Bonded by Blood

by Bernard O'Mahoney

  ‘What you after, then, Darren?’ Tate said laughing. ‘A joint? We tend to deal in lorry loads.’

  Tate was enjoying every minute of ridiculing Nicholls. Though Nicholls was seething with anger, he knew he couldn’t say anything because he didn’t want to upset Tate or his friends, who were gathered around the bed. He left eventually, looking like a scolded child.

  Within a couple of days, a nurse discovered Tate’s gun while making up his bed. She contacted the police and Tate was arrested. Because he was still out on licence for his robbery sentence, he was automatically returned to prison for being in possession of a firearm, as this broke his parole conditions.

  Tate was not the only firm member with problems. Rolfe too was experiencing difficulties. His partner, Diane, had told him that she had had enough of his drug habit and drug deals, and she and their daughter moved out of their home. About three weeks later, Diane returned after Rolfe promised her he was going to make an effort to kick his drug habit. Diane believed him and the couple took their daughter away on holiday to the Norfolk Broads for a week. When they returned, Rolfe did have one lapse back into the use of cocaine, but generally he did try hard to stick to his promise. Rolfe went out most weekends and Diane guessed he took small amounts of cocaine and used Ecstasy but not on the scale that he had done. It seemed the couple had reached a happy medium.

  With Tate in prison and Rolfe off drugs, normality began to return to life within the firm. Perhaps ‘normality’ is the wrong word to describe debt collection, punishment beatings, the supply of controlled drugs and robbery but that was ‘normality’ to its members. Conflict with other gangs or individuals was minimal and rarely descended to the use of firearms – when Tate had been out, every incident had been settled with the threat of guns or murder. This period of normality was not to last; in fact, it turned out to be the calm before the storm.

  On 31 October 1995, Pat Tate was released from Whitemoor prison. In his absence trade had been very good at Raquels. Tucker’s drug dealers had capitalised on the trouble-free environment and he had done very well out of it. So much so, in fact, he had been able to purchase Brynmount Lodge, a luxury hacienda-style bungalow with stables on the outskirts of Basildon with stunning views of the countryside.

  To celebrate the success of the club, the promoters held a party at the Cumberland Hotel in Southend and we were all invited. It was an excellent do. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe were there. From the excited look on Rolfe’s face it was clear that his promises to stop using or dealing drugs were about to come to an end. He idolised Tate and if his hero asked him to do something, I knew he would do it. The boys were back in town.

  At the party, everybody was talking about an article that had appeared in the local papers. Half a million pounds’ worth of cannabis had been found in a farmer’s pond near a village called Rettendon. It was believed that the 336 lbs of cannabis wrapped in 53 different plastic parcels about the size of video tapes had been dropped from a low-flying aircraft. Instead of the drugs landing in the field, they had landed in a pond and the dealers had been unable to find them.

  A farmer named Yan Haustrup found one parcel while cutting his hedges. He didn’t know what it was and threw it on a fire. He said he then found another one near the pond and contacted the police. Divers recovered the haul. Tucker and Tate were saying what an idiot the man was to throw it on the fire and then hand over £500,000 worth of gear to the police. Tate thought it was worth looking to see if any of the shipment had been missed. He asked me to get in the car with him and go straight to Rettendon, but I declined – I knew it was the drugs talking. Rettendon village consisted of a roundabout, a church, a post office and probably 50 or so houses. There wasn’t anything else there. We were hardly going to scour the fields after the police had crawled all over them.

  But Tate kept on about it. He couldn’t believe that someone could be that honest and hand over anything to the police of that much value. Tucker said he was going to find out who the drugs belonged to. He didn’t like the idea of people trading on his manor if he wasn’t getting a slice of the profit. He also knew that as the drugs had been lost, there would be a replacement shipment arriving soon.

  Within a short time of arriving at the party, Tate’s excessive drug taking had left him out of his mind. He was boasting about the prostitution business he was going to build across London and the South-east. He said he was also going to flood clubs and pubs with drugs he was going to import from abroad. Rival firms that dared to threaten us would be smashed. Anybody who could be bothered to listen to Tate would have thought he was on the way to the top of the criminal heap. But in reality, he was barely scraping the barrel.

  Beneath his tough exterior, things were not going well for Tate. He realised that he had become addicted to heroin. The drugs were now controlling him, rather than him controlling his use of them. Tate knew that if Sarah found out, she would sever all links with him and that would mean he would not be able to see his son.

  Tate had been to see his brother Russell and had admitted he had a problem, but swore him to secrecy. Russell decided that the only way his brother would get help was if he was open about the fact he had a problem. Fearing for Tate’s physical and mental health, Russell had told Sarah. He asked her to help her partner, so she took him to see a drug rehabilitation expert-cum-psychiatrist in Southend, thinking that it would help him. To Sarah’s horror, Tate sat with the man for an hour and came out laughing. He told Sarah he had been talking to the man about how to take different drugs and the expert had seemed impressed he knew so much about them.

  Undeterred, Sarah tried in vain to help Tate get out of the mess he was in. She wanted the relationship to work, but Tate liked the debauched life he was living too much. Sarah preferred to stay at home with their son, but Tate wanted to go out with Tucker and Rolfe and have a good time. She even tried going out with them a couple of times, so she could keep her eye on Tate, but his friends were not her sort of people. She made excuses whenever he invited her out again. It wasn’t a problem for Tate, he just replaced Sarah with one of the many prostitutes he had working for him.

  When the clubs closed and the drugs wore off, Tate would briefly return to reality. He would turn up at his bungalow in Gordon Road, where Sarah was living, and sit and cry. He would say that he was sorry and he was not going to be like that any more. He would promise Sarah that he was going to change, get help and go back to how he used to be before he was sent to prison. Sarah, wanting to believe him, would allow him to stay, but the very next day Tate’s phone would ring and shortly afterwards Tucker and Rolfe would be knocking at the door to take him away. The rows between Sarah and Tate intensified and eventually, in a drug-induced rage, Tate threw Sarah out.

  Sarah telephoned the boyfriend of her closest friend, who lived nearby, and asked if she could stay with him that night. The man drove round to Tate’s, who had since gone out, helped Sarah collect her possessions and drove her back to his home. When Tate heard about the man picking up Sarah, he immediately telephoned Tucker and Rolfe and asked them to meet him. Moments later, Tucker and Rolfe pulled up outside Tate’s bungalow. Tate was insane with rage. He told Tucker and Rolfe that the man who had moved Sarah out of his house was responsible for the separation and he was convinced the man was sleeping with her. Tate got in the car, Rolfe slammed it into gear and they sped off in search of the man. It didn’t take them long to find him. He was walking along the street totally unaware of the impending danger. The car containing the trio pulled up behind him. Tucker and Tate jumped out and bundled the terrified man into the car. Rolfe was ordered to drive back to Tate’s home. Once inside, Tate produced a combat knife and threatened to cut the man’s throat.

  Tucker, recalling the way he and Rolfe had murdered Kevin Whitaker, had a better idea. ‘Make the cunt do coke, Pat,’ Tucker hissed. ‘Make the cunt do coke.’ Rolfe prepared six generous lines of cocaine and Tate ordered the man to snort them. The man was sobbing, begging Tate not to cut him wit
h the knife. Tate told him that if he didn’t comply, he would cut his throat. The man, who was on his knees, leant over the coffee table and started snorting the cocaine. When he had finished, Rolfe prepared more lines and the man was ordered to snort those. This continued until eventually the man passed out.

  But his ordeal was far from over. They stripped him naked and began burning his body with lighted cigarettes in an effort to wake him up. When he eventually did, they forced him to snort more cocaine until he passed out again. Once again, he was burnt until he came round. Fortunately for him, they ran out of cocaine. Tate grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out of the house, kicking him as he and the others went. He opened the boot of his car and Tucker helped him put the man inside. Rolfe was told to clean up the blood in the house and Tucker and Tate drove to where the man lived. When they arrived, they reversed onto his drive and dumped his naked body in the garden. His girlfriend found him rolling around the front room of their home some hours later. He had so much cocaine lodged in his nose he was having difficulty breathing. He was gasping for air through his mouth, crying and in a state of total bewilderment. He did not know who she was, who he was or where he was. His girlfriend called an ambulance and after being seen at the hospital he was transferred to a psychiatric unit where he remained for three days. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe had completely broken him. When the man was released, he refused even to talk to the police, let alone press charges.

  Word soon reached Tucker that the drugs that had been found in the pond at Rettendon had been destined for a heavy firm from Canning Town in east London. Tucker and Tate approached those concerned and said they were interested in purchasing any future shipments. The Canning Town firm told Tucker and Tate that they were due to receive a replacement drop soon and they would keep them informed so a deal could be struck when it arrived.

  Tucker and Tate had a better idea – they were going to rob it. They telephoned me and we met in the car park outside the entrance to Accident and Emergency at Basildon hospital, a place where we often met. Tucker said they wanted me to act as a backup driver on a scam they were pulling off shortly. They had arranged to intercept a large shipment of drugs. They had done this type of thing loads of times before but, they said, this was different. This was the big one.

  Before Tucker and Tate’s suicidal dive into excessive drug use, they had been my friends. The drugs had turned their brains into porridge and they were oblivious to any danger. Tate was driving on Tucker with his constant talk of riches. I warned Tucker to be careful, but as usual he just laughed and turned my advice into ridicule.

  ‘Nobody can fucking touch us,’ he boasted. ‘This is money for nothing.’

  ‘That may well be the case,’ I replied, ‘but I can’t do it because the police are watching me. I’ve got to keep my head down.’

  Tucker looked at Tate and rolled his eyes, and the pair walked off. As I watched them swagger across the car park, I knew our firm was reaching the end of its reign. Tucker and Tate would either get locked up for killing somebody or they would be killed themselves. Robbery, drugs and murder were all they ever talked about. They thought they were invincible.

  On a morbid high because he had got away with the murder of Kevin Whitaker, Tucker decided on a whim to kill JJ, the man he had lured into a confrontation in Chelmsford. Tucker had known him for years, however, his drug-induced paranoia had turned him against JJ. Unsure that he could take him on alone, Tucker had turned Carlton Leach and a number of other friends and associates against JJ by saying he now knew for sure he had been giving information to the police. One drug-crazed night, Tucker, Tate, Rolfe and a fourth man went to Epping Forest Country Club with the intention of carrying out Tucker’s murderous plan. They filled two syringes with a cocktail of drugs they called ‘champagne’. A third was plunged into Rolfe’s vein so blood could be extracted. This was then topped up with pure heroin, which they shook so it resembled the contents of the other two syringes. The plan was to get JJ in the car, let him see Tucker and Tate injecting the ‘champagne’ and then offer him the syringe full of pure heroin. If he refused, they intended to jab him with it. If that failed, the fourth man, who was sitting in the back of the car, had agreed he would shoot JJ in the head. When they arrived at Epping, they found out that Carlton Leach, who knew nothing of the murder plot, had arrived there earlier with his firm and JJ had decided it would be best to leave.

  Back in Basildon that night, Tate was so drugged out of his mind and hyped up by the thought of killing somebody he had tried to shoot Rolfe. Tate’s aim was poor and Rolfe had fled in a state of sheer terror. The following day, Tucker and Tate were laughing about it, saying Rolfe had been so scared he’d climbed out of a window to escape. The pair later told him to forget about it, it wasn’t personal – Tate was just hallucinating. Everybody knew it wasn’t right, whatever Tate’s excuse. Murder, it seemed, was now an acceptable party trick. A meaningless joke that the victim shouldn’t take personally.

  Chapter 8

  There was plenty of money to be made for everyone in the drug world – but plenty was never going to be enough for Patrick Tate. However much money Tate earned, he would always want that little bit more.

  As soon as he had been released in 1995 he’d started talking about importing drugs from Holland. Most of the people he approached to assist him made their excuses and declined, but one person was extremely enthusiastic. Darren Nicholls needed money. Darren Nicholls wanted to be a somebody. And Darren Nicholls craved to be associated with his hero, big Pat Tate. The one thing both men lacked when they decided to join forces was money.

  Tate, as usual, had a solution. He approached Tucker and Rolfe, shady car dealers, villains and dodgy businessmen to put up the cash to import large shipments of cannabis from Amsterdam. He assured them that however much they invested, they would get a good return within ten days. One evening, Tate telephoned me and asked me what I was up to. I had nothing planned.

  ‘Give me a lift, Bernie,’ he said, ‘I’ve not got a motor at the moment and I need to go over the bridge to see a mate.’ Over the bridge was a reference to the QE2 Bridge that separates Essex from Kent.

  ‘Look, Pat,’ I replied, ‘I don’t mind giving you a lift, but I need to be back at a reasonable hour, is that agreed?’

  Half an hour later, Tate and I were driving down the A13 towards the M25, which we would join and then cross over to Kent via the bridge.

  ‘Where we going then, Pat?’ I asked.

  ‘Near Brands Hatch racetrack. My mate lives there,’ he replied. Tate didn’t elaborate, so I knew he didn’t wish to discuss ‘his mate’.

  We spent the 40-minute journey talking about Raquels and the various characters who went in there. We laughed together about some of them and for a short time the old Tate who everyone spoke so warmly about was back. After we crossed the bridge we continued along the M25 until we reached the A20 exit. Tate told me to leave the motorway and head for West Kingsdown. After about ten minutes, Tate pointed to a pub coming up on our right and said, ‘We have to meet him in here.’

  We sat in the corner of the lounge, Tate with an orange juice and me with a Coke. Tate began laughing, saying, ‘I bet that barmaid thinks we are a couple of queers, sitting here together sipping soft drinks.’ Every few minutes, Tate would get up and look out of the window and on to the car park. ‘He’s fucking late,’ he kept repeating, ‘but he will get here.’

  It sounded to me like Tate wasn’t sure if his friend would turn up, so I reminded him I wanted to be back in Essex at a reasonable time. After half an hour, I said, ‘Look, Pat, he isn’t going to show. Let’s call it a day.’

  ‘He will, he will,’ Tate insisted. ‘There is no way that he will let me down.’

  Ten minutes later, Tate’s friend walked into the pub. I recognised him immediately. It was one of Britain’s most infamous villains, Kenny Noye. In January 1985, Noye had been acquitted of the murder of Detective Constable John Fordham, who had been deployed to keep him un
der surveillance because he was suspected of being involved with an armed gang that had stolen £26 million worth of gold from a warehouse at Heathrow Airport two years earlier. The robbery became known as the Brinks Mat robbery. DC Fordham and his colleagues, dressed in balaclavas and dark clothing, were on Noye’s property one night watching his house. Noye saw DC Fordham crouching in the bushes, assumed he was a villain up to no good and confronted him. A struggle ensued in which Noye, who was carrying a torch and a knife, was being overpowered, so he repeatedly plunged the knife into DC Fordham. When the struggle ended, Noye summoned help. Moments later, the area was swarming with police. DC Fordham died of his injuries. Noye was charged with murder but pleaded not guilty, saying he had acted in self-defence.

  The fact Noye was acquitted of murder left a very bitter taste in many officers’ mouths. Shortly afterwards, Noye was imprisoned for 14 years for his part in the Brinks Mat heist. When the jury announced their guilty verdict, Noye turned to them and said, ‘I hope you all die of cancer.’ It was while serving this sentence that he had met Tate. Noye was gym orderly at HMP Swaleside in Kent and when Tate arrived there the pair had become friends.

  Tate expected Noye to sit down with us and have a drink, but he made it clear he did not intend to hang around. He took a canvas satchel out of his coat and handed it to Tate. ‘You’ll find it’s all there, Pat,’ he said. ‘Gotta go, catch you later.’ With that, Noye turned and walked out of the door. I could see Tate felt let down. When we got in the car to drive home, Tate was unusually silent. I asked him if everything was OK.