Bonded by Blood

by Bernard O'Mahoney

  On one occasion while Darren and I were in my cell, Darren asked my opinion on a matter associated with charges against him. He told me that he had been charged with involvement in the importation of cannabis but he wondered whether he should admit to involvement in Class A drugs. The logic was that if Darren admitted more serious offences, his credibility when he gave evidence would be higher in the eyes of the jury, but he would not be the subject of a more severe sentence by the judge. I told Darren that such an idea did not make sense to me. While it was necessary that he did admit all he had been involved in – otherwise the defence may be able to challenge his honesty when he gave evidence – there was no reason for him to admit things that he hadn’t done.

  He said that he wanted the new identity being offered and a fresh start, and that if that meant admitting to offences he hadn’t committed and committing perjury, then he was willing to do so.

  Beyond the prison walls, Nicholls’s wife Sandra and their children were struggling with a world that had been turned upside down. As soon as Nicholls had agreed to give evidence against Whomes and Steele, his family had been taken from their home in the middle of the night. The children – young, confused and frightened – were told they had to leave because an old Second World War bomb had been found nearby. Isolated from family and friends in a police safe house, Sandra was terrified of saying anything to anybody in case it placed her and the children in danger. When neighbours asked innocent questions, such as ‘Where do you come from?’ or ‘What do you do?’, Sandra would just turn and walk away.

  The Nicholls family was not the only one being torn apart by the events that had led to the demise of the Essex Boys firm. Although we appeared to be emerging from the doom and gloom in which the events of 1995 had immersed myself and my family, the underlying strain on us all proved to be too much.

  Paul Betts had appeared on television, calling me a bastard and saying I was responsible for the death of his daughter Leah. He based his allegations on the fact I had admitted in court that I had turned a blind eye to the drug dealing that went on in Raquels. The publicity generated by his allegation resulted in older children telling my children at school that their father was a murderer. How can you tell your tearful son or daughter to ignore such nonsense? What can you possibly say when they ask if it’s true? In an effort to stop this ridiculous witch-hunt, I wrote an open letter to Paul Betts, which was printed in the press. I urged him to confront me on live TV so we could debate who was really responsible for Leah’s death, but, unsurprisingly, he declined.

  It was becoming apparent to me that remaining with my children was causing them to be unfairly tarnished. Debra, a decent, honest woman, was also being subjected to an unjustified whispering campaign. My family were suffering for something none of us was directly responsible for. Paul Betts’s accusations were causing the children so much upset, Debra suggested, and I agreed, that we should part for their sake. Debra and I had to look at the situation in a cold, clinical manner and do what was best for them and not what suited us. We sold our home in Mayland and Debra moved to a home near her mother. I returned to Basildon. True love is an extremely painful thing to acknowledge.

  I did not arrive in the best of moods. I was in turmoil over my family and I was tired of being blamed for causing the death of a girl who had been foolish enough to take drugs. It wasn’t as though Leah was experimenting for the first time; she had regularly taken Ecstasy and speed and had smoked cannabis. I felt Paul Betts’s allegation was ridiculous; it was like somebody blaming a pub landlord for getting him or her convicted of drunk-driving. He should learn that we all have choices in life and we all have to take responsibility for our actions, however unsavoury they may be. It’s not always somebody else’s or society’s fault. Likewise, his son, William, is soley responsible for his recent assault on two girls, aged thirteen and fourteen, which resulted in his name being added to the sex offenders register. Unsurprisingly, Mr Betts was not so vocal about his son’s behaviour.

  My decision to help the police put me out in no-man’s-land; not only were the firm’s victims’ families condemning me, but my former associates and their sidekicks were also swearing bloody revenge on me for daring to assist the police. Whichever way I turned, Bernard O’Mahoney had done wrong. I grew sick of hearing about so-called gangsters in Basildon who were allegedly trying to kill me, and I was sick of being advised by police where I should or should not go to avoid my imaginary assassins. So many people appeared to have opinions about me, yet few knew me and none had ever had any dealings with me. If people didn’t like me living in Basildon, it was a matter for them, not me. I had been driven out of one home; I was not going to be driven out of another.

  I started drinking in my old haunts. Most people I met droned on and on about the murders of Tucker, Tate and Rolfe. Few in the town believed the men accused of the murders were guilty; in fact, many believed I had been instrumental in luring the trio to their deaths. Nobody said they had a problem with me personally and several had nothing but good memories of the trouble-free rave nights we had created at Raquels.

  A few months after moving back to Basildon, I bumped into a girl named Emma Turner, whom I had first met at Raquels. Emma and I had always been good friends and we found we had a lot to catch up on, which resulted in us spending more and more time together. Not least was the fact that our close friendship had resulted in the Rettendon murder squad detectives giving Emma a hard time.

  Back in April 1996, DC Scott from the Essex drugs squad had contacted me about ‘Tucker’s girlfriend’, Emma Turner. An informant had said ‘the head of the firm’ was going out with Emma and the police had assumed the informant was referring to Tucker when in fact the informant was talking about the head doorman at Raquels, which was me. DC Shakespeare, who had been tasked to contact and interview Emma, turned up at her mother’s home and left a message saying that if she continued to avoid him, she would be arrested. Fearing she was in some sort of trouble, Emma contacted me and I telephoned the police to explain the situation on her behalf. Eventually, DC Scott was able to confirm that there had been a mistake and Emma had had no involvement with Tucker whatsoever.

  Emma and I began to go out together regularly. Eventually, I gave up the flat I had rented and moved in with her. Since the catalogue of court appearances connected to the Betts case had ended, I had been able to take on a full-time job driving a tipper lorry. Within a short period of time, I was given a managerial position and offered a post in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire. I didn’t want to move away from my children because being able to see them every other day had lessened the trauma of being separated from them. Instead, I chose to drive to Peterborough every day, leaving the house at 4.30 a.m. and returning at 8 p.m. Being straight was proving to be a real strain and the rewards were hardly compensatory.

  John Rollinson, or ‘Gaffer’ as he liked to call himself, the dealer who had bankrolled Mark Murray after the police raid at Club UK, had been telling people in Essex that he was looking for me. He was apparently unhappy that I had named Murray as a drug dealer at the Betts trial. Rollinson may have been well advised to keep his big mouth shut about the fact he had financed the batch of drugs that led to Leah’s death, but he wasn’t the brightest of people. He was the type who tried to make himself seem important by having views and opinions on villains others looked up to. Gaffer (Blake Publishing, 2003), a recent book published about Rollinson’s life, describes him as ‘one of the most dangerous men in the country’. It goes on to claim that Rollinson has made the villains’ Hall of Fame after a ‘lifetime of unmitigated violence, driven by a fearsome rage’. Only the gullible and naive take any notice of the likes of Rollinson and his ridiculous boasting.

  It was a good friend of Rollinson who told me he had been badmouthing me, but I was not the slightest bit concerned. I had never done anything to Rollinson. If he had just cause to be upset with anybody, it should have been his tailor. I knew that he had no right to have a grievance with me
because I hardly knew the mug. ‘It’s Gaffer trying to involve his name in a high-profile case,’ I told his friend. ‘You know what he’s like. The boy’s a fool, he just wants to feel important.’

  Then one evening, when Emma and I were out having a drink over at the Festival Leisure Park in Basildon – a large entertainment complex comprising bars, nightclubs, a bowling alley, a cinema and fast food restaurants: some of the more witty locals refer to it as ‘Bas Vegas’ – a small, thin drug-ravaged man started shouting ‘Fucking cunt!’ at me. He threw his baseball cap on the floor and kept spitting each time he did so. ‘Cunt, fucking cunt,’ he shouted. I thought the man may have been mentally challenged or was suffering from some sort of embarrassing disorder, so I thought it best to ignore him.

  Emma, not used to witnessing such alarming behaviour, clutched my arm and asked me who he was. It was only when the man started shouting about ‘grassing Mark Murray up’ that I took a closer look and realised it was the ‘legendary’ Gaffer. I hadn’t seen him since I had worked at Raquels and he had lost a lot of weight. He looked gaunt and thin, no doubt the result of a low-life existence, popping pills and feeding a cocaine habit.

  When you are out with your partner for a drink, you don’t really relish the thought of rolling around on the floor with a drunk or a loud-mouthed druggie, so I apologised to Emma and told her we would have a drink at the other end of the bar, but if Gaffer continued to be abusive or offered violence, I would have to give him a clip around the ear.

  Gaffer was not alone, so his actions were despicable. What sort of man starts on another man who is out with his partner having a drink? No doubt he is another gangster who follows the criminal code; so much for showing women respect. Throughout the evening, Gaffer kept glaring down the bar at me and tipping his hat like some second-rate performing clown.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Emma, ‘I’ve had enough of this, let’s go.’

  As I walked past Gaffer, the gutless coward squirted me in the eyes with ammonia. I was temporarily blinded, so Emma opened the door for me and I stepped outside. Gaffer had been telling everybody in Essex that he was going to ‘do’ me – now that I was temporarily blinded and standing in front of him, he had the best chance he was ever going to get to carry out his threat. My vision began to clear, so I made my way to the taxi rank outside the club. Gaffer and his friend followed us, which frightened Emma, so I turned and confronted them. I knew Gaffer was not capable of fighting, so I was expecting him to pull out a weapon. To Gaffer’s friend’s credit, he stepped back, making it obvious he wanted no part in any trouble.

  As Gaffer advanced, I grabbed his head and shoved him backwards. I was not the slightest bit concerned about what he may try to do, or what he may try to do it with, because, unknown to him, I had a double-bladed 12-inch combat knife down the back of my trousers. If he got within striking distance of me with a weapon, I was more than prepared to bury the knife deep in his head.

  When I had shoved Gaffer backwards, his cap had fallen off. As he approached me again, I could see in his eyes that he was unsure of himself. He pulled out a Jif lemon container and after lunging forward, squirted me once more in the eyes with ammonia. The red mist rose and, at that moment, I wanted to end his miserable and pointless life. I pulled out the knife and raised it. He saw it, screamed like a hysterical girl and ran back into the club calling for help.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ I thought. ‘How do I end up getting involved with these fools? I could end up serving a life sentence because some little low-life nobody has chosen to attack me.’ A bouncer came out and told me the police had been called.

  ‘You’re on CCTV as well, Bernie,’ he said. ‘You had better make yourself scarce.’

  Emma and I tried to get in a taxi but the driver refused to take us. The other taxis in the rank drove away empty. I could see Gaffer hiding in the club foyer behind the bouncers. It looked as though he was crying, so I knew he wouldn’t be troubling us again that night.

  We didn’t live too far from the leisure park, so we decided to walk. We made our way across the car park to the main road, where two police cars pulled up. My mind was racing, I had a certain prison sentence tucked down the back of my trousers and I didn’t fancy being locked up because of a loser like Gaffer. ‘The knife, the knife, how the fuck can I explain away the knife?’ I was thinking. I knew everybody had seen it and I knew the CCTV had recorded me brandishing it, so it was pointless denying its existence. There was only one thing for it, I thought: I was going to have to bluff my way out of it. I pulled out the knife and approached the police officers.

  ‘It’s OK officers,’ I said, ‘I’ve got the knife.’

  ‘Drop the weapon, drop the weapon!’ they shouted.

  I laughed and told them it was OK. ‘It’s not my weapon,’ I said. ‘I took it off a lunatic.’

  I threw the knife on the ground. One of the police officers forced my hands behind my back and slapped a pair of handcuffs on.

  ‘You’re under arrest for possessing an offensive weapon,’ he said.

  I asked the police to make sure Emma got home all right. They said they would. They then put me in the back of the car and took me to Basildon police station. By this time, my eyes were becoming increasingly painful. They were red and swollen from the ammonia and now I had the handcuffs on, I was unable to wipe or try to clean them.

  At the police station, I mentioned again that I had been squirted with ammonia. I said I needed to wash my eyes out, but was told I was not allowed to do so until I had seen a doctor. An argument developed and the mood became pretty hostile. Eventually, they agreed to remove my cuffs. I was then bundled into a cell by the arresting officers and the door was slammed shut.

  The following morning, I washed my eyes out with the tea that had been brought to me for breakfast. It helped, but they remained painful and my vision was impaired. Eventually, at 3 p.m., a detective came to my cell to take me to the interview room. I had a rough idea of what I was going to say, but I was unaware of how much evidence the police had on me, so decided I would wait to hear what the detective had to say before telling my side of the story.

  The interviewing officer told me a member of staff at the club had called the police after a man had run inside screaming that I had brandished a knife outside the premises. He told me they had seized the CCTV footage and it clearly showed me lunging at this man with a large combat knife. I asked the officer if they had the video footage from inside the club. He said he hadn’t because the video inside the club wasn’t working. As soon as he said that, I knew I was home and dry. I told him that he only had half of the story.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘That man attacked me inside the club, sprayed me with ammonia and pulled out a knife when we started to struggle,’ I replied. ‘When he tried to stab me, I took the knife from him and, fearing for my safety, went outside. The man followed me and was asking me to give him back the knife. I didn’t want to because I thought he was going to stab me, so I refused. When he came towards me, I pushed him away, but then he attacked me with a Jif lemon container full of ammonia. Having been temporarily blinded, I feared for my safety. I pulled out his knife, which I had secreted down the back of my trousers, and he ran away screaming. I had pulled out his knife purely to defend myself. When he ran back into the club, I did not run inside after him as the danger had passed.

  ‘I stood outside for five or ten minutes. No taxis would take Emma and me home, so we walked across the car park, where I was arrested approximately fifteen minutes after the incident. If you ask the arresting officers, they will tell you I said, “It’s OK, I’ve got the knife, I took it off a lunatic.”’

  ‘But that’s not what other people are saying,’ the investigating officer said. ‘They’re saying it’s your knife.’

  ‘Well, you had better get these people to make statements because it’s not my knife, it belongs to the man who attacked me. He owns the knife.’

  The detective
said he had spoken to Gaffer and he did not want to make a statement. I knew Gaffer wouldn’t give evidence against me, so my defence was safe. I told the detective that Gaffer didn’t want to make a statement because he had the knife in the first place and he’s the one who attacked me. The officer insisted he had other witnesses and therefore I would be charged.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘fucking charge me.’

  The detective read the following charge to me: ‘That without lawful authority or reasonable excuse, I had with me in a public place an offensive weapon, namely a knife.’ He also alleged that I had used or threatened unlawful violence towards another and my conduct was such as would cause a person of reasonable firmness present at the scene to fear for his personal safety. When he told me I had caused a person of reasonable firmness present at the scene to fear for his personal safety, I started laughing.

  ‘How can you call a person reasonable when they are trying to blind you with ammonia?’

  The officer just looked at me and said, ‘Those are the charges. Have you anything to say?’ I did not reply. I was bailed to appear at Basildon Magistrates’ Court and then released.