‘The police officer may have protected the squatters’ rights but they certainly didn’t protect mine. I am a victim of a system that simply doesn’t care. It’s pathetic.’
Staffordshire police said last night that they could not comment as a complaint had been received. A spokesman said, ‘The matter is being investigated. An act of law covers the squatters’ rights which is a very complicated issue.’
If this is how law-abiding people were treated, I knew going straight was going to be hard. If I had still been involved with the firm, these people would have been ejected there and then, and probably through the same window as their possessions.
On Wednesday, 13 November 1996, my friend Mark Shinnick was arrested in possession of drugs with an estimated street value of £2,000,000.
Five kilos of cocaine, 24 kilos of amphetamine and 10 kilos of Ecstasy were discovered hidden in a false floor of his van. Mark Shinnick was married to Carol Mellin, whose brother Roger had been sentenced to five years’ imprisonment after he was caught with Mark Murray’s drugs in a Basildon hotel room. When Roger had been sent to prison and Murray had fled following Leah’s death, the villains at the top of that particular drug supply chain had demanded their money back. Roger had no money and neither did his family. The villains, a family who it is said run north London, were not prepared to listen to excuses. In an effort to repay them, Mark had ‘agreed’ to drive a van back from Holland to settle the debt.
Customs officers thought Mark had been acting suspiciously and so they followed his van, stopped and searched it and discovered the £2,000,000-worth of drugs hidden within. I had always got on well with Mark. He wasn’t a violent man – quite the opposite in fact, he was quiet and held a well-paid job. Mark had told me that he came out of work one day and a young member of this notorious crime family was waiting for him.
‘It was all very friendly. The man was at pains to point out that he understood my position and that it was a shame Roger had been nicked and the gear had been seized. But these villains still wanted their money.’ Mark was under no illusions as to his position and he ‘agreed’ to smuggle the drugs into the country from the continent using his works van. I felt desperately sorry for Carol – her brother was serving five years for drug offences and Mark received a twelve-year sentence. It was a story I saw unfold many, many times. Bait the victim with friendship, promises of huge rewards and protection, get him or her into debt, give them a drug habit or both. Then, through fear and intimidation, offer the victim a way out, the end result of which is usually a prison cell or a grave.
I wanted to talk to Carol, to try and help, but she had enough problems without me adding to them by my presence. I drove around to their house early one morning to put a note through the door. They lived on a normal working-class estate, children’s bicycles lay discarded in gardens, while Fords, Vauxhalls and vans adorned with adverts for plastering and dry lining filled either side of the road. As I sat there, I recalled all the events that had occurred in their street. Opposite Mark’s home was Jason Vella’s flat. Vella was a notorious Basildon villain who had stabbed one of his victims with a sword before the man had leaped from an upstairs window. Vella was later sentenced to 17 years’ imprisonment. He would have received a lesser sentence if he had killed the man.
I thought about the night Tucker, Rolfe and I had gone to Mark and Carol’s house looking for Murray, his terrified girlfriend in tow; about Mark’s son’s birthday party which my own children had attended; parties when Raquels had closed for the night but we were still in the mood for more; Murray on the settee boasting openly about his big plans; Murray sidling up to me, quietly asking for advice on his crumbling empire and the ever-present threat of violence from Tucker. They were all gone now: hiding, locked up or dead.
I put the note through the door. All I wanted to say was that I was sorry about Mark’s imprisonment and that I was thinking of him. I felt bad not knocking and saying it to her face, but I thought it was best that way.
If 1995 had been a bad year, 1996 was proving to be no better, if not worse.
Raquels doorman Chris Lombard had left our firm because he said the club we worked in was too violent and had gone to work instead at the Island nightclub in Ilford.
I hadn’t heard anything of Chris after that until Thursday, 5 December 1996, almost one year to the day since Tucker, Tate and Rolfe had been blown away in their Range Rover. I had stopped at a newsagents outside Liverpool Street station in London to pick up a newspaper, as I had to wait half an hour for a train to Essex. I glanced at the front page and then stared in horror. I could not believe what I saw nor what I began to read. The headline read: ‘Murdered doing his job’ and alongside that headline was a picture of Chris Lombard. The report said Chris had been shot dead and another man seriously injured after a hail of gunfire ripped through the Ilford nightspot where they worked. Chris, aged 30, was fatally wounded when seven shots were fired through the glass of a locked door at the club in High Road, Ilford at 3.35 a.m. A group of young men had turned up a few minutes after the doors had closed to customers.
They demanded to be let in, but Chris had told them he was not allowed to do so because a condition on the club’s licence prevented people entering after a certain time. The men became abusive, vowing to return. Shortly afterwards, as the door staff chatted in the foyer, shots rang out and Chris lay dead. The club, which I knew well, was just yards from the local police station, but this fact had not deterred the gang. Chris had been shot once in the head and twice in the chest with what police believed was an automatic pistol.
The head doorman, Albert St Hilaire, 40, had been shot once in the back, the bullet lodging itself near his spinal cord. The third doorman escaped injury when a bullet grazed his neck. Having regained the ‘respect’ they thought they had lost by not being allowed into the club, the gang fled into the night. Despite my initial shock, I was not entirely surprised when I thought back to how Larry had murdered a man for the same stupid reason.
I was more shocked by the fact that I was not surprised a decent man had died for such a ridiculous reason. Chris, a giant of a man, had a passion for basketball. He had coached a local school team and had taken part in tournaments in America as a semi-professional player. He hated doing door work and always said he was only doing it to tide him over. Now some wannabe gangster had snuffed out his life because he had dared to refuse him entry to a nightclub. It was a terrible waste of life. My former friends appeared to be dropping like flies. I was glad I was out of it.
As the year drew to a close, I looked back and realised I hadn’t moved forward at all. I had been wishing away 1995 12 months earlier and now I found myself counting the days to the end of 1996. I kept telling myself that once the Betts trial was over I could get on with my life.
On Monday, 9 December 1996, the Betts trial finally opened at Norwich Crown Court. The first day was taken up with legal arguments, which I didn’t have to concern myself with, but I was told to prepare myself to be called the following day or the day after. I spent that night like a caged animal, unable to sit down or think straight. I paced up and down, trying to talk myself in and out of my forthcoming ordeal. The trial at Southend Magistrates’ Court had, in effect, been a dress rehearsal for this trial, which would be scrutinised and reported by all sections of the media. Now, if ever, was the time I was going to take some flack. The police telephoned me a couple of times to see if I was OK, but I knew they were just checking that now the pressure was on I hadn’t done a bunk. I was also treated to the sight of a patrolling police car, which drove up and down the lane outside my home. I lived at the end of a remote farm track, the sea to our right, a mile of woodland to our left – hardly mean streets and certainly not worthy of a regular police patrol.
On the second day of the proceedings, the first witnesses were called after opening speeches were made to the jury. Leah’s best friend, Sarah Cargill, said that they had decided to buy Ecstasy for Leah’s party and had eventually ma
naged to obtain four tablets through a network of friends. The girls were warned that the apple Ecstasy pills were stronger than normal and Cargill had advised Leah just to take half. But Leah had told her that she had done it before and taken a whole one. She said that Leah then drank some Malibu before switching to lemonade for the rest of the evening.
When Stephen Smith gave evidence, he agreed that Leah’s friend Louise Yexley had asked him to obtain the pills and said that he had agreed to do so. When he and Packman had gone into Raquels, Smith said Packman had told him, ‘Give me the money,’ and ten minutes later he returned with four Ecstasy tablets with an apple motif on them.
That night and the following morning, the case attracted a lot of media attention. All the participants so far had been innocent teenagers experimenting with drugs. None were hardened criminals, none were drug dealers. All had been treated sympathetically. I had a gut feeling I wouldn’t enjoy the same treatment.
My escorts finally came for me at 8 a.m. on the third day of the trial. Two detectives arrived in an unmarked van and told me to get in the back and make myself comfortable, as it was a good two-hour drive to Norwich. They had planned my arrival and departure at the court well. I was driven to the outskirts of Norwich and then told to lie down in the back of the van; a coat was then put over me. The van drove into the court car park, past the awaiting photographers and TV crews, and then past a security barrier to the rear of the building. The police checked every path we had to take before we actually entered the building.
Once inside, one held the cuff of my shirt as I was led through the cell area, various corridors and then finally up a flight of steps into the dock of an empty court. We then walked out into a waiting area where I saw Packman with his mother and father. I looked at Packman and he quickly looked away.
I was then put in a small room on my own and told to wait. I hated having these people around me – they made me feel inadequate and weak. I didn’t need or want their fucking protection. I wanted to go out and sit amongst the people outside the room, but was told I could not be seen talking or even making eye contact with anybody. A glance or a glare could be interpreted as a threat.
I sat in the room alone, reading the newspaper. An elderly man entered and announced that he was from the court service. He gave me a questionnaire to fill in and began to describe the court procedure, telling me where to stand, where the judge would sit and advising me that I should speak clearly and directly at the jury. I didn’t have the heart to tell him to fuck off.
He obviously got pleasure out of being so important. To pass the time I filled out his questionnaire, giving him a glowing report in the comments column. I kept thinking about his next staff meeting, his fellow volunteers patting him on the back because of the crap I had written. I wrote that it was my first time in court and I had been helped enormously by the court service volunteer. I had probably spent more time in the back of police vehicles than he had spent in court.
The door opened and I was told that I was wanted. As I entered the court, I could see a few familiar faces in the public gallery. They were expectant and visibly excited: ‘Will he, won’t he?’
The press gallery was packed. Packman sat alone in the dock wearing a grey suit and tie, his long hair in a ponytail. He radiated innocence. I was pleased. Paul and Janet Betts sat in the front row of the public gallery, approximately three feet from the witness stand. As I approached, the stand beckoned like an electric chair.
I stood in position and gripped the handrail. I was given God’s good book and asked to swear an oath on it – a pointless exercise in this Godless day and age, but I had no reason to lie. Packman’s barrister, John Cooper QC, wasted no time in describing me as a violent man with serious criminal connections.
He told the jury that I was Tucker’s right-hand man, had attended Ronnie Kray’s funeral with Reggie Kray and that I had convictions for robbery, wounding, assaulting police and possession of firearms. It wasn’t a pretty picture that he painted and all I could do was agree. There was one light moment, however. Whilst in full flow, Mr Cooper said to me, ‘And you stood next to the coffin with Ronnie Kray, didn’t you, Mr O’Mahoney?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Are you saying you did not, Mr O’Mahoney?’
‘No I did not, Mr Cooper. Ronnie was the one in the box. It was Reggie I stood next to.’ Everybody in the room, including the jurors, laughed.
Packman had admitted meeting me and that it was he who had confessed on the tape. However, it was alleged that I had threatened Packman, saying I would burn down his house and break his legs if he implicated the firm. It was suggested that I was putting pressure on him to confess in order to save myself and Tucker. I told the court that wasn’t the case. I felt sorry for Packman. I could see the line his defence team were taking and so I tried to follow it.
‘He’s not an evil drug dealer,’ I told the jury, ‘he’s just a kid caught up in this mess. Mark Murray supplied the pill that killed Leah Betts. I’m sick of that scumbag sitting out in Spain while eight or nine people rot in prison for him. He killed Leah Betts and I am sure he will kill other people.’
A steady stream of visibly excited journalists left the court, trying to reach a phone in order to file their copy. I could almost feel the atmosphere behind me; Paul and Janet Betts and Detective Inspector Storey appeared relieved that the true story was being made public.
I was cross-examined for the whole afternoon and when it was all over, the police escorted me back to the side room. Alone at last, I felt a great sense of relief. I just wanted to get out of there. Nothing happened for ten or fifteen minutes and then suddenly I was off in a rush between two detectives. I was taken outside and told to lie in the back of the van again. A blanket was thrown over me.
When Leah’s parents emerged from the court, the press surrounded them and at the same time, the van I was in slipped away into the evening traffic.
I sat at home the following day waiting for news of the trial. Packman gave evidence, saying that he was totally paranoid when he met me. ‘I said what I thought he wanted to hear,’ he said, ‘because I feared for my safety.’ His friend Stephen Smith told the court he was ‘more frightened of me than he was of Mike Tyson’. I don’t know why he said that – we have, to my knowledge, never met.
The final witnesses gave evidence on Friday, 13 December, and the jury were told that they wouldn’t be sent out to deliberate until Monday, as it was too late in the evening to begin now. That weekend dragged on like no weekend before or since.
On Monday, 16 December, the jury retired but there was no further news all day. The judge arranged for the jury to spend the night in a hotel and they deliberated throughout the following day. Eventually, they told the judge they were unable to reach a verdict and were discharged. I was absolutely devastated. I knew the prosecution wouldn’t throw in the towel. I knew I would have to go through the whole thing again. I realised that 1997 was yet another year I was going to spend wishing away.
10
CROSSING THE THIN BLUE LINE
Because of the never-ending court cases I found myself involved in, I had been unable to take on any work on a permanent basis. In the 1980s I had worked in the haulage industry driving tipper lorries and so I returned to that on a casual basis. The pressure surrounding the court cases and the financial pressures brought about by the lack of a regular income were also putting a huge strain on my relationship with Debra. We did our best to put on a brave face for the children, but I think we both knew our relationship was living on borrowed time. Few, if any, could have faced what we endured and come out unscathed.
On Saturday, 22 February 1997, I took my son Vinney to watch Manchester United play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. The Betts re-trial was due to start the following Monday and I wanted to take my mind off it, to enjoy myself with my son. We had a great time at the game: United drew 1–1, a good result for any team visiting the Bridge. When the match was over, Vinney said that he would like to
get the United players’ autographs. I had been telling him how as a boy, I had waited outside Old Trafford to get the autographs of great players like George Best, Denis Law, Bobby Charlton and Brian Kidd. We walked to the players’ entrance where steel crash barriers had been erected, and a group of five burly security staff were stood facing a group of young fans. Eric Cantona, David Beckham and a few other United players came out to get on the coach.
The children were leaning over the barrier trying to get their autographs, but the security staff began shouting to get back and shoved the steel barriers into the children. I grabbed one of them by the arm and told him to take it easy, but he slapped me across the nose with his glove. I then had my shirt grabbed by his colleague. I considered myself to be in danger and so I head-butted the security guard who was holding me and he fell back, blood pouring from his nose. Vinney was naturally upset by all of this and so we walked off to the car. The security guards regrouped and advanced across the car park towards us. There were approximately eight of them. All I did was turn towards them in a threatening manner and they backed off. I got in the car with Vinney and we drove away from the scene. Rather foolishly, I thought that would be the end of the matter.
On Monday, 24 February 1997, the Leah Betts trial resumed at Norwich Crown Court. It was far more low-key on this occasion, as the media had milked the story dry and the whole country was suffering fatigue from tales of Ecstasy. I was called to give evidence on the second day of the trial.
Once inside the court building, I had refused to wait in the solitary waiting-room I had previously been confined to. I was sick of being hidden away, so I sat amongst the others waiting to go in. Friends of Smith and Packman moved away or averted their gaze. Only Steve Packman’s mother gave me a look of contempt. I didn’t care – I admire people who speak their mind. John Cooper QC awaited me in court. At the last trial, he had done his job well, making me lose my temper so allowing the jury to see just how explosive I could be. Fortunately, on this occasion, the judge, Mr Justice Wright, was having none of it and wouldn’t allow Cooper to draw on my association with other criminals.
Wannabe in My Gang? Page 16
