The story was all over the papers. Duke’s face appeared on the front page of the Sun as the most wanted man in Britain, and the police were scrambling to locate him. Faces from Duke’s end were being nicked left, right and centre, and the disgusting thing was some of these so-called friends were spilling their guts to the authorities, making statements against poor old Dukey to save their own skins.
I relayed messages between Dad and Duke, and with a murder charge looming over them it was soon decided they would have to go on their toes and get out of the country. In Dad’s world, you can’t hide in London forever. There was nothing else for it. I liaised with a contact and after several meetings in various London parks, our man delivered what was needed: fake passports.
I’ll never forget the moment I received those passports. I’m no expert but to me they looked bang on the money – beautiful handiwork that you wouldn’t give a second glance to. Dukey’s photo was fantastic. Gone were his long hippy locks and beard: Pasha had smartened up his act and now looked like a most respectable City gent, nothing like the mug shot in the Sun. Dad’s was equally impressive. Unlike Duke, Dad was always immaculately groomed, but since bolting to North London he had grown a beard and turned into a bit of a pasha himself. And he had a new name, of course. George Newbury – Godfather of British Anonymity.
Passports in hand, the men were all set to go. But then tragedy struck out of the blue. Ever since disappearing, Dukey had been complaining to the fellow who was minding him of various illnesses and ailments. He requested various medication be brought to him every day. Dukey knew his drugs, and his mate (who didn’t) obligingly brought him whatever he required. Little did anyone know, Dukey was faking his symptoms.
Rather than taking the medication, poor Pasha was stockpiling it. Duke had done a 12 stretch in prison before, and had often said he’d rather die than go back. Given his current situation – and despite the passport to help him get away – he couldn’t deal with the idea of being on the run, or going back to jail. Dukey was always a man of his word, and his final actions proved how serious he was about never doing any more bird. On 1 December 1979, dear Pasha bathed, shaved, put his best suit on, and took his own life with a lethal cocktail of drugs. On discovering Pasha’s body, the man who had been looking after him took him to Hackney Marshes and carefully laid him on the centre spot of a football pitch. Early one foggy morning, Dukey’s body was found by a man walking his dog.
We were absolutely devastated at the passing of a great friend and a wonderful character. Pasha was as eccentric, idiosyncratic and kind as they come. He had his reasons for doing what he did, but I think what really pushed him over the edge was the scum who grassed on him. It broke Pasha’s heart that people close to him had turned. They know who they are.
Further testament to Pasha’s good nature was a note he left with me, which I passed on to a solicitor. In it, he took responsibility for the entire operation: the planning, the smuggling and the financing. Dukey covered the letter with his fingerprints, leaving no doubt about its authenticity. It was so touching that a man about to do away with himself took the time to try to protect my father from harm. Pasha was a true gent.
Kind as it was, Dad knew the letter wouldn’t be of much use in a court of law. As always, the powers that be were itching to bring Dad down. One of theirs had been killed, and the police wanted as many heads to roll as possible. With Duke out of the way, Dad was now the main target. All eyes were on my dad, or on his absence, I should say.
Within days the chaps arranged for Dad’s exile to Tenerife. The fake passport worked a dream, and I let out a deep sigh of relief when word arrived that he’d got there safely. Mum and Danielle discreetly followed shortly after – they had no reason to hang about, and couldn’t face having the Old Bill knocking on the door constantly. By a circuitous route they made their way there.
And then there was one: me.
My situation was complicated, very much a case of ‘should I stay or should I go?’ On the one hand, the police hadn’t pulled me in – not yet anyway – but I knew that, as time went by and they became more frustrated in their efforts to locate Dad, attention would become more focused on me. Would they nick me in an effort to flush Dad out? Would I become a sprat to catch a mackerel? I couldn’t say, but it worried me. On the other hand, I was falling deeply in love with Julie and my career looked like it was about to really take off.
My agent Bill’s prophecy that good things were going to happen to me seemed about to come true. Thanks to him, I’d laid down a couple of screen tests for a new movie that was soon to be made. As a result I was offered a role in Quest for Fire, a film by French director Jean-Jacques Arnaud. It would be a stunning portrayal of early humans’ struggle to control fire, and I’d be playing a Neanderthal-like tribesman. A wonderful opportunity. I would be filming on location in the Congo, in deepest Africa. I would also be working alongside some big names – Everett McGill, Ron Perlman, Nameer El-Kadi and the gorgeous Rae Dawn Chong – but the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Much as I loved my career, if push came to shove, I was prepared to drop anything and everything for my family. That was never a dilemma, and the same is true to this day. Still, I was in limbo for a few weeks once Dad had gone. Were the police after me or not? Luckily I found out just in time.
I was steering clear of our empty house in Dulwich, only dropping by once a week to check on it. In the meantime, our wonderful neighbours, the Ellisons, were taking in our post for us. One day the police had turned up looking for me while Mr Ellison was picking up the post. Noticing a letter addressed to me, a copper grabbed it and tore it up. He had recognised the DVLA envelope: it contained my driving licence – since passing my test I’d been waiting for it to come through.
‘He won’t be needing that any more,’ said the copper as the remains of my licence landed on our driveway and blew away in the breeze.
That moment said it all. I wasn’t safe, and as long as I was around the same went for Dad.
The police had been biding their time, looking for my father, but it was plain I’d soon be hauled in. Who knows what they might have had – photos of me on meets, helping Dad, or tapped phone calls perhaps? It didn’t matter. They had finally decided to nick me in an attempt to flush out my dad. If arrested I would most certainly be charged with conspiracy, which would help them build a stronger case against my dad.
I was a wanted man. It was time for me to go on the run.
I received a message to go and see the chaps. They’d organised Dad’s departure; now it was my turn to be looked after.
‘This is what you do,’ they began. The last time I’d heard that phrase was when Dad had told me to go and see Barbara Windsor about getting into acting. How times had changed, I thought. ‘Hands’ was doing the talking. One of Dad’s best friends, Hands was his nickname – I cannot use his real name for obvious reasons.
‘You go home and pack a bag. Don’t take too much, you’ll be travelling light. Then you head to Victoria Station tomorrow morning. From there, take the boat train to Paris. When you arrive in Paris, you go to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Don’t worry about using your own name. Just book yourself on the first available flight to Madrid. Now, once in Madrid, you can use any name you want, because you will be taking an internal flight, so think one up and get on a plane to Tenerife. When you arrive in Tenerife, you take a taxi to a place called Los Cristianos. Then you phone this number when you get there.’
A piece of paper was thrust into my hand. On it was a number, and that was all. I wasn’t allowed to write down the instructions – everything had to remain in my head. I repeated the plan back to them until I had it word-perfect. By the time I was done, I thought it all sounded pretty simple. As always, the chaps had worked everything out down to the smallest detail. But, as I was to discover; nothing would be as easy as it sounded. These things never are.
‘One more thing,’ added Hands. ‘For your safety and your Dad’s, don’t tell anyon
e you are going.’
The inevitable had finally happened. A new chapter in my life was about to begin. The chaps had no idea how long we would have to stay out of the way. When I put that question to Hands, he looked at me sympathetically.
‘I don’t know, kid. But it could be at least a year or so.’
A year, I thought. Fucking hell. It seemed a very long time. But it had to be done. If it was this or a possible jail sentence, I’d rather be sitting on a sunny beach than in a cold prison cell. Still, it gave me a lot to think about. How was this going to affect my career? What would my agent say? I had just got going with Bill Horne. I had built some good contacts and now I would have to put everything on hold. I knew I’d done some good work, and hoped that on my return I would be able to pick up where I’d left off. Thinking further, I realised sticking around didn’t really make sense for my career: the press would have a field day if I were to be implicated in what had just gone down. No one would touch me, it would be disastrous. It would be best to stay out of the way – ‘Time heals all wounds’, as they say.
I have always tried to be a positive person. My glass has always been half full. I decided to make the most of my situation. It would certainly be a new experience. I hadn’t seen much of the world and living in a new country – and immersing myself in a different culture – would broaden my horizons. The other big disappointment was having to forgo my burgeoning relationship with the beautiful Julie. I thought back to our first date in Legends nightclub. We’d danced to ‘Gone Gone Gone’ by Johnny Mathis – how prophetic those words had turned out to be. But I consoled myself with one thought: I had waited for her once, so maybe I would win her back one day in the future. Not being able to say goodbye and explain my sudden departure was hard, though. If only I’d known then what I know now. Unfortunately, it turned out I wouldn’t meet Julie again for another 20 years and an awful lot happened to both of us in that time …
I only told one person I was leaving the country: my brother, Gregory. There were a number of belongings I needed to be kept safe – my beloved record collection (I had the originals of every recording Frank Sinatra had made) and a fine collection of antique jewellery I’d acquired over the years. I knew he’d look after them for me, so that at least I would have something to come back to. After saying goodbye to Gregory, I packed my bag before heading out to Legends for the night. Pandy, Johnny Bunce and Pandy’s brother Nick met me there, and we had a night as great as any other. I didn’t say a word about my impending departure, not because I didn’t have faith in them – Pandy and Johnny are staunch men I’d trust with my life – but because they didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to weigh them down with knowing what I was up to. Asking someone to keep a secret can be unfair, and many times in life I’ve found that people can let things go without meaning to. Besides, the chaps had told me to keep my lips sealed. Even if a part of me might have been relieved to get things off my chest, there was no way I would break my code of silence.
The night drew to a close and we said goodnight; no doubt a future date for a drink was mentioned. I stood there, surrounded by the mates who were so dear to me, and wondered how long it would be before we said hello again. ‘See you later, chaps,’ I said. But in my head I was bidding them farewell. For a while at least.
It was late. As always, the West End was teeming with life. The bright lights of the city and all its charms were so familiar and, now I was about to leave, it all felt more alive and vibrant than ever. People jostled in the streets, crowded in and out of buses and cabs, queued for the late-night clubs. Couples kissed, hustlers hustled, groups of revellers laughed, and I walked briskly past. How I loved my London and everything in it. It was a kaleidoscope of colour and contrast, a melting pot of good and bad, and in the morning I would be leaving my beloved city. Foreign shores beckoned. But I would be back one day. I knew it.
I made my way home. It was time to rest. I got into bed and looked at my suitcase in the corner of the room. Aside from my gear, it was packed with clothes for my father. Dad had travelled light to Tenerife, and the chaps had asked me to take him what he needed. It was my pleasure, of course. I switched out the light and lay there a while, blinking in the dark. I thought of Dad, of Mum, of Danielle. Family. Forget London, forget friends, forget acting – my flesh and blood mattered more than anything in the world, and I thanked my lucky stars they were safe and I would soon be with them.
Filled with trepidation and excitement, I began to drift off to sleep. Here we go again, I thought. My life had always been packed with twists and turns. As horrible as circumstances were for our family, a new adventure was about to begin, and I knew I was up to the challenge.
I woke up early and set off. It’s funny, but knowing what I was up to made me feel very conspicuous just walking down the street. I was used to keeping an eye out for the police, but now I felt like I was painted red with a siren on my head. Every second felt like a minute, every queue and hold-up was the end of the world. I was so impatient to get away, and kept thinking it’d be sod’s law if the Old Bill managed to spot me on my way through London. I was very self-conscious, and convinced I looked as guilty as hell.
Arriving at Victoria, I discovered all cross-Channel ferries had been cancelled thanks to Force Ten gales. For the previous two days, that is. Today it seemed luck was on my side. As I queued for a ticket, the Tannoy announced normal services were resuming. Thank fuck for that, I thought. The rational part of my brain was doing battle with the irrational – I knew my chances of being caught were small, but I couldn’t help thinking I was going to get nicked any minute. Having to go home and sit it out till the storms had passed would have jangled my nerves no end.
I kept my head down at the station, adrenalin keeping me alert. In life, it’s not very often you’re conscious of existing moment to moment, and it’s amazing how your senses prick up when you’re on the lookout for danger. Everything’s more intense. Sights and sounds are somehow magnified and you feel more alive than ever. Not that it’s a particularly comfortable feeling, mind you, but it’s an interesting experience.
Blending in with the crowd can be hard if you’re feeling edgy – even the actor in me found it hard to discern whether my body language was giving the game away. One thing I did know was that talking to people is always an excellent way to avoid looking conspicuous – it seemed to work in countless espionage movies I’d seen, anyway. So I thought I’d give that a try. Taking my seat on the Dover train, I smiled at the couple sitting across from me and soon enough we got chatting.
They were a lovely young couple from Mexico City, on their way to Paris, capital of romance, to begin their gap year in Europe. Their English wasn’t great, but we managed to hold a decent enough conversation. I spun a yarn about my reasons for visiting Paris, and we stuck together boarding the ferry at Dover. I admit I was using them as cover, and it worked. Nobody had looked at me twice when I passed through Customs.
I hadn’t eaten all day, and they were hungry too, so we headed for the ferry’s restaurant. The three of us soon steamed into the only food on offer: bacon and eggs. I fancied a drink to calm my nerves, and the Mexicans were game too because, well, they were young and in love. The trouble was the only tipple on offer was rosé wine. What the hell, we thought, and ordered a bottle.
Our meal went down well enough, but we realised we’d made a big mistake as soon as the ferry cleared the harbour and hit open sea. The gales had moved on, but the weather was still stormy enough to toss the ferry around like a kid’s boat in a bathtub. And it wasn’t long before my breakfast made its way back whence it came. I was so sick, and I wasn’t alone. I don’t think one person on that ferry came off lightly. The poor Mexicans were in bits. It was the worst ferry crossing ever. I was ready to kiss the ground when we got to the other side, and to this day I’ve never again touched a drop of rosé.
After recovering on the Calais to Paris train, I bid goodbye to the Mexicans and made my way across Gay Paree to Charles
de Gaulle Airport. I needed a flight to Madrid and tried every airline besides British Airways (who always made a record of any British travellers), all to no avail. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. There were tons of flights to Madrid, but not one fucking seat. I was 22, it was the first time I’d been abroad alone and I was on the lam, so understandably there were a few moments when I felt a twinge of rising panic. I’d been given a plan and told not to veer from it, but what was I to do now? Sticking to what I’d been told could mean waiting around a couple of days, perhaps more, and that was the last thing I wanted. Still, it seemed I had no other option.
I tried yet another airline desk, only to face another steward telling me there were definitely no seats to Madrid. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I froze.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ came an English a voice. Oh, God, I thought, I’ve drawn attention to myself. I’ve been spotted. Expecting the worst, I turned around.
‘There’s a train, you know,’ said a friendly-looking man.
‘A what?’ I said, gathering my composure, reeling with relief. This bloke was no copper – it seemed he was just trying to help.
‘A train from here to Madrid. Perhaps you could try that.’
It sounded good to me. I’d already had enough of the airport – I was edgy and desperate to keep moving. I thanked the bloke, got the hell out of Charles de Gaulle and hailed a cab to the Gare d’Austerlitz.
Train ticket in hand, I passed nervously through a security checkpoint with only a cursory glance at my passport and headed for the platform. Thankfully, there were plenty of seats on the train, and as I sat down I breathed a tiny sigh of relief. What a beautiful train it was. I’d never seen anything like it. Everything was new and streamlined and the seats were big and comfortable. Pure class – a far cry from British Rail. Nervous as I’d been, the luxury and romance of my surroundings did wonders for my state of mind. In a matter of hours I’d gone from grotty old Victoria to this. I was back on track – literally.
Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story Page 15
