it.
Glossary
.303 Lee Enfield bolt-action rifle
66 LAW Light Anti-tank Weapon System, a disposable 66mm anti-tank rocket
9-milly nickname for the 9mm Browning thirteen-shot pistol; can also refer to 9mm ammunition
ABR advanced battle reaction
Adoo Dhofaris who espoused the Communist cause; (general) enemy
Armalite alternative name for the M16 assault rifle
Askar armed tribesman
basha waterproof shelter made from a poncho; can also mean barrack room, house, bed etc.
Soldier I Page 40
