It took about two minutes to wrench the locks open and within another minute we were behind the counter and tumbling the safe towards the door. Leaving Jim in the shop, I hurried off to pick up the van, which was parked just fifty yards away. But unknown to us there must have been an insomniac lying awake in one of the houses across the road who, alerted by the sound of the door being forced open, had dialled 999. I was halfway across Riddrie Road when I spotted a car accelerating up the hill towards me showing no lights at all. I knew immediately what it was and shouted, ‘Police! Run!’ before sprinting on across the road and up a garden-lined street. I heard the car screech to a halt outside the post office; I put my head down and kept running, expecting at any moment to hear the car racing up behind me, but I found out later that the cops had given chase to Jim.
Riddrie was a suburban area with lots of gardens and hedges to give cover and once out of sight I swerved into garden territory and headed uphill towards the old Monklands canal. I didn’t know what had happened to Jim and at that particular time I didn’t care; I just wanted to get out of the area. I ran for about ten minutes, cutting through gardens and going straight across any streets in my path until I reached the bank of the canal. I was lucky I didn’t burst right on to the towpath, for not more than twenty yards away I caught sight of a torch flashing as a policeman hurried along in my direction. I doubled back through the garden I was in and almost walked into the arms of another uniformed cop coming along the street. He got as big a surprise as me and hesitated just long enough for me to spin round and sprint away. But this cop could run and he was close enough behind for me to see him tear off his waterproof coat so he could run even faster! I could hear his big feet pounding and his loud breathing right up behind me and I flew. The main road rose at this point to bridge the canal and I had to ascend a flight of stairs to reach it, leaping three or four steps at a time to stay ahead of my pursuer.
At the top of the stairs, I turned left over the bridge and the cop was still right behind me. I felt his fingers touch my back and if I had been wearing anything else other than a smooth leather jacket I’m sure he would have grabbed me. Instead, the touch gave me impetus and I drew a few feet clear of him.
Then I heard an engine roaring behind me and I almost gave up, but it was only an early-morning bread van. The cop tried to wave it down, but the driver kept on going and I gained a few more yards. I needed to get off the main road and swung thankfully into the first side street on my left. I had settled into a hard run by now and was very conscious that this fucking cop was keeping up with me.
Right enough, he wasn’t gaining, but I wasn’t getting away either and I could hear him pounding along behind me like some dreadful nemesis. I was really gasping for breath, but then so was he. Next thing, the sound of his pounding died and I looked over my shoulder to see him staring after me with one knee on the ground. Thank fuck, I thought and stopped, going down on one knee myself, keeping my eye on him.
At a distance of about twenty yards apart, we knelt, staring at one another, both of us gasping like landed fish. I imitated his movements as he slowly rose to his feet. Here we go again, I thought and turned away, breaking into my stride. But I didn’t hear his footsteps. What I did hear was the piercing blast of his whistle. Christ, they would all be converging on me now. I knew I had to get off the streets. Once I was out of his line of sight I turned into the gardens again, crashing through hedges, until I found an unlocked garden shed I could duck into.
It grew light at about seven o’clock, but I gave it another hour before I cautiously ventured from my horticultural haven. By this time I could see people moving about in the kitchen of the house, but no one spotted me as I slipped away to the trolley-bus terminus in Provanmill Road. Twenty minutes later, I crept back into my mother’s house.
I was a bundle of nerves, knowing it was only a matter of time before the police came for me. I had left the van behind, less than fifty yards from the post office. They had to find it. Tracing the owner was routine and then they would be looking for me. The only possible action I could take was to report the van stolen and hope I could convince the police that I was telling the truth.
I carried on as normal, getting ready for work and leaving the house at my usual time of around half past nine. To back up my story about my van being stolen, I went around a few of my neighbours ‘in a panic’, asking them if they had seen anyone driving away in my van. Of course, no one had seen anything, but my behaviour was natural under the circumstances and I had witnesses to prove I had been surprised to find my van missing. My next step was to phone the police and report the theft of my vehicle. A bored officer took down my excited report and that was that. But I knew that it wouldn’t be long before the police put two and two together. I just had to behave as normally as possible and wait to see what happened.
By this time, I knew that Jim Marshall had been arrested and was in custody at Shettleston police station, but I wasn’t worried about that. I knew he wouldn’t say anything to incriminate me. At about midday I was in the workshop when a police car drew up outside and the driver asked for James Crosbie. They weren’t there to arrest me, but I agreed to accompany them to the police station to assist in certain enquiries. Five minutes later, I was sitting in the CID room at Tobago Street nick talking to Detective Sergeant McGill, a man I was to have far more serious dealings with years later.
Once again I went through the tale of the stolen van, knowing full well McGill didn’t believe a word I was saying, but also knowing that there was no evidence to the contrary. I kept my denials up for hours, even after they told me that Marshall had confessed all and told them about my part in the break-ins. But I knew that the police were lying, just the same as I was. The attempt on the bank had been discovered when the premises had opened for business and the police immediately linked the two attempted robberies. I still denied everything. Marshall had probably stolen my van, I suggested. Then I was given my last chance to come clean before they put me on an ID parade.
‘Somebody stole my van. That’s all I know,’ I insisted.
Sometime about the middle of the afternoon, I was paraded along with a bunch of unsavoury-looking characters and who should walk in but the cop who had chased me. Much to my surprise he didn’t pick me out. I was amazed at this, taking it for granted that, with him being a cop, he would be told where I was standing in the line-up. But no. He walked up and down the line staring at everyone and never picked me out. In all fairness, I failed to recognise him either, but ever since that experience I have always been suspicious when people complain about their ID parade being ‘fixed’.
At half past five, much to my surprise, I walked out of Tobago Street a free man. However, it turned out that my unexpected freedom wasn’t to last for very long.
Two weeks later, Detective Sergeant McGill left word for me to call in at Shettleston police station at 9.00 am. Something about the return of my stolen van, he told me. Unsuspecting, I presented myself to McGill at the appointed time and promptly found myself charged with two counts of housebreaking and attempted theft. Apparently the procurator fiscal had checked the evidence and decided to proceed against me. The reason for the nine o’clock appointment became clear when I was handcuffed and driven off to appear in front of the sheriff at ten o’clock, where I pleaded not guilty and was lucky enough to be remanded on bail.
In those days justice was swift; within a month I was standing alongside Jim Marshall at the Sheriff Court on trial for two offences of housebreaking with intent. The case against Marshall was conclusive. He had been seen running away from the premises, was chased and caught. Definitely a case for a guilty plea. Not Jim. He came up with the most ridiculous tale about walking to Ravenscraig steelworks in Motherwell hoping for a day’s casual labour. He was about fifteen miles away from the place when he was arrested in Riddrie! Just as he approached the post office in Riddrie Road, a man came running past him being chased by two or three men. He panicked and ran away, but the
men caught up with him and must have mistaken him for the man they were really after. He didn’t realise they were policemen and had only run away because he was scared. Talk about clutching at straws.
The procurator fiscal even offered to drop charges against me if Marshall would plead guilty. But he persisted with his ridiculous tale and in the end we both went down for eighteen months. If he had taken up the PF’s offer he would have received a much shorter sentence by appearing in the dock alone as a first offender. Instead, my previous convictions carried him along with me to a longer term.
The eighteen months was bad enough, but what really hurt me was the knowledge that my behaviour had been unbelievably stupid. I could not condemn myself for the attempt on the bank: that had been a good idea and an excellent effort that just didn’t work out. We were never in any danger on the job and once we had decided to scrub it we could have been home and safely in our beds with no one any the wiser about our nocturnal activities. But the attempt on the post office was a different kettle of fish.
Returning to Barlinnie Prison was like entering a time warp. After seven years, nothing had changed in there. Raucous noise was everywhere as doors rattled open or slammed shut to the cadence of shouted names. I was examined by the same doctor, processed by the same screws and given, I’m sure, the same oversized shoes to wear. Passed through to the halls, I heard the same bellowing voices echoing names round the rafters and once again I was banged up behind my door. Déjà vu, indeed.
Chapter Nineteen
Harry Roberts is My Friend, Crosbie Shoots Coppers… Not!
On that first night in the Bar L, I laid my head on my pillow and considered the consequences of breaking into that post office. Crafts & Curios would go, I knew that. Nat was a great craftsman, but never a salesman. When the current work had been completed he would find something else, but I felt very bad about letting him down. Then there was Alice in the High Street. She had a really easy job, more or less acting as a very under-worked secretary now that most of the African stuff was gone. She would be unemployed now and that was upsetting for me. I had no idea what Margaret would make of my conviction and the discovery that I already had a fairly serious criminal record. I would probably lose her too. Then there was my mother. She had been so pleased at seeing me getting on so well. Now she would be disappointed and, being my mother, worry about me. Believe me, lying in bed on your first night in prison going over the consequences of your crime can be a very harrowing experience indeed.
At my reception interview, I tried to bluff my way as a first offender; after all, my previous sentences had been served in England. But after two days in cushy E Wing, my record caught up with me and I was dragged across to A Wing along with the other incorrigibles. In view of my previous convictions, the allocation board had no hesitation in classifying me as ‘untrainable’ (their perspicacity is to be admired). Two weeks later I was back in the dog boxes, reversing through reception on my way to Peterhead.
Even if you had never seen a prison in your life before, there could be no mistaking the purpose of Peterhead Prison. The entire structure screamed entombment and servitude and you could imagine passing motorists speeding up to get away from its glowering intimidation. I’m sure the mere sight of Peterhead persuaded many a wavering local into staying on the straight and narrow. But there was no speeding up for our bus and two minutes later the huge, green, wooden gate closed tight behind us.
Margaret had decided to go to America while I was away and, quite honestly, I didn’t expect to see her again. But much to my surprise and pleasure, she kept in touch, writing letters and sending photos of her new friends and of places she had visited. Two or three times she mentioned boyfriends, telling me she had been here or there with them and what a nice time she was having. Then when she wrote and told me that she had obtained her green card, I just supposed she had decided to stay there. But two or three weeks before I was due to be released, I got a letter from her telling me she was coming home and would meet me in my mother’s house the day I got out. That letter was the nicest thing that happened to me that year and suddenly I became even more impatient to be transferred back to Barlinnie for my release.
I hired a car and took Margaret for a week’s holiday in London where I looked up my old pals, letting them know I was out and about again. A lot of things had changed since I was last down there. I found my old mate Albert had declared himself out of villainy and was now a successful plumber living happily in Hanworth. Several other chaps were doing hefty sentences for serious offences and some had simply dropped out of the scene.
Payroll blags had fallen out of favour because of the increased use of security vans and the tide of crime was rapidly turning towards armed robbery. When I had been jailed in 1961 on the conspiracy rap, no one I knew had been interested in using guns. Now their use was commonplace and some of the guys I had worked with in the past were now carrying out armed robberies.
I had always had a reputation for having plenty of bottle and Jack Witney and Harry Roberts, who had one or two jobs lined up, invited me on to their firm, but I didn’t want to commit myself. However, I left my phone number with Jack and told him to keep in touch in case anything really sweet turned up. After a pleasant week’s socialising with my old pals and visiting the theatre to see The Black and White Minstrel Show, we drove back to Glasgow to face my real problem – making a living.
I really didn’t know what I was going to do and the idea of actually seeking out a job was never a consideration. Only the fact that I was staying at home with my parents stopped me from immediately seeking out an earner. Then my elder brother Tommy came up with an idea. ‘Why don’t you take over the shop in Ayr Street?’ he asked me.
I had completely forgotten about the small metalwork shop I had opened all those years before. I had handed the business, lock, stock and barrel, including my van, to Tommy when I had been forced to flee Glasgow after that glazing job. And that was the last I heard about it. From that small start, Tommy had prospered and moved into bigger premises; he was now manufacturing Venetian blinds and doing very well too. ‘Is it still there?’ I asked in surprise. ‘I thought you gave that up when you moved into the blinds.’
‘No,’ he told me. ‘The rent was so low that I kept it on in case I ever needed a bit of welding or anything like that done. It’s been lying there for a couple of years now. Come on, we’ll go and look at it now.’
Everything was there: the welding plant, guillotine, heavy bench, vice and jigs for a variety of tools. I noticed a small paint-spraying plant that was new to me, but otherwise everything was as I had left it. It was a business just dying to start up.
‘This is great,’ I enthused, knowing that I could make a good living out of it. ‘I’ll get right into it. I’ll go out looking for work tomorrow.’
‘Aye,’ Tommy said. ‘You should be able to make a go of it all right. Now, let me see…’ He began pointing out the plant and stock to me. ‘There’s the welder, the compressor…’ One by one he listed the assets. Then he said, ‘OK, we’ll just call it an even five hundred.’
I looked at him in amazement. ‘What?’ I asked, a little puzzled. ‘Five hundred what?’
‘Pounds.’ He never even blushed. ‘For the tools and stuff. I mean to say… it’s practically a going concern. It’s worth that much, at least.’
‘It’s my fucking shop!’ I yelled at him. ‘I started the place up and even sent you my last fiver from jail so you could advertise for work. What the fuck do you mean, £500?’
I saw the realisation in his eyes as he remembered. But still he blustered on. ‘Well… well… aye, OK. But that’s my compressor and some of the tools are mine.’
‘Fuck off!’ I told him. ‘And where’s my van then?’ I demanded to know. Then I reminded him of the fact that it was only through doing the wrought-iron work in my shop that he had ended up getting into the Venetian blinds. If it hadn’t been for Ayr Street, he’d probably still have been a bus conductor. In the
end he had to admit I was right and, grudgingly, he handed over the keys to the shop. I was back in business again.
I called the business Weldart Door Grilles and immediately went into production. There was no shortage of customers: everywhere you looked, huge blocks of multi-storey flats were creating a new, high-rise Glasgow skyline. I didn’t particularly like these concrete monstrosities, but there was one feature about them that did please me: the front door of every flat was fitted with a glass panel just crying out for some form of decoration. What better than an attractively designed metal door grille? Protection and decoration in one go! My grilles sold like hot cakes. Things were going so well that by the summer of 1966 Margaret and I had bought a flat in anticipation of our wedding later that year.
One day, it must have been about mid-July, I was in the flat doing a bit of decorating when a telegram arrived. It read: RETURN TO LONDON IMMEDIATELY. URGENT BUSINESS PENDING. It was signed Jack Witney and I knew that a job was on. I admit that I was tempted. I had just about spent all my money on the flat and the wedding preparations were coming up fast; I could certainly have done with more cash. But the wedding was too close and I binned the telegram.
Two or three days later I got another telegram: PHONE CUNNINGHAM 8822. JACK. I was feeling a bit guilty about ignoring the first telegram, so I made the call. It was an offer of work and from the little Jack could disclose on the phone, I knew it was a serious job with guns being carried; but it was too near my wedding and I declined. I couldn’t just disappear for two or three days right then. Jack was disappointed – he liked working with me – but he wished me well and said he would be in touch. I hung up with mixed feelings, almost tempted to fly off, but I resisted. It was just too close to my big day and I wasn’t in the mood right then. After a few days, the phone call faded from my mind.
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 20
