Obviously, because of the monotony, nothing much went on in Wandsworth worth writing about. I did run into one well-known figure in the pouch shop who has been mentioned in every London crime book that I have ever read – Big Frank Mitchell, otherwise known as the Mad Axeman, whom the Krays, for some reason known only to themselves, spirited away from Dartmoor.
All I can say about Big Frank is that when I worked beside him in the pouch shop, he was a very decent sort of guy. I never saw him taking a liberty with anyone and he always had a broad smile on his face. I don’t know why the villains got him away from Dartmoor just to end up killing him.
I must have sat and sewn in the pouch shop for over a year when I was offered a job as a cleaner in the library. They say that everyone remembers where they were when they heard the news of President Kennedy’s assassination. All criminals remember where they were when they first heard the news of the Great Train Robbery. I was in the library of Wandsworth Prison and a screw called Leeson told us about it when he came in on duty. The morning papers hadn’t arrived and in those days we didn’t have radios in prison. I remember feeling a surge of excitement and thinking to myself what a brilliant a job it was and wondering who had carried it out. Later on, of course, when the word got out and it all started to go wrong, I felt even closer to it when I heard that Charlie Wilson and Roy James were two of the main parties involved. It gave everyone inside a frisson of excitement and something to talk about for the months up until the trial at Aylesbury Crown Court.
I remember wincing at the sentences when they were handed down: a diabolical thirty years for the main men and massive sentences for everyone else involved. In the jail we had all reckoned about fifteen to eighteen years, certainly no one ventured as high as a twenty. The train robbers were victims of establishment outrage. It was and still is, in the eyes of villains and the general public alike, a prime example of political and judicial revenge. I’ve always wondered if I had been out and around at the time if I would have been declared in and whether or not it would have been a good thing or a bad thing. Not everyone who was on the Great Train Robbery was captured.
My sentence at the Old Bailey had been three-and-a-half years, but with one third off for good behaviour I only owed Her Majesty two years four months. I had thought about my release. I had thought about it every day since I came in, as a matter of fact. But I still hadn’t made my mind up about what I was going to do. This sentence had been a lot harder than my previous three-stretch in Maidstone, even with the luxury of the library job. Working in the library had been an enlightening experience, too. Every week I had seen the same faces pass through and watched the spirit in their eyes gradually dim. Men who would once stand and chat brightly for a moment or two now responded in dull monosyllabic mumbles. Where they used to stride in with a bit of a spring in their step, they now mooched about like tired old men, before fitfully choosing their books and slouching upstairs to merge back into the greyness. Sometimes it made me shiver and I didn’t want it happening to me. But now I had other things to think about: I would soon be getting out and I had to be making some plans for my future.
When I first got nicked on the conspiracy charges, I had written to my brother Tommy to let him know what had happened to me. He had replied and asked if he could take over the little metalwork shop I had started because William wasn’t bothering with it. I knew Tommy was unemployed, so I wrote back and told him he could. I even sent him some money so he could advertise for work in the newspaper. I had very little contact with anyone except the occasional letter to Ted and now and again a short note to some of my mates. Jo, my girlfriend from Ruislip, had been very good at first, writing regularly and visiting me almost every month for nearly a year, but eventually she had found someone else. She had been nice about it, writing to explain herself and asking me not to feel badly towards her.
There is a strange thing about doing time: the closer you get to your date of discharge, the slower each day seems to pass. It is almost as if the devil is enjoying your impatience. Every moment of every day is measured and weighed against time to go. Your last weekend. Your last Monday. Your last Tuesday… Every long, dragging, last day counted off with the monotony of a slow metronome. On the penultimate day, even the meals are counted down, right to your last breakfast on your last morning. During the final hours, your body feels as tense as an astronaut waiting for blast-off.
I have always been fairly casual about goodbyes and I made no great fuss about leaving. I was ready and waiting when the screw unlocked me at a quarter to seven in the morning to take me over to reception. Everything seemed all right. Suddenly, the door of the cubicle rattled open and an orderly stood there with a tray of food.
‘Breakfast?’
I looked at a bowl of porridge alongside the mug of tea and a sausage sandwich and thought about it for a moment. Throughout my sentence, I had never supped the porridge at breakfast time. I liked the stuff all right, but not with sugar, the way they served it in Wandsworth; I took my porridge with salt. However, there is an old superstition about your last breakfast in jail: ‘If you don’t sup your last bowl of porridge, you will be back for it another time.’ I must admit, I did hesitate, but I’ve never been superstitious and I settled for the mug of tea and sausage sandwich.
I heard my name called out and walked round to the reception desk, my feet feeling strangely light in unfamiliar thin socks and soft, leather shoes. Once again I had to give my name and number before my ‘valuable property’ bag was unsealed and I was given back my watch.
As I leaped in the taxi I had just flagged down, I shouted to the driver, ‘Paddington.’ I had made up my mind and knew where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do. ‘Bravington Road, Paddington. Do you know it?’
‘No problem, guv.’ The driver spoke over his shoulder. ‘Off the Harrow Road, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Past the Prince of Wales boozer, then third on the right.’
‘Got it, guv.’ The driver turned out into the traffic.
I leaned back in the seat and nodded to myself. The decision had been made and I knew I wouldn’t change my mind. I looked at my wristwatch and saw that it was still not quite half-past seven. I could easily make it to Ted’s and collect my things in time to catch an early train out of London.
Chapter Fourteen
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime
When I arrived at my friend Ralph Benson’s door in Kent, he made me welcome and I moved into the spare room of his three-bedroom council house. Ralph had been released from Wandsworth about six weeks before me and was still mooching around doing very little. He hadn’t actually turned back to what I would have described as ‘real’ thieving, but he was hanging about with the local guys, working fiddles with them and doing a little dealing in stolen metal from the factories in the Medway Towns district. On other occasions, he would make a few quid by acting as an intermediary in the odd sale of stolen property. It wasn’t the sort of life that I would describe as really criminal. It was more like a survival existence. I arrived there with the vague idea of perhaps finding a job and maybe going straight. At the time I really did think it was a good idea and I even made a fair start at it.
There was plenty of work available in the area and I took a job at a brick-finishing works. The change was all right for a few days, but then it became boring. My hand got used to the stinging and I could cleave the stones quite well, sometimes even getting an extra slice now and again and feeling proud of my achievement! But in all honesty, I couldn’t really say there was any job satisfaction in sitting like a dummy, whacking stones with a hammer all day. I think I lasted until about halfway through my second week. The boss wasn’t the least bit bothered about my leaving. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was a vital part of the brick-production operation and no doubt there were plenty of other young men waiting to take my place.
Ralph told me I could get a job in an engineering factory in Strood. I still remember its name: Hobourne Aero Precision
Ltd. ‘What as?’ I asked. Two or three days later, I was well into the swing of being an internal grinder and tossing out cogs like an expert. I have always had the habit of racing myself whatever I am doing, and this job was ideal for trying to go faster. But I left Hobourne Aero Precision the day before I was due to begin working on the night shift. I just couldn’t face it. The staggering monotony of my future terrified me!
Now what? I looked up jobs in the newspapers and wrote away for several attractive-sounding positions. I answered one ad that said: ‘Ambitious young men urgently needed for dynamic company. Earnings of up £1,500 per annum. Apply immediately.’ It was the only reply I got and I went to the office for an interview. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t door-to-door selling for ‘Betterwear Products’! What a farce. And a con – in order to obtain employment for this ‘dynamic’ company I had to pay them for my sample case before I could even hope to earn my ‘up to £1,500 per annum’.
Good intentions were getting me nowhere. What next? Well, the Co-op store on the main road suddenly began looking like a good job to me. It was a busy shop selling cigarettes and spirits as well as the usual Co-op groceries. There was no alarm and the rear windows were only protected by thin steel bars which could be seen from inside the shop. Ralph was delighted with the idea and a few nights later I walked across a field and jumped over the fence of the brickyard where I had once slaved. In the workshop, where my stone-breaking career had come to an end, I found a set of four-foot-long bolt cutters still hanging in their position on the wall.
Ralph borrowed an old banger of a van from someone and a couple of nights later we were round the back of the Co-op. It took us about two minutes to chop out one of the window bars at the back and we were inside. The snout and booze went into the van first, then we went back and ripped the safe open. There wasn’t a large sum of money in it, but along with the sale of the snout and booze it came to a nice few quid.
Suddenly Ralph and I went from being skint, and I mean skint, to having a few quid to spend and plenty of time to lounge about the pubs with the rest of the local ‘chaps’. I must admit that, despite all my good intentions, I felt a far greater sense of accomplishment in successfully screwing the Co-op and ripping open the safe than getting a bonus for turning out a thousand cogs at Hobourne Aero.
Still, I really did want to do something other than simply revert to snouting. I actually wanted to do something constructive, something different with my life. But what was it to be? I was looking through the adverts in the papers for the umpteenth time and moaning about the lack of interesting-looking opportunities on offer, when Ralph made a suggestion.
‘Why don’t you advertise yourself?’ he said one day.
‘What?’
‘You advertise,’ he said again. ‘You put an advert in the paper asking for a job.’
Yes… I turned the idea over in my mind. That’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. I had always been in the habit of reading a half-decent daily paper, the Daily Telegraph at that time and I always looked at the Jobs Available columns, but I had never thought about reading or using the Jobs Wanted bit:
Young man, 26. Seeks employment, prepared to do anything, anywhere, anytime. Reply to Box No 1234
Within three days, I had five replies. Four out of the five offered me some kind of job but only if I sent money for further information. The fifth offer was from a company at an address just off London’s Oxford Street. It was interesting enough for me to get on the train and take a trip to London. Selling air humidifiers on a commission-only basis around offices in London: that was the adventurous life I was offered when I arrived for my interview. I know my ad did say ‘do anything’, but I was actually looking for something more exciting than this.
It was the forces of law and order that finally made me make up my mind to leave Gillingham. One day Ralph and I were walking up from town when two CID officers in an unmarked car stopped us. They were quite friendly, just asking us what we did with ourselves and if we knew of anything they should know about.
Then they asked us about the Co-op shop and quizzed us about where we were the night it had been broken into. I was sweating. If they had a report about the bolt cutters being stolen and found out that I had worked in the brickworks, I could be in a bit of trouble. However, they weren’t too busy with us and after a few more questions they let us out of the car with the warning that they might want to speak to us again. As I said, they weren’t very heavy with us. We were probably only two in a long list of probables they chatted to, but I decided that Gillingham was too small for me. I decided to do what I should have done in the first place when I got out of Wandsworth: to go home and see my family.
I will always remember my mother leaning over the wide well of the close as I ascended the stairs. I saw her shape leaning over the banister and realised she had spotted me.
‘Is that you, James?’ I heard her voice.
‘Aye,’ I called up to her. ‘It’s only me.’
Then she said something that I have thought about a thousand times, trying to analyse what she actually meant. It was nothing drastic, just a simple question. ‘You’re not home for good, are you?’
I was actually stuck for words for a few seconds. In fact, I don’t really remember how I replied to her question. Still, I was home for the moment and that was all that mattered. My young brother William had got married and had a place of his own by this time, so there was plenty of room for me in the house and I took my place without any upheaval.
Of course, I was a seven-day wonder again. All sorts of tales had been heard about me and most of the lads I grew up with knew that I had been in jail down in the Big Smoke. Naturally I told a few tales, adding bits and pieces now and again to make my story more interesting, but when I think about it now, I realise that even the bare facts of my story were infinitely more exciting than the lifestyle my old mates had experienced.
Within a few days, it was as if I had never been away. My elder brother Tommy had kept the metal workshop on and, although not exactly busy, he was turning out a fair amount of work. I still had some money left from the Co-op job, but I knew that if I wanted to stay in Glasgow, and I wasn’t sure yet whether I wanted to do that or not, I would either have to work along with my brother, or find some way of making some money. One thing I did know was that I was not going to work on some daily grind for meagre pay.
I had been at home for just over a week when a large envelope arrived for me from Ralph. I didn’t think much about it as I opened the envelope until several smaller envelopes fell from the packet when I tipped it up. There was a short note from Ralph explaining that these letters had arrived from the Telegraph a couple of days after I had left for Glasgow.
I think there was about four letters in the envelope. Three of them were the same as the last lot, all offering ‘exciting opportunities’ as long as I bought this or that from them to get started. The letter that I kept until last was in an airmail envelope with a very bright, floral stamp on it. Ghana, that’s what it said on the stamp. Ghana? I wasn’t very sure where the country was.
I read the letter. It was an offer of work in a place called Takoradi. The writer, George McFall was his name, told me that he was the manager of a cocoa mill in Ghana and that he had read my advertisement in the Telegraph. He wondered if I might be interested in working as a general assistant to him in the cocoa mill. Some driving and office work was all that would be involved. If I was interested, I was to reply as soon as possible before he put an advert about the job in the paper himself.
I felt quite excited about this offer and wrote back immediately, telling him I would take the job. It was exactly the sort of break away I was looking for. Africa! I could hardly believe the possibility had arisen and waited anxiously to hear from George McFall again.
He replied about two weeks later enclosing a letter to take to the BOAC ticket office in Victoria, London and a cheque for £50 expenses. I arranged myself a passport
and even took a last-minute driving test which I passed. My mother accepted my latest departure with her usual equanimity, simply asking me if I had everything I needed and asking me not to forget to write this time. I don’t think big brother Tommy even bothered to get out of his bed to say goodbye.
The errant son just picked up his bag, said ‘cheerio’ and walked out of the door on his way to his latest adventure. I know my mother watched me halfway down the stairs before I heard the door quietly close behind her. I wonder what she really thought about all my carry-on as I set off once again from Palermo Street, this time headed for darkest Africa.
Chapter Fifteen
Gracious Living
I could still hardly believe what was happening to me. Here I was, just a couple of months out of jail, flying over Africa in a 707 jet. As the plane thundered its way southwards, every passing second brought me closer and closer to Accra and the adventure of Africa.
I had always had a picture of Africa in my mind: thundering herds of wildebeest, galloping zebras and bounding antelope raising dust clouds across the plains; lions roaring in the jungle; the screeching of monkeys swinging in the trees; clutches of thatch-roofed villages inhabited by noble, half-naked savages bearing primitive knives and spears, stoically facing life against a constantly cruel jungle while the constant throb, throb, throb of jungle drums made the very air vibrate with a deep, dark, African passion. Of course, I knew this was a false image, but all I knew about Africa had come to me via the Hollywood film industry. Tarzan had a lot to answer for!
The final moments of my flight were breathtaking. As the jet dropped lower and lower in the air, I was able to see the forest in greater detail. Then the jungle started to thin out and I began to catch glimpses of the red, roasted earth that was the soil of Africa. Gradually the jungle petered out altogether until we were flying over baked earth and scrub instead of the thick greenery of the forest canopy.
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 14
