Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery

by James Crosbie

  There are a lot of stories about big Nellie and the things he got up to in Peterhead and there’s no doubt in my mind that Ronnie Barker’s Fletch could have learned a thing or two from him. Along with the usual tobacco trade, he trafficked in chocolate bars – three for two on a weekly basis – as well as trading in banknotes (25p in the £1 commission) smuggled in from visits. I always thought that if Nellie had applied himself on the outside half as much as he did when he was inside, he would have been a millionaire in no time. Needless to say, stories about big Nellie are legendary in the Scottish prison system, especially among the older cons, but I have always considered the two I am about to relate here as among the best.

  The first story concerns Nellie’s bookmaking dealings. In the ‘good old days’, before drugs became the pre-eminent trading commodity in prison, every jail had a bookie and prisoners would bet with tobacco, receiving their winnings in kind. But prisons, harbouring the sort of people they do, meant that the bookie was a target, with nearly everyone trying to put one over on him. One desperado spent hours perfecting the insertion of bread into an empty tobacco packet, boldly presenting the finished product to Nellie as his stake on a horse that duly obliged at odds of 3–1.

  ‘Oh aye,’ says Nellie when the trickster appeared. ‘You had that bet on the 3–1 shot, didn’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ the confident conman held out his hand. ‘Makes a change to pick a winner, eh?’

  Unperturbed, Nellie looked the man straight in the eye and repeated, ‘3–1, wasn’t it?’ before turning away to open his cupboard. ‘Right then, I’ll just get you your winnings.’

  The beaming gambler could hardly contain himself, no doubt already dreaming of an entire weekend puffing away on unlimited roll-ups, probably thinking about swapping a half-ounce for a few bars of chocolate to round off his celebrations.

  ‘There you are, that’s your stake back,’ Nellie handed over the original doctored tobacco packet, then, with his face straight as a die, he counted out three thick slices of bread into the shattered prisoner’s outstretched hand. ‘And at 3–1, that’s your winnings.’

  The other story that went the rounds of PH was that a newcomer, a naive young prisoner, made the mistake of going into Nellie’s cell to borrow a couple of LPs. ‘Oh, aye, sure, son,’ Nellie said, as he invited the young chap into his cell. ‘You’ll find a box of them under the bed. Take a look and see if there’s anything you like.’

  Then, as the unsuspecting young man bent low to look under the bed, Nellie suddenly grabbed him round the neck in a half-nelson, at the same time ripping off the unfortunate chap’s trousers. Now everyone had heard stories about Nellie having a massive member and personally I can only go on hearsay, but rumours were rife – Nellie was big! The story goes that as Nellie forced himself upon the attractive young man, holding him tightly in his favoured half-nelson grip while thrusting away at his rear, the lad was heard to scream, ‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting my neck!’

  Strangely enough, after that incident it was seldom anyone in PH ever had the nerve to complain about having a sore neck …

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Coodgie Gang

  Boring’ is probably the most common adjective used in prison, because that’s what it is. It was the stories the cons told about themselves, myself included, that gave us the best entertainment. A laugh is always welcome in jail. One old storyteller, Michael John Burnside, a well-liked prisoner of traveller stock and the last man to be declared an outlaw in Scotland, was, for the umpteenth time, relating some of the adventures he had while prowling and plundering the Highlands of Scotland.

  Hyperbole would be a word unknown to Mick, but it was certainly no stranger to the structure of his stories. ‘Aye,’ he spoke in hushed tones as he related one of his many adventures, ‘I had just done the safe in the Oban bus depot and was heading for the hills, but someone must have seen me and phoned the police. Och, there must have been a thousand of them out looking for me that night. But I wasn’t worried because once I get into the countryside that’s it. I’m off! No one can find me once I reach the hills. You see,’ he would say and nod a knowing head, ‘I know every blade of grass, every rock, tree, bush and burn in the Highlands. It wouldn’t matter if there was a million people out looking for me, once I hit the hills I’m safe.’

  ‘You’re talking a lot of shite!’ announced Walter E, a man well known for his direct, outspoken opinions. Now normally this sort of outright, embarrassing accusation, especially in front of witnesses, would be deemed a serious insult and be met with an immediate violent reaction. But Walter was an old prison friend of Mick’s, so the insult was tolerated to the extent that an explanation was required before any action would be considered.

  ‘Oh, a load of shite, is it?’ Mick demanded. ‘And how do you make that out?’

  ‘You just told us that you know every blade of grass, every rock, tree, bush and burn in the Highlands, didn’t you?’ He repeated him word for word, leaving no room for error about what Mick had said.

  ‘Aye, that’s right! That’s what I said. And it’s a fact, too. I know every inch of the Highlands, so I do.’

  Everyone sat back and listened in. Walter’s wit was well known and we all knew he was going to say something that would devastate Mick’s outrageous claim. Walter looked at Mick and nodded, as if considering his choice of words. ‘Well,’ he finally said in the deadpan voice he adopted when putting someone down, ‘if you know every inch of the Highlands, how come you were up to your neck in a swamp when the cops found you?’

  One look at Mick’s face told a tale on its own. Guilty as charged!

  I spoke to Mick a few minutes later and asked him about it. ‘Aye,’ he said, ruefully shaking his head. ‘He’s fucking right enough. He knows everything, that bastard.’

  ‘So what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I was getting away,’ he told me, ‘when I jumped over this dyke, landed in a bog and sunk right up to my neck. No kidding, I thought I was going under and I let out a roar that the police would have heard ten miles away. The fucking cops came and pulled me out and the story got into the bloody papers. That’s how that bastard knew about it.’

  Violent behaviour was commonplace in Peterhead and I was witness myself to several assaults, many of them serious and resulting in outside charges being made. One man was even charged and found guilty of murder, receiving the mandatory lifer for his trouble. At one stage, things got so bad in the tailor’s shop that our large cutting shears were taken from us and we were issued with tiny, blunt little snips we could hardly get our fingers through to use properly. It came to the point when a fight hardly caused anyone to lift their heads from their machines. Even these days, years later, I have found myself sitting in a pub when a fight has broken out with people all around me scrambling wildly to get out of the way, while I just sit there in the midst of it all trying not to spill my pint.

  The loss of our big scissors, however, cost us an amusing and highly competitive pastime. These scissors were about a foot long, their large handles giving them, if you used your imagination, a pistol grip. With the ruler pocket down the right leg of our overalls as a holster, we had all we needed for fast-draw competitions. You could almost hear the Clint Eastwood music as the ‘gunfighters’ faced each other down the length of the passage between sewing machines, eyes fixed, fingers quivering over their weapons.

  It was serious stuff and prestige was at stake. The signal was given and hands blurred into motion as both went for their guns. Bang! Kapow! Then the arguments began, like kids playing cowboys and Indians.

  ‘Got you!’

  ‘Bollocks, you were well beat!’

  ‘Fuck you, you’re dead!’

  ‘No I’m not, I got you first!’

  ‘You’re fucking dead, you cunt!’

  ‘Who are you calling a cunt?’

  Suddenly the ‘guns’ became knives or bludgeons and the cons would be rolling about the floor, hacking and stabbing at eac
h other to settle the argument. Then the riot squad would arrive to cart them off, usually via the treatment room, to the punishment cells. It wasn’t really surprising that our ‘shooters’ were eventually taken from us – they were causing almost as much damage as the real thing.

  Another pastime, and this applied to any workshop, was sabotage, burning out the sewing-machine motors being the most common form of action in the tailor shop. All you had to do was press hard on the foot pedal while preventing the wheel from turning with your hand. This overheated the motor and, in a few minutes, its copper windings would heat up and burn off their insulating varnish, sending acrid-smelling smoke belching from the machine. Another burn out! Although it didn’t take long for a replacement motor to be fitted, it caused disruption and the perpetrator would enjoy an hour or so sitting back with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  Arson, too, was attempted at every opportunity. Simple incendiary devices like home-made candles would be hidden away in storerooms or remote corners in the hope that they would burn down and set fire to the workshop a few hours after it had closed for the night, giving the flames time to inflict maximum damage. There had been some success at this in earlier years, but gradually the cons had run out of hiding places and all they could count on now was a temporary flare-up and some superficial damage. But any conflagration, however small, was seen as a moral victory and greeted by cheers from the cons. They knew they were annoying the screws and keeping them, quite literally, on their knees with daily searches for hidden time bombs.

  And this war against time didn’t just end in the workshop. The cell blocks had more than their fair share of incidents to keep life interesting. Many seagulls – and they’re big bastards up there – have been captured by a string snare laid out on a window ledge and stowed away in someone’s cell cupboard. In the darkness of the cupboard, surrounded by alien sounds, the frightened seagull would sit dead quiet. After nine o’clock, by which time we were all locked up and everything had quietened down, the seagull would start to move around a little, gradually making more and more noise until finally the con would rise to investigate the source of the strange sounds. You can imagine his surprise when, on opening the cupboard door, a huge seagull leaped out at him, screeching loudly and frantically flapping its five-foot wingspan in the confines of the cell. We could all tell when this happened because the hysterical screeches and screams emanating from the cell were loud enough to wake the dead, causing the rest of us to convulse in fits of laughter!

  There was one gang in Peterhead that I cannot fail to mention and, believe me, at least half the prisoners in PH were fully paid-up members. What’s more, the tentacles of this particular gang spread insidiously across the entire prison estate both in this country and abroad. In the UK, they are known as the Coodgie (could you) Gang and many a hardened con has been spotted ducking furtively aside to avoid the approach of a known member.

  Prerequisites for admission to the gang are simple: an eagle eye, well-honed stalking skills and the ability to make a perfectly timed swoop on an unsuspecting mark are basic requirements. These, along with a brass neck and an ingratiating smile, topped off by a whining, ‘poor me’ voice and you have all the necessary attributes for membership of the Coodgie Gang.

  You might think you are alone and unobserved as you sneak your snout tin out to grab a fly smoke. But it is a known fact that at least one member of the Coodgie Gang will mysteriously materialise by your side and you will hear the dreaded words: ‘Coodgie give us a wee puff of that, pal?’ For him, it’s a fait accompli; for you, it’s a roll-up and Coodgied again.

  Every demand is always delivered in an appropriately obsequious tone and manner: Coodgie give us a biscuit? Coodgie give us a magazine? Coodgie give us some sugar, some milk, some tea, some coffee? Whatever you possessed, a Coodgie man desired.

  There was one member of the Coogies, Tam ‘the Tapper’ L, who was well known for his scrounging proclivities and he had no shame about it either. In fact, Tam thought it was an admirable accomplishment to be able to scrounge his way through his time. And I am forced to admit that I was a victim of his constant tapping myself. I know it would have been easy to say no, but I have my own little set of standards I work to and one of them is that I don’t mind sharing things like sugar and teabags and such like. I don’t smoke and always had enough cash to buy things like that from the canteen. So if someone asks me for a spot of sugar and I have some in my cell I will not refuse them, even if they do, like Tam the Tapper, take advantage and come every day.

  It must have gone on for months, so much so that it simply became another part of the daily routine. Every day, just before lock-up, Tam’s outstretched cup-carrying hand would appear through my doorway, followed by his head and shoulders bearing the most ingratiating grimace I have ever seen, before or since.

  ‘Aye, Tam?’ I would greet him as if it had never happened before.

  ‘Aye, Bing,’ he would reply, his face almost ingratiating itself to death. ‘Coodgie spare me a wee drop of sugar?’

  ‘Aye, help yourself, Tam.’ I gave him free rein to my sugar and to be fair he only ever took enough for the one cup. Now I honestly didn’t mind giving Tam some sugar every day; in fact, I found the daily pantomime amusing. Still, I found myself wishing that one day Tam would turn up and I could honestly tell him that I didn’t have any sugar.

  Then, one day, it happened. I forget the reason why I had no sugar that particular time – maybe I had more guests in than usual that week and my sugar had just run out a bit earlier. Whatever the cause, I had no sugar and I couldn’t wait for Tam to appear to tell him so. Sure enough, dead on time, he appeared at my door.

  ‘Aye, Bing,’ the show began. ‘Coodgie spare me a wee drop of sugar?’

  ‘Sorry, Tam,’ I replied, trying to keep the delight out of my voice. ‘There’s none left.’

  ‘None left!’ The bold Tam’s voice expressed disappointment and there was a brief flash of confusion in his eyes. ‘Aw fuck it!’ he finally said. Then, without even a blush, he looked me in the eye and asked, ‘Coodgie just give us a wee teabag instead, then?’

  I could only shake my head. Coodgied again! I had to admit it: the guy was a genius.

  Although they were a nuisance, there is no doubt that the Coodgie gang added a certain colour to life in drab Peterhead. Their insidious presence forced you to learn new skills in avoidance techniques and diversionary tactics, almost like living outside, in the struggle to repel their advances without causing offence. The ‘two tobacco tins’ ploy came into being because of them – an empty tin was produced as evidence of poverty, while your real tin remained out of sight in your pocket. It is the same now with phone cards, a wise man showing an almost used card to fend off any would-be tappers. You learned to keep items like teabags, coffee, sugar, milk and biscuits hidden away in a cupboard, only to be taken out once your door was safely closed to acquisitive eyes. Another tactic was to anticipate an approaching Coodgie and get your own request in first. Then, recognised as a fellow Coodgie, the rest would leave you alone and you might get a bit of peace. The only trouble with that particular move was that you could gain an unwanted reputation yourself – but it was all part and parcel of surviving in jail.

  Steering a safe, neutral passage through Peterhead wasn’t always easy for a lot of the guys. I didn’t have things too bad myself because everybody knew me and knew what I was in for. And although I had committed serious offences I didn’t offer, and was never perceived as, a threat to the current kingpins of the jail. On top of that I had the reputation, among the guys in Peterhead anyway, of being quite brainy. I was always being asked to settle arguments and help guys out with their lawyers’ letters, write petitions and prepare parole submissions. On the whole, I got on very well with everyone as time marched slowly by.

  Riots came and riots went. Hunger strikes were a regular occurrence and outright rebellion was never far away in Peterhead. One time, Big Hosie, Stein, John O’Boy S and a few other
s fought a pitched battle in the yard with the screws, won and climbed on to the roof of reception and the punishment block wearing captured riot gear – shields, helmets and long white batons. For the rest of the day, they marched about the rooftop, chanting aloud like gleeful children, ‘We won the war! We won the war!’ Two or three days later, after a visit from a Scottish Office official, a truce was declared. The rioters agreed to come down from the roof by one o’clock. Then, at about half past twelve, smoke began belching out from the reception office windows as the rioters broke in and set fire to the clothes and clothing records of the inmates, all to the frustration of authority and loud cheers from those cons who could see it from their windows.

  The fire brigade had been standing by but, although the flames were soon doused, nothing was saved. What hadn’t been destroyed by fire was damaged by smoke and the hoses of the fire department had completed the destruction. Not to worry though – the jail was insured.

  About three weeks after the fire, the insurance assessors arrived and every prisoner was interviewed regarding their loss. Naturally, with the clothing records gone, every con made the most of their claim. Guys who had been arrested in T-shirts, jeans and trainers were claiming for Chester Barrie suits, Ben Sherman shirts and Gucci shoes. Everyone, except the insurance company, of course, had a field day. One guy even had the nerve to claim for a suitcase full of expensive clothing, plus the case as well. There was no argument – it was all paid out in full. Word later filtered back that the insurance company considered the cons of Peterhead to be the best-dressed criminals in the UK!

  A postscript to that particular story was that the screw in charge of prisoners’ private cash was run off his feet as the grateful cons spent their windfall on the newly permitted possession of tape decks and record players. With each claim averaging around £200 there was a total of around £70,000 floating about the prisoners’ coffers. Manna from heaven there to be spent and spend it they did.