Bonded by Blood

by Bernard O'Mahoney

  The Piano Bar had been closed since the weekend when Leah had collapsed, but reopened that Wednesday night. I went into work at about eight-thirty. There was an eerie atmosphere in there. It was as if everyone had their eyes on me, half-looking for a reaction, I think. I felt like a condemned man. What made it even stranger was the fact that in the bar there were four television screens. Every time there was a news item, images of Leah lying in bed with tubes coming out of her were coming up on these screens. We had this dark room full of kids Leah’s age – some on drugs, some not – loud music and pictures of Leah lying in hospital as a result of what went on in this very building. Strange, very strange, and unnerving really.

  There were the usual fools, who were coming up asking for my opinions on Leah. A couple of reporters were in there trying to buy drugs. So obvious: long raincoats; short, tidy hair; middle-class accents; going up to people asking if they could ‘score’. I was just glad to get out of work that night.

  The following day, Debra and I were due to move. I could see the firm was on the brink of self destructing and I was preparing to leave before I too was destroyed. We’d bought a house on the Essex coast in a village called Mayland. It was a beautiful house, surrounded by woodland and a stone’s throw from the sea. We both hoped it would be our sanctuary from the madness we had endured over the past decade. I had my doubts. A fresh start, a new beginning and no more trouble were all the things I’d hoped for on my train journey to Essex from prison almost a decade earlier. Debra had gone to the house to wait for the removal van and I took the children to school. I was driving back to Mayland when I heard on the car radio that Leah had died in the early hours of the morning. I felt saddened when I heard her family sobbing with grief and pleading for people to name the drug dealer responsible for supplying her.

  When I arrived, Debra was standing at the front door. ‘Have you heard what’s happened?’ she asked. I told her I had. Debra was very upset by Leah’s death. She had no idea of the firm’s involvement and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.

  Around lunchtime, Tucker rang me. He was going mental. He was saying he wanted the ‘fucking mess’ sorted out and he wanted it sorted out ‘today’. There was too much police attention both on him and on the firm in general, he said. Now Leah had died, the shit was going to hit the fan. Tucker was stressed out because he feared the police attention from the Betts inquiry would unearth the dud cannabis deal with Nicholls and jeopardise the robbery he was planning at Rettendon.

  After Tate and Rolfe had returned from Ostend with the syndicate’s £120,000, they were still feeling mugged off by Nicholls’s incompetence. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe discussed the matter and decided to seek revenge on Nicholls for embarrassing them and making them look like amateurs. They told the members of the syndicate that Nicholls had not only delivered dud cannabis in an attempt to con them but he had also failed to reimburse any of their money. Some members of the syndicate were hardened criminals who said they were going to kill Nicholls; others, not so violent, still wanted some sort of vicious penalty imposed. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe were quietly confident that Nicholls would soon be dead or at least in hiding, and they could keep the syndicate’s money as well as the £80,000 they had made selling the third of the haul that had been of good quality.

  Now holding enough ready cash to convince any drug dealers they were serious players, the trio once more approached the Canning Town firm who were waiting for the replacement drop at Rettendon. They were told that a shipment was due any day now and they would be the first to know when it was available. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe knew that they weren’t dealing with fools, so they decided to invest in some firepower for the robbery.

  One afternoon, Rolfe told his partner, Diane, that he was going to pick up a machine gun with a silencer and ammunition for the firm and asked her to accompany him. Rolfe explained that the gun was coming from a man known as ‘Mad’ Mick Bowman, who lived in south London. When Diane asked Rolfe how much such a gun was going to cost, Rolfe told her that he was borrowing it and would return it to Bowman when they had done the job. Rolfe said that he had to meet Bowman at Thurrock Services on the M25 to collect the gun. Diane travelled with Rolfe in the blue Range Rover that had been purchased from Dorman. When they arrived, they went into the restaurant for something to eat while they waited for Bowman. When he eventually arrived, Rolfe walked outside alone and returned shortly afterwards. He told Diane to leave her drink and join them outside.

  When Diane walked out into the car park, she saw that Bowman was there in a white Volkswagen Corado and there was another male with him in an old green Vauxhall Cavalier. Bowman was behaving like he was paranoid. Diane assumed that he had taken cocaine and was acting that way because of the machine gun. Bowman was concerned he was being followed and was unhappy about driving off to a different location. Rolfe suggested that he would lead, the Cavalier would go in the middle and then Bowman could follow on at the rear. After scouring the car park for the 100th time, Bowman finally agreed. Rolfe drove the Range Rover to the A13 and along to the Five Bells roundabout. He drove around it once and stopped at Barry Dorman’s car lot. The Cavalier pulled up behind Rolfe and Bowman parked behind that. They all got out and Diane walked away in order to appear discreet. A blue/grey holdall was taken out of the boot of the Cavalier and was placed in the boot of the Range Rover. Rolfe called Diane back to the car and the pair then drove off to Tate’s bungalow on Gordon Road, Basildon. When they arrived there, Tate and Tucker were sitting in a Suzuki Vitara. Rolfe took the holdall from the boot, and Tucker and Tate followed him into the house.

  Rolfe was in the house for about ten to fifteen minutes before he returned to the car with the holdall. He put it back in the boot and drove to a safe house in Basildon where it was put into the loft. On the way from Tate’s home, Rolfe was telling Diane how pleased Tucker and Tate were with the gun and how much damage it could cause anybody who fucked with them. Diane had heard it all before. She wasn’t impressed. In her heart, she knew the machine gun could only mean there would be more trouble.

  A couple of days later, Rolfe, Tucker and Tate tested the gun in a field at the back of Tucker’s home. They took it in turns to blast imaginary enemies. They had then cleaned it and Rolfe had taken it away to store at his house ready for the Rettendon robbery.

  Tate and Tucker were concerned the police would raid their homes and find the syndicate’s money. The police had, after all, already been to Tate’s flat where Donna Garwood was living. They decided to put the money into a Head sports bag and give it to one of Tate’s lifelong friends, a man named John Marshall – one of the few people Tate said he could trust to look after so much money. With the proceeds of one scam now safely stored, they began planning the Rettendon robbery.

  Tucker knew most, if not all, of the players in Canning Town, so he set about recruiting a man with inside knowledge of the other firm to find out what he could about the incoming shipment. He wanted the man to tell him when, how, where and at what time the drop was going to be made. Tucker knew that everyone in the drugs world has a price: there is no loyalty when there’s hard cash on offer. Before long, Tucker had his Judas.

  Chapter 10

  Whatever happened regarding the Leah Betts inquiry, common sense told me that the management at Raquels would want to show that there had been changes, i.e. changes in security. Matters were coming to a head. There was the death of Leah Betts, the dud cannabis saga and Tucker and Tate’s plan to commit a robbery with the machine gun. Without telling me, Tucker had already consulted a solicitor about the Betts case, despite the fact he hadn’t been questioned. Murray had disappeared off the face of the earth. It was plain to see it was now every man for himself. The Essex Boys’ empire was crashing down around us.

  It was very quiet the next time I went into work, as I recall it. I just sat at the bar and had a drink. The more I thought about the life I had immersed myself in, the more I realised just how stupid I had been. Sure, I had enjoyed some of it,
but, in the main, life in the firm was violent and depressing. You never knew if you were going to be the next person to fall out of favour and end up dead or in hiding. I had to face facts. I’d had enough. I hated it, loathed it. My plans to leave and make a fresh start would have to be brought forward – with immediate effect. About eleven o’clock, I thought, ‘Fuck this, I’m going.’ I went to Maurice, a doorman from Bristol, and said, ‘I want you to be head doorman. I’m going.’ He looked rather puzzled but thanked me. We shook hands and I went up to the office. ‘I’m leaving,’ I told the manager.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  ‘There ain’t no problem. I’m leaving. See you later,’ I said and walked out.

  I had no idea how I was going to support my wife and children from there on in, but I didn’t care. My leaving had to be a total departure. No occasional acquaintances from memory lane. The firm, the violence, the police, the grief – I wanted it to mean nothing now. It had to become a thing of the past.

  The night I walked out on Raquels and the firm, I decided I would go out and celebrate, so I drove over to a club in Southend named Ad-Lib. I walked in the door and down a flight of three or four steps. To my dismay, I saw Tucker and Tate standing at the bar with two girls. Tate smiled and put his arms around me. ‘It’s great to see you, Bernie, how are you?’ he said, patting my back. Tucker grunted something. He looked as if he had the hump.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him.

  He shook hands with me and said, ‘Nothing.’ Then he added, ‘Can I have a word?’

  We went out of earshot of the others and he repeated the story about one of the doormen grassing up Donna Garwood. Donna was constantly causing problems. In Raquels, she would come downstairs and say to me that such and such a man was giving her grief, such and such a man was staring at her. Tucker, she said, had insisted that if she had a problem, I had to throw out the person who had upset her.

  ‘No doorman has grassed her,’ I said. Tucker got annoyed and said one of the doormen must have because she was in Tate’s flat when the police found some whizz. ‘That’s bollocks, the police haven’t even spoken to the doormen,’ I said. He told me another doorman had confirmed it.

  ‘Well, who’s this other doorman then?’ I asked. ‘We’ll go and see him.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ he replied.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Ring me up and we’ll discuss what has been said.’

  He walked out of the door. Tate turned round and put his arm round me again. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’s just got the hump.’

  We shook hands and Tate left to join Tucker. I waited a minute and thought, ‘I’m not having this, I am going to clear this bollocks up.’ I went outside. They were sitting in the Range Rover. I leant against the driver’s door and said to Tucker, ‘I’m telling you, no doorman’s grassed Donna up. Someone’s just saying it to cause trouble. And as for this doorman who confirmed it, why don’t we go round and see him tomorrow and if you think he’s lying, we’ll bash him?’

  ‘Fair enough, we’ll fucking bash him,’ Tucker replied. Tate slammed the vehicle into gear and they roared off up the street. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was to be the last time that I was ever going to see them.

  I don’t know why I said what I said. I had just decided to walk away from the firm and its grisly business. I had told myself I wanted nothing more to do with them. I suppose old habits are hard to break.

  The following morning, I rang Tucker. As usual, he wasn’t in or wasn’t answering his phone, so I sent him a fax telling him I had quit Raquels the night before and Maurice was taking over. The fax read: ‘There are no problems, it’s safe, it’s sorted.’

  The next day, Monday, 20 November, Tucker rang. I wasn’t in, so he left a message on my answering machine. He was being abusive and threatening. He said I couldn’t just walk out of Raquels. He wanted an explanation. ‘I’m going to fucking do you,’ he said.

  My problems are my own: nothing would have made me involve Debra and our children. And I knew what might happen; I didn’t need to ask Nipper Ellis, Kevin Whitaker or their families. When my children came out of school, I booked them and Debra into a hotel near Rettendon. If Tucker did come to my home, at least my family would not have to witness whatever occurred. I wasn’t the only one being threatened with violence. Nicholls had been getting lots of grief from members of the syndicate who still believed he had not repaid their money. In desperation, he approached Tucker and Tate, pleading with them to come clean and admit he had given them the money back. Tucker told Nicholls that Tate wasn’t in any position to pay anybody back for the time being. ‘The fucking car dealers and their ponces can wait. When we pull off this job at Rettendon, they will get their money back,’ he said.

  Tate and Tucker were telling people they were relying on the Rettendon robbery to solve all their troubles. Tucker had to pay off his new Brynmount Lodge home, which was plunging him deeper into debt. They had made promises to pay the syndicate and the car dealer for the Range Rover, but in reality they had no intention of paying anybody. They never did – perhaps because nobody ever pressed them for money.

  I was still owed a week’s wages, because we were paid in arrears at Raquels. I rang the door staff and told them I would be down on Friday to collect it. ‘You had better ring me before you come,’ one of the doormen said. ‘I’ve heard that Tucker has got the hump.’ I told him I didn’t care, but I didn’t want to involve him and the other doormen and so I agreed. Always cautious, I tooled myself up. I put a huge combat knife in the back of my trousers and a bottle of squirt in my pocket, and went down to Basildon town centre to collect my money.

  Maurice and Gavin met me near Raquels and advised me not to go round to the club. ‘Tucker’s there now with Tate, Rolfe and a few other people we haven’t seen before,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Tucker’s told me he’s holding your money and if you want it, you should get it yourself, but I wouldn’t advise it – he’s firmed up. I’ll give you my wages and get yours off Tucker. You can go round if you really want to, you know I’m with you, but I wouldn’t advise it.’ I’m many things but stupid isn’t one of them, so I agreed. Gavin gave me his money and went back to the club. When he arrived, Tucker asked Gavin if he had seen me. ‘I know he’s your mate, but we’ve got a problem with him,’ he said.

  ‘I have seen him,’ Gavin replied, ‘and I’ve given him my wages, as you’ve got his. Now I need you to pay me.’

  Tucker hesitated, apologised and gave Gavin his money. As far as I was concerned that was the end of the matter. Everyone was happy. I was out of Raquels and out of the firm. There was no need for anyone to continue with a vendetta.

  The following night, Saturday, 25 November, I was told that Tate and Rolfe had been in the club looking for me. I don’t know what Tate’s problem was. He and I had always got on well. I suppose, as with Nipper, because Tucker had the hump with me he had to follow suit. It was always the way with these morons. Gavin was in the club when Tate and Rolfe had arrived and Tate had asked him if he had seen me.

  ‘Tell Bernie he can’t hide for ever,’ he added. ‘And when we see him, we are going to take lumps out of him.’

  ‘He’s my mate. I don’t pass on messages like that,’ Gavin replied. Tate should have learned from his experience with Nipper that he shouldn’t go around making threats. He and Tucker started telling everybody they were going to shoot me. If they were intent on doing so, they knew where I lived and I was hardly going to try and hide for ever. Nor was I going to give them for ever to carry out their threats.

  I had no idea why Rolfe was involving himself either. He had nothing to do with Raquels or my arrangement with Tucker. At that time he was having enough troubles of his own. On Tuesday, 28 November, WPC Ponder was on duty in a marked police vehicle with PC Barham. At approximately 11.25 p.m., they were driving along High Road, Pitsea, when their attention was drawn to a blue Range Rover. They followed the vehi
cle into Pitsea Road and into Beambridge. The Range Rover then pulled into a parking spot. PC Barham stopped behind it, got out of the police car and had a conversation with the driver, who was very annoyed at being stopped. The Range Rover contained three passengers, a blonde female about 25 years of age and an older couple whom the driver referred to as Mum and Dad.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ the driver said initially. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, there’s nothing wrong with my driving. You’re the one who has fucked up. You didn’t indicate coming into this road.’ He then said, ‘You should read the fucking Highway Code because you’re supposed to indicate!’

  ‘I just want to talk to you about the speed you were driving,’ PC Barham replied.

  ‘Just give me a ticket. I’m getting cold out here, let me go inside.’ The driver then told his mother and the others to go inside the house.

  ‘I’m not going to give you a ticket, I just want to talk to you about the way you came round a bend on Pitsea High Road,’ PC Barham said.

  In a calmer voice, the driver replied, ‘I came off the roundabout and there were cars parked there, so I had to pull out.’

  PC Barham asked the driver his name, address and date of birth.

  ‘Michael Andrew Rolfe, 403 Long Riding, 29–9–66,’ the driver replied.

  PC Barham wrote these details down and then walked around to the front of the Range Rover. ‘The vehicle’s got no tax,’ he said.