Dad instructed Eddie where to go, and told him to head for the coffee stall by the lorry stop at Blackheath.
The Zephyr was first to arrive at the heath. Dad and Dukey got out of the car and sat on the grass. Sensing the cops would be taking photos, Dad pulled his duffel coat over his head and waited for Eddie to show up. Minutes later, the lorry rumbled up the hill and shuddered to a stop. Eddie jumped down from the cab, and made his way towards the men, but nobody acknowledged each other. Eddie positioned himself within earshot, and stared ahead as if they were strangers. When you’re sitting on a couple of millions’ worth of gear and Customs are your audience, acting familiar with each other isn’t clever.
The game was up. There was nothing for it but to try to escape. The package had to be abandoned, but Dad knew that the police could only store such a large lorry in the depot – the idea that he might be able to break in later on offered some consolation. That aside, he needed to think on his feet if they were to have any hope of getting out of this. In a few minutes, he hatched another plan.
‘We need to leave the gear,’ he told Eddie. ‘If they can’t nick you with the puff, they haven’t got anything on you, so follow me and Duke. We’ll drive ahead, go through the Blackwall Tunnel and stop at the other end. The cops’ll be on you, so, before you get out of the tunnel, jack-knife the lorry, block ’em in, and run to the end. We’ll be waiting for you.’
Eddie nodded. The men stood up, and went back to their vehicles. As Eddie fired his engine up, several other ignition keys must have turned simultaneously. The Customs officers were waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Dad and Dukey slipped away as planned, headed for the tunnel, sped through and pulled up on the other side. Eddie waited a while and followed, but, for reasons that will always remain a mystery, Scatty Eddie didn’t do as he was told. Rather than jack-knifing the lorry in the tunnel and making a run for it, he simply kept on trucking right out the southern end. Dad and Duke looked on wide-eyed as the lorry steamed past them, closely followed by a procession of cars packed with Customs men.
It was all over for Eddie. Nobody could help him now. Doubtless he’d pull over somewhere, give himself up and get nicked. Dad and Duke had no idea why Eddie hadn’t stuck to the plan, but they had better things to worry about. Everything was fucked up, and now they had to make themselves scarce. The men parted company and went straight into hiding. Eddie had a prison stretch – maybe a five or a seven – coming his way, but Dad and Duke were damned if they were going to join him.
Dad didn’t head home to get nicked, but made his way over to ‘bacon sandwiches’ to work out his next move. As he sipped his tea and dug into one of Nan’s trademark doorsteps, he wondered, if there was a chance he could still nick the gear from the depot. There was a lot of other people’s money at stake here, after all, and getting the gear back would avoid a whole lot of grief. He soon got his answer when he switched on the telly.
As the news headlines rolled, Dad stared in total disbelief. Something truly terrible had happened. A Customs officer had been shot in Aldgate.
It turned out that, once out of the tunnel, Eddie had driven back to Aldgate, parked in the lorry depot, locked the lorry and started to walk away. The Customs officers chose this as their moment to pounce, but, instead of holding his hands up and doing an ‘I’m just the driver’ act, Eddie pulled out a Beretta pistol and shot the poor Customs guy dead. In a split second the stupid bastard went from being a driver to a murderer, and an innocent man with a family had been killed for doing his job. Total fucking madness. What on earth went through Eddie’s mind is anyone’s guess, but he certainly lived up to his nickname. It was a tragedy on so many levels.
Dad was absolutely horrified. It was all totally unnecessary. What’s more, from day one Dad had insisted that no guns should be involved – he had no idea about Eddie’s hidden shooter. When Dad was at work his modus operandi was to make sure no ‘straight goers’ ever got hurt. Killing innocents was completely beyond the pale. So much for Eddie’s five or seven: now he would be looking at life. As for Dad and Duke, now they would be wanted for both smuggling and accessory to murder, and all because of one man’s stupidity. It was a total fucking disaster.
All the while, I’d been going about my day blissfully unaware of what Dad and Duke had been up to, never mind what had gone down with Eddie. I even glimpsed a newsflash about the dead Customs man, but didn’t put two and two together – whatever the plans for retrieving the stash, I knew guns would be a million miles away.
I only felt a bit of an alert when a message arrived telling me to get over to Auntie Nanette’s. Christ! I thought, and prayed none of what I’d seen on TV was linked to my father. It was impossible, I told myself as I jumped in the car and sped to be by his side.
As I’ve said, Dad is a master of the poker face, a consummate professional at keeping cool when the heat is on, but Eddie’s actions had pushed Freddie Foreman’s self-control to breaking point. I walked into Auntie Nanette’s, and Dad was absolutely livid as he recounted the day’s terrible events to me. Dad hadn’t condoned Eddie’s behaviour on any level, and now Eddie had implicated my father in something very heavy.
Listening, I was completely flabbergasted. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind. Aside from my shock at Eddie’s actions, and my sadness for the Customs officer, I felt frightened as I considered the possible ramifications of this nightmare. I’d only had Dad back a couple of years, and now this. Dad’s angry reaction said it all: everything was so fucked up, and we both knew he was in serious danger.
We had to work out what to do next, and quick. The police would already be scouring London for Dad, and probably me too. Dad was sure they would know I had no involvement in what had gone down. But they’d observed me driving him around for months, and at the very least would want yours truly to answer a few questions. Dad needed to go underground, but both of us gone AWOL would look like an admission of guilt on my part. It was decided that I would carry on as normal while Dad stayed in hiding.
I left Nan’s, and shot around town passing on various messages to chaps who needed to know what had happened. The old machine went to work again, this time to make sure Dad was squirreled away safe and sound, and everybody needed to have their stories straight in case the Old Bill came calling.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t deeply, deeply concerned about what had happened – all the memories of previous trials, of life without my father during the prison years, hovered around the edge of my consciousness, but I had to be strong, get my head together and focus on the moment. Stay calm, Jamie, I thought. Keep cool and there might be a way out of this. Let yourself dwell, and there might be a repeat performance. Deal with the chaps. Let the network take care of Dad. Carry on as normal.
It was a Friday night, and acting normal meant going out for a drink. Knowing the police would be watching me like hawks, I met up with a few mates and acted as if nothing was amiss. I dropped into a few clubs, then went to see an uncle and passed on a message from Dad. After that it was home to bed. I sat tight on Saturday with Mum, making sure she was all right, all the while hoping Dad was OK and conscious of the police glaring at the house. We waited for the inevitable knock on the door, but bedtime came and we hadn’t heard a peep.
Sunday, day of rest. Not for the cops, though, and on this occasion not for me. No sooner had I opened my eyes than I was staring up the barrels of a .45 and a .38, both pointed straight at my head. Holding them were two officers, one from Customs and one from the Flying Squad. Bloody hell, I thought, this is a bit much.
‘Get up, Jamie,’ said the Customs officer. ‘We need to talk.’
Over the years one thing I’d learned from Dad was this: when a policeman is pointing a gun at you, he’s always nervous, often more nervous than you are. And nerves and guns aren’t a good combination – it only takes the smallest slip of the finger for a pistol to go off. Dad had had many a police gun pulled on him in the past, and he’d always
warned me that, should it ever happen to me, I should do everything I could to keep the situation calm. ‘Don’t move quickly,’ he said, ‘and always try to talk them down. Keep the situation as calm as possible. They may be police, but it’s not very often they have to handle guns. Accidents happen easily.’
Considering that the officers standing over me had lost one of their own men in the last 48 hours, I knew they’d be pretty upset. They certainly looked edgy enough – you could see their hands trembling as they pointed their guns at me. In a split second I remembered Dad’s advice.
‘OK, relax,’ I said, not moving a muscle. ‘Just let me get dressed and I’ll put the kettle on.’
The pair of them eased off a little, and I gave them a nod to let them know I wasn’t going to try to do anything clever. ‘There’s no need for them,’ I added, looking at the guns. ‘My mum and sister are in the house. I don’t want any trouble. Really.’
We went downstairs. I made some tea while the police turned the house over. I knew they wouldn’t find anything, so I relaxed as I poured the milk into the cups. Meanwhile, I could hear Mum going to work with the police.
‘What are you doing coming in here with your guns drawn while my little girl’s in bed? Don’t you know I’m under the doctor at the moment with heart trouble? Frightening the life out of us – who do you think you are?’
Good old Mum. Obviously she was in bits about what had happened with Dad, but she wasn’t going to let the cops see that. I’ve seen her kick into gear a few times, and when it comes to putting on a brave face – and some fantastic acting to boot! – she’s as solid as a rock. A truly formidable woman.
‘Where’s Fred?’ asked the officers.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she said, hamming up the dramatics. ‘We had a row so he’s probably still out on the booze. What do I care anyway? I hope he never comes back.’
Now it was my turn.
‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, walking in with the tea. ‘What do you want to talk to my dad about?’
The cops never give anything away, so I had to take no reply for an answer.
‘There’s a premises in Marshalsea Road with your dad’s name on the lease,’ said the copper. ‘We want to take a look, Jamie.’
If their detective minds seriously thought Dad would be hiding out in his own property, I was more than happy to waste a bit of their time showing them around. ‘No problem, officer, I’ll just get my keys.’
The premises was a four-storey building, a former doss-house Dad had converted. There was a boxing club on one floor, a photographer’s studio on another, and a gymnasium. The basement was Dad’s office and a rehearsal studio that my brother Gregory ran. Many of the best gigging bands in London rehearsed there, including Paul Young’s group. But, as it was 9am on a Sunday, I knew the place would be deserted when me and five carloads of armed officers showed up.
These police do like their guns, I thought, as, weapons drawn, a little army of officers surrounded the empty building – I hoped it was empty anyway. I knew Dad was elsewhere, but for a second it crossed my mind that I didn’t know where Dukey had disappeared to.
What followed was serious and scary, but also pretty farcical. Guns drawn, countless cops followed me into the building, only to be met by … nothing. I took them down to the rehearsal room, and I’ll never forget the sight of two cops approaching our little upright piano, pointing their guns at it, and gingerly lifting the lid.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I laughed, ‘I couldn’t fit in there, never mind my dad.’
The cops looked up a little sheepish; I think they saw my point. We moved to the back of the building, and arrived at a locked door. It only led to a stairwell, but we always kept it locked because several people – Dad included – had said they had seen a ghost and felt a strange presence there. No matter the weather, that stairwell was always freezing cold, and it gave us all the heebee-jeebies. The police told me to open it up and, truthfully, I said I didn’t have a key and that it only led to a stairwell.
That wasn’t good enough for them. There was a hinged pane of glass above the door, and a few coppers were giving it the eye. ‘I’ll go through it, Guv,’ said one, and what followed was pure slapstick.
Using a ladder, the copper climbed up to the window. I waited till he’d clambered halfway through it before piping up with an interesting little anecdote.
‘We keep the door locked because the building is haunted,’ I said casually. ‘Through there’s where the ghost lives.’
The poor guy froze as I spoke, his legs dangling from the window, and the men burst into laughter as their fellow officer struggled not to bottle out. ‘You’re not going to take any notice of that old twaddle, are you?’ shouted someone as the cop dropped through the window. There was a key on the other side and, quick as a flash, the bloke unlocked the door and jumped through it. He was white as a sheet.
Peals of laughter. Thank God, I thought, at least things are a bit more relaxed now. Still, none of the coppers exactly rushed forward. ‘You go first,’ said one. ‘No you,’ said another. One minute they’d been running around toting guns like they were in The Sweeney and the next they’re seemingly reluctant to go down the stairs because of a ghost. If anything, those moments with the cops offered a little bit of light relief from the tension of a terrible situation.
Satisfied there was nobody in the building but a ghost, the cops vacated it. Outside, I had a word with a few officers from the Flying Squad.
‘What’s going on? What’s this all about?’ I asked guardedly.
They told me the story. The plot to infiltrate Dukey’s drug run had been going for 18 months, and was called Operation Wrecker, so named by Customs and Excise in reference to smuggling a few centuries back, when teams of ‘wreckers’ used to direct ships carrying valuables on to perilous rocks along the Cornish coast. Once the ships had washed up, goods were stolen and sold on. A wholly different form of smuggling from a bygone era.
Customs had worked alongside the police, and observed the lorry going to and from Pakistan for 18 months. Dukey’s crew had brought in some £10 million, but, when it came to the swoop at Aldgate, Customs wanted to take the lorry alone. Maybe they wanted all the glory – who knows? – but I got the impression the police felt the confrontation could have been handled differently if they had been involved.
When Eddie left the lorry that fateful morning, the Customs officers had steamed in tooled up to the eyeballs, and, though there’s no excusing what Scatty Eddie did, perhaps a less aggressive approach could have saved a man’s life. Perhaps a police presence would have kept the situation under control. There’s never much point in what-might-have-beens, but all I know is that a man lost his life that day for no good reason, and Scatty Eddie went on to serve 25 years at Her Majesty’s pleasure before dying in prison. Two wasted lives, and for what?
Hearing about Operation Wrecker made me angry and sad – Dad was only involved with a small part of the operation for a very short time, but his brief association would be enough to land him in big trouble. I already knew he would have to keep his head down for a very long time. As I said goodbye to the officers, I began to wonder what on earth was going to happen next.
‘When your Dad turns up, tell him to come in and see us,’ said one of the Flying Squad coppers.
‘If I see him, I’ll let him know,’ I said, ‘but these rows with Mum happen all the time.’
I left it there.
ON THE RUN
A part from Dad, none of his firm had been involved with Dukey, but, immediately the chaps found out the shit had hit the fan, they rallied around and made sure he was safe. A house was located and within hours Dad was safely ensconced in a North London estate.
My father was out of sight, but not out of mind, and he needed someone to run messages for him. I couldn’t have let anyone but me do that job. I was desperate to know Dad was OK, and prepared to do anything to make sure of it. From then on in, I was the go-betwee
n for Dad and the chaps. Looking back, perhaps it didn’t make that much sense for the son of a man being actively sought by the police to be running errands to and from a hideout – they had their eye on me, after all – but I felt compelled to take that mantle for the sake of my father and my family. And anyway I was sure I could outwit the cops with a bit of good old-fashioned tradecraft.
I only moved at night. One of my TV mates lived in Battersea and owned a VW Camper, so en route to Dad I’d make a few detours and wind up at Richard’s place in Prince of Wales Drive. I’d walk in the front entrance, duck out the back door, jump in his van and speed off to see Dad. Richard never asked any questions, so I didn’t have to tell him any lies. Coming back, I’d repeat the process backwards. It worked like a charm. Lovely.
Visiting Dad was always wonderful. I’d take him the goodies he wanted, pass some messages on and slip him some money, and in those trying times our moments together were sweet relief. We’d become so accustomed to each other’s company on our daily rounds that it was painful being apart, especially for Dad. Being holed up on your own 24/7 is hard enough for anyone, but add to that the fear of the unknown and you’ve got a situation fit to make you crack. Dad stayed strong, but I know his spirits were low.
At some point it became necessary for Dad to switch safe houses, and the chaps found him another place to keep his head down. His new residence was above a nightclub in Tottenham, but not until my first visit did I realise his room overlooked the yard of the local police station. Talk about keeping your enemies close. I couldn’t believe it.
‘How can you live here?’ I asked him, incredulous.
‘Well, if you’re going to hide, where better than right under their bloody noses?’ laughed Dad.
He had a point, and the view of the coppers coming and going was an amusing distraction. Still, it did end up a bit stressful in the end, and Dad soon moved on again.
Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story Page 14
