Pavement Artists
Jack drove the car that took us away from the robbery scene as Johnny, Chick and myself struggled in the confined space to get out of our overalls. We only had a couple of minutes to do this, as it was essential to dump the car as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. There would have been at least half-a-dozen 999 calls already made about the incident and police cars would be closing in on the area. Any car carrying four men would certainly get a pull.
Jack dropped Johnny and Chick as soon as they got out of their overalls. With their outward appearance changed beyond anything that might have been phoned in, they split again to make their separate ways to our meeting at Jack’s house.
Jack and I continued in the car while I hurriedly stuffed the overalls and tools into a holdall. We’d changed from being pavement artists into respectable members of the public. When I was ready, Jack dropped me near a bus stop. Any bus that came along would do me – the important thing was to get on one, any one, and keep moving away. Public transport is by far the most innocuous and safest way of getting away from a crime scene. In the meantime, Jack drove on a little further to park the stolen getaway car in a side street before walking round a couple of corners to where he had parked his own motor.
I was the last to arrive back at Fernhead Road, where Jack lived with his girlfriend Yvonne and the rest of her family. He had a nice set-up there with Yvonne’s divorced mother, Lily, looking after the house and another daughter, Evlyne, who was a year or so younger than Yvonne. There was only the four of us in the house when we settled down in the front room to count the cash – always the most exciting part of the job for me. The count-up came to £4,215, the payroll of a small engineering firm in Park Royal and we ended up with just under £1,000 a piece after ten per cent was taken off to pay the worker who had put Jack on to the job. London’s streets were certainly paved with gold.
Not having any immediate cash worries was a great relief and I just loafed about for a couple of weeks. Nobody seemed very eager to look for work now that they had a few quid; this was a fault I found with a lot of London firms. Whenever they had a good tickle they would lie back and enjoy it, only seriously looking for work when their cash became dangerously low. Me, I always wanted to sort something out while we had plenty of money so we would be able to set it up properly instead of trying to operate on a tight budget at the last minute. Still, this time I was content enough to let things slide.
Not once since I had left the army had I contacted my family. The last thing they would have heard about me was that I had gone AWOL. I couldn’t write to my mother with any sort of reasonable explanation, so I took the coward’s way out and said nothing. Then, with me getting the three years’ CT, I thought it would be better if I just didn’t tell anyone. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. When I look back, I realise I should have at least let my mother know. I don’t think I realised how much worry I was causing her.
Now, with nearly four years gone and the army business settled, for the first time I found myself thinking about going home. The more I thought about it, the keener I became. Suddenly the urge became irresistible. Within a day I was packed and with my two bikes dismantled for easy carrying, I was off to Heathrow Airport. I couldn’t go home without my bikes: they would be almost a status symbol up there, especially the track-racing machine, a rarity in Glasgow cycling circles.
I arrived by taxi in Palermo Street and carried my bikes one by one up the three stairs of the tenement, waiting until I had all my things on the landing before I turned the key in the door. The idea of knocking never entered my head. I simply turned the same key that had been in the door when I left almost four years before and stepped into the hall, shouting out the time-honoured Glasgow salutation, ‘It’s only me.’
When I think about it now, I realise my mother must have got the shock of her life. Scottish people really are very undemonstrative with their emotions. In Glasgow working-class families there’s none of the hugging and crying business, but the moment was quite emotional as we looked at one another.
‘Are you home for good then?’ my mother finally asked in a normal tone of voice.
I held my hands out and shrugged, not knowing what to say. Finally I got out a few words. ‘I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes.’
‘I’ll put on the teapot,’ my mother said, turning to put the words into action. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?’ She busied herself about the cupboard.
‘I’ll just have a cup of tea.’ I sat down at the table and that was me home.
At half-past five my father came in from his work and you would have thought I had never been away.
‘Oh, it’s yourself, is it?’ he said, placing his working bunnet on the sideboard and emptying his pockets into it as I’d seen him do literally thousands of times throughout my childhood. It was as if time had stood still. I wouldn’t have minded betting that it was the same bunnet too.
Later on I went up to the corner to see all my old pals. Most of them were happily working away at their jobs and were, as much as possible, enjoying life in Springburn. What struck me most was the realisation that my boyhood pals were still standing at the same corner doing exactly the same things they had been doing when I had left for the army four years before. Other than growing older and getting married and having children, nothing had changed in their lives. They hadn’t been anywhere, or seen anything of life other than Glasgow and most of their time had been spent in Springburn.
They all knew about me, of course. I don’t mean about being in prison – no one in Springburn knew anything about that but myself. But they all took it for granted that I was a crook and that I had been living the same high life-style as all the other crooks in London. My sudden reappearance, well dressed and with plenty of money, did nothing to dispel this idea. It wasn’t long before we were all in the Snug Bar at the top of Palermo Street. Although it was at the top of my street, it was my first time in the place, but for the others it was their main social centre. It didn’t take them long to bring me up to date with what had happened during my long absence: very little. There was no doubt though that it was a close-knit and friendly life and I felt quite at ease in the company of my old pals.
Needless to say I was the man of the moment that night. Everyone wanted to hear what I’d been up to in ‘the Smoke’, as they called London, and I was questioned and cross-examined on every detail of my life there. It wasn’t nosiness, just a natural curiosity about the kind of life they could never imagine themselves living. From their point of view, I was a success, getting away from the rat race in Glasgow and into the Promised Land to return with plenty of money in my pockets. I had a pleasant feeling of belonging as I walked down Palermo Street that night after the pub closed.
Gradually the weeks slipped past. I was spending my time much the same as my brother, Tommy. Nearly every day we would pedal out into the Campsie Hills, or head for places like Loch Lomond. At the weekends there would usually be a road race to watch, then the Sunday run home again. If the weather was wet or dull, I would end up in the snooker hall and most evenings would see me passing my time at the corner along with my pals. It was a quiet, peaceful existence, far more relaxing than London could ever be.
I had been there for almost four weeks when my brother William gave me an idea for starting up a business. He was always telling me about his job with the blacksmithing company he worked for. On more than one occasion, he mentioned that he got extra money by doing ‘homers’ – jobs of his own done in his bosses’ time – for his own private customers. He turned out loads of things for himself, like door grilles, plant-pot holders and fancy pieces of ironwork. When I asked him if there was a lot of that sort of work available he told me he was always turning down jobs because they were too big to work on and smuggle out of the workshop.
At that time, there was a vacant single shop in Ayr Street, not a hundred yards from our house. As I could weld and cut metal to size myself, I suggested
to William that I rent the shop and set it up for doing wrought iron so that I could start turning out the extra work he was knocking back. He jumped at the suggestion and within days I had rented the shop and bought a new electric welding machine and a small hand guillotine. William obtained some tools and anything else we needed I just went out and purchased. Then I bought a small van cheaply and that was us ready for business.
The shop gave me something constructive to do and for the next three or four weeks I was happily doing most of the rough work on jobs William had found. He would come in and tidy them up after he finished his own work and the following day I would paint them and deliver them in my wee green van. It was quite enjoyable, but we really weren’t making a lot of money and my own cash was now running dangerously low. I suppose it is the optimist criminal in me, because I wasn’t really worried about the worsening money situation. I always felt that, one way or another, I could get my hands on some more.
The habits I had picked up in London had never left me and, as I drove about in the van or rode my bicycle, I always kept my eyes peeled for any decent-looking opportunities for an earner. I spotted plenty of good bits of work. One of my pals, Jim Marshall (with whom I shared my first conviction), was a bit like myself but had never really gone beyond the lead-stripping stage. He used to go about with me in the van now and again and on one of these occasions I showed him a newsagent’s shop I had spotted in Milngavie, a fairly well-off district just outside Glasgow heading westwards.
One day when I had been out that way I had gone into this shop for directions and noted the large stock of cigarettes stacked just inside an interior door. The sight had made my pulse quicken. I noticed an open fanlight above the door and spotted that only a thin metal arm on each side prevented it from falling right down inside.
Even in its closed position, it would only be secured by one of those old-fashioned sprung snibs where you hooked your index finger through a ring and pulled to release the catch. That type of catch was never very strong or secure. I had gone back after closing time to check if it was left open – they sometimes were, but not this time. It was obviously their habit to snib the fanlight when closing the shop at night. With Jim and me almost skint, the time seemed right and we were ready to go.
I got some tools together and one night we went off to screw the newsagent’s. I parked the van a couple of streets away and walked towards the row of single-storey shops. The newsagent’s was the first in a line of about six lock-up premises that faced on to the main Milngavie–Glasgow Road.
The plan was crude, to say the least, but I had successfully used similar methods of entry before. I intended to vault the wooden gate at the shop front, then climb up and jemmy open the fanlight above the shop’s door. Once that had been done, I only had to bend both the retaining arms aside and the fanlight would swing inside to lie flat against the door, leaving the gap completely open. I would climb inside and locate the cigarette stock, then stack the cartons by the door. I was confident of finding a pair of stepladders in the back shop – there had to be a set to pile the stock on the high shelves. With the ladder in position, Jim would come over the gate to catch the cartons as I dropped them down to him. He would stack them behind the wooden gate and when they were all outside I would climb out myself and follow him back over the gate on to the pavement.
Jim would by now be crossing the road to take up a position where he could keep his eye on the shop front and check that no one came along and noticed anything. In the meantime, I would be walking smartly towards my parked van so I could bring it round to the shop for loading. It would all be over in a matter of minutes and we would be on our way home, back into a few quid again. It all sounded so easy the way I explained it to Jim and he, believing me to be an expert, felt confident too.
It was getting late when we arrived in Milngavie and it must have been well after eleven o’clock. However, there were still some late-night pedestrians wending their way home so we decided to hang about until the streets were clear. Although we would have preferred rain instead of the mild weather that night, we weren’t bothered about waiting. There was a close about fifty yards up from the shop on the opposite side of the road where we had a good view of people coming and going as we waited patiently for the pavements to clear.
We saw a police jeep drive past, heading towards Glasgow. It never slowed and disappeared into the distance. Another fifteen minutes passed, but there was always some straggler heading in our direction; we needed the road completely clear for my initial entry.
Then we spotted a police jeep again, this time coming from the opposite direction. We were very aware of it, but continued to stand as if waiting for someone. They all look the same, but this must have been the jeep that had passed us earlier because as it drew level the driver stared over at us; twenty-five yards on, his brake lights flared and the jeep swung into a U-turn.
I was going to say Jim panicked, but in truth we both did and bolted from the close. I ran directly across the road and through some bushes, heading towards the bungalows and the shelter of their gardens. I didn’t hear anyone at my heels so I presumed that the cops had chased Jim. I leaped over a fence and disappeared round a corner. Two minutes later, I was in my van and heading for home.
The next morning, I discovered Jim had not returned home and I knew then that he had been done. I made a few phone calls and found out that he had appeared in front of the sheriff on a charge of loitering with intent and been remanded in custody with bail set at £10. It was just as well that I had been carrying the jemmy bar, or the charge could have been far more serious. I went round to the dry-cleaning shop where his girlfriend worked and told her what had happened. She got into a bit of a state, but I told her not to worry as I would get his bail money and he would be home again that day. The problem was that I didn’t have the money and I didn’t know anyone who would lend me it either.
I felt responsible for what had happened to Jim because it was me that had talked him into going on the job in the first place. I thought hard about it and came to the conclusion that there was really only one chance I had of getting the money. As far as I was concerned it was a case of trying my last resort, so I got out some tools and set off in my van to do a bit of the old faithful – glazing!
It was after midday when I made my decision and I would have to be quick if I was going to pull this off and get the bail money for him. My geography of the city was good, but I honestly didn’t know where to start so I just drove around. I knew what I was looking for and I was hoping to run across something that fitted my criteria of being in quite a busy spot but with nothing on the opposite side of the road to overlook me. It must have been all of five years since I had last done it and my panache of those early days had gone. I passed a few likely places, but my nerves made me see dangers or problems that didn’t exist and I made excuses not to do them. Time was running out.
The ‘dinner hour’ was still the same – 1.00 pm to 2.30 pm – and it was just before two when I forced myself to make a choice. It was a grocer’s shop on a busy road with the house windows on the opposite side shielded behind a high hedge. The shop next door was open for business, but the pavement was quiet. I drove my van round to the back of the block, parked it in the street parallel to the main road and walked back round to the front.
My tools were slung over my shoulder and I looked pretty well the part of a working man, but my nerves were keyed up and jangling like a man in the electric chair. I walked past the shop on the opposite side of the road, crossed over and turned back towards the doorway again. I stopped to look in the shop window and saw the till positioned in a small cash desk near the door. I could see a metal Oxo box sitting on a shelf below the till and knew from experience that it would contain cash. I walked on again, sweating from every pore. It was after two and I knew that the shop would open at half past. The staff could easily start arriving ten minutes before that. I tried to psyche myself up. I felt very conspicuous as I walked back yet ag
ain, passing the shop and looking about to see if anyone was staring; I certainly felt as if a thousand eyes were focused on me.
Ten past two! I was getting desperate. I told myself it was nothing. My entire body was as tense as a steel cable. I couldn’t wait any longer. If I didn’t do it now, it was off. The clock was touching a quarter past two when I finally turned into the shop doorway. I didn’t even take my jacket off, just exhibited my tools on the ground in front of the door.
When I put my hammer through the glass it sounded like a chandelier crashing in a cathedral to me. I waited for a shout. Nothing. Quickly I bashed in a few large shards of glass and pulled at some of the shorter pieces to take away the jagged peaks.
As soon as I thought the gap was big enough, I grabbed my tool bag, put my head and shoulders through the hole and stepped inside. Still no one bothered me. I was right next to the till and, hands shaking, I pushed at buttons until the drawer slid out, hoping to God there was no one looking in the window.
Next I picked up the Oxo tin, its weight telling me it was full, then my eyes caught sight of some £1 bags of coppers. They went into the tool bag too and seeing nothing else I turned to leave. I could only have been inside the place thirty seconds, but when I turned, two girls in white shop-workers’ coats were staring wide eyed at me through the broken glass of the door. They were only feet away from me and looked quite scared – so was I. Quickly, I bent my head and shoulders and began stepping out through the gap.
‘What are you doing?’ one of the girls asked me, her hand held nervously to her mouth.
‘I’m repairing the door,’ I replied. ‘It got broken half an hour ago and I was sent to fix it.’ I kept climbing out as I spoke.
‘You took the money out of the till!’ the other one accused. ‘We saw you!’
By now, I was outside the shop and felt a wave of confidence as I smiled at the girls. ‘Well,’ I said with a grin. ‘The truth is, I’m not really fixing the window. I’m a burglar. But don’t worry, I’m not doing anything to you.’
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 12
