People in my street thought that I was a kind, polite, happy-go-lucky guy who worked in an office in a well-paid job in the city. People in the city had yet to hear about my desire to relieve them of their billions. A genuine city job would have come my way, but for the ‘razor on the ground’ incident.
I remember walking to the café to plan a bit of work, the sun shining on my face and feeling good. Inside I would smell the bacon, sausages and eggs being fried and hear the guys from the building sites discussing football. Most of them were just having a right laugh.
The pimps and prostitutes appeared after their night’s work, usually arguing over money. Next came the elderly people, ready to do their shopping, while we sat there reading the newspapers and eating our breakfasts. We all tucked in, with Old Frank the driver and Neil, one of our other wheel men – getaway drivers – gorging themselves on extra helpings of bacon and fried bread. I had my full English spread with black Turkish coffee to boost my energy levels.
Old Frank was a lovely guy, about twenty years older than me, in between the ages of my dad and older brother, Freddy. He was trying to hold on to his black hair, despite bald bits appearing here and there.
I bumped into Old Frank because I was friendly with his young son, Alan. Old Frank was Irish, and his family were all solid people. I went round to their house one day for some Irish stew and they were keen to know what I did for a living.
‘You and your mates seem to be doing really well,’ Old Frank had said, ‘but I’m not bringing in many readies at the moment.’
‘What are you doing?’ I’d asked, seeing the potential.
‘I’m driving cars and cabs, and that’s about it,’ Old Frank had mumbled in reply. ‘What are you up to?’
‘We rob banks and run a few businesses,’ I’d answered, proud of my operations. ‘My brother Frankie is involved in another side of the business now, so would you like to drive for me?’
He’d gaped. ‘I knew you were a bad boy, but not that bad!’
‘Only thing is, you have to be round my house early every morning, suited and booted.’
‘I don’t have a suit,’ Old Frank answered, looking downcast.
We went out and bought an expensive suit. Problem solved, and Old Frank looked the part. ‘Fucking hell, I’ve never worn a suit like this! Don’t know if I’ve even seen a suit like this!’
Old Frank became totally loyal to me and fitted into my firm like a dream.
Neil was a painter and decorator and I met him through a girlfriend. We were talking one day over a beer and he said he needed to earn some money, as painting and decorating wasn’t earning much dough.
He looked a solid guy, so I asked, ‘What about you driving for us?’
‘What, delivering parcels?’
‘Well, not exactly.’ I laughed. ‘We do more … collecting, if you like.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘OK. Come down to the Enkel Arms tomorrow morning and I’ll show you what business we’re in.’
I met him outside the pub, having collected some weapons from their hiding places. Neil looked shocked. ‘Oh, fucking hell, I’m not in the IRA!’
‘No, no, we’re not a terrorist organisation. We’re into looking after people who are getting fucked about. We make sure people aren’t intimidated. And you’ll find that we go out on a bit of work now and again.’
Neil gaped at a sawn-off shotgun. He was frozen to the spot.
‘How much are you earning?’ I asked, watching him like a hawk for any sign of weakness.
‘I’m not,’ he grumbled.
‘Come out with me and you will get £250 a week, every week. But if you rat on us there is a problem.’
‘A problem?’
‘If you rat on us, I will shoot you.’
We shook hands and Neil became a loyal and trusted member of the firm, and a top-class driver.
After the café emptied, we’d sit and talk about what was on our special menu for the day. The starter was the planning, the main course was the robbery itself and the dessert was the reward of loads of cash. We studied the various bits of information that had been passed on to us: we went through them all in the finest detail, and selected the best jobs.
The ‘paid for’ information coming in was vital because it dictated how much we could earn. For example, a betting shop might only have a couple of grand at the start of the day, but there were rich pickings at the end of a good day: Friday and Saturday were the ideal times after all the punters had had their weekly pay. Monday was normally a dead day, because the punters would have blown their wages over the weekend.
Timing and inside knowledge were key. The best form of information came from a disgruntled employee who had worked for the bookie in the past and knew the staff’s routines. We loved the bosses who treated their workers like shit; they were the ones who would help to set up a robbery. During a robbery, when the bosses were lying on the floor, we’d give them a kick in the ribs on the way out, because it brought a smirk to the faces of the rest of the disgruntled staff.
Once the target had been chosen, we would get into our cars and go for a viewing, like newlyweds checking out their first home. We went all over London to wherever there was a bit of work. That could be on our own territory or anywhere in the capital. We’d look at the building, and one of us would go inside on the pretence of looking for a job. They’d always keep our man waiting to see the person in charge, before he was eventually taken to the office, so that time was used to check the layout of the building, how many staff were around, where everyone sat, and where the alarm buttons were placed.
After that, we would survey the surrounding areas for our getaway. That was the most important part of the job. Every robbery was planned around the getaway, because it was no use stealing all the cash, only to be nicked trying to flee from the scene. Quite a few robbers have been nicked because they didn’t plan the getaway properly, or they left loose ends. The Great Train Robbery was an example of that. Clues were left behind in a barn, and that cost them thirty years in jail time. The robbery was planned and executed with perfection, but the clearing up after the event was sloppy.
In this day and age, nothing has changed: the getaway and clearing up for the modern-day criminal have to be done to the same standard as the robbery itself. But we all know that, in moments of jubilation, we forget. Contrary to popular belief, the Old Bill aren’t stupid. Their mob is just as good as your mob. They have the best equipment money can buy, they think like armed robbers and have intelligence on every villain who’s ‘at it’. If you underestimate them, you will be doing big porridge, as 85,000 prisoners doing a bit of bird today will tell you. Every one of them thought that they could beat the police. Number one rule: always respect the capabilities of the Old Bill.
Back in our day, once all the escape routes had been decided, the armed robber continued planning the bit of work. It was decided who would be the driver and who would act as back-up – it was always safer to have two drivers who knew the escape routes in case one fell sick or we needed to swap cars.
The day before the robbery was due to take place we would say goodbye to our loved ones, telling them we would be away for a few days visiting friends. We’d then all meet up at a pre-arranged rendezvous. We normally used the flat of a friend. We would pay him to go on a two-week holiday, with a few quid on top if the work was successful. Old Frank brought the guns from his secret hiding place, along with masks and clothing. We wore boiler suits and crash helmets for the heavy jobs. The helmets protected our identities, and would help keep our heads intact if anyone tackled us.
We would lay the guns and ammunition out on the bed and check them over. Old Frank would check out both the cars and drop one off at a pre-arranged spot for the changeover after the robbery. Next, he would make his way back to the pad by public transport. He never used a cab, as that could be used to trace an address.
On the way to the pad, Old Frank would pick up meals from the local
takeaway and we’d usually watch a bit of television. We’d talk, then bed down for the night. There was no alcohol, drugs or anything, because everyone had to be on top form in the morning. Each of us slept with his own thoughts about the job and our families. I would go over the robbery time and time again in my head until I fell asleep.
Old Frank was always the first one up because he wanted breakfast. One of the firm would stay behind with the guns while we headed off to the café in Hercules Road. We never spoke at the café on the day of the work; we had breakfast, read the papers and went back to the pad. We’d take a breakfast sandwich back to whoever was staying behind with the guns.
One particular robbery that I remember, Chrissy was nominated to babysit the pad and our personal effects. I was to be lead gunman, with a sawn-off shotgun called Kennedy: we’d named it after the assassinated American president.
Kennedy had begun life as a fully-fledged .410 bore shotgun, used for shooting rabbits, squirrels, birds or whatever. That size means the bore of the barrel was .410 of an inch. Kennedy’s butt had been replaced with a pistol grip and, of course, the barrel was sawn off. It looked menacing, with double hammers and two triggers. The weapon was easy to conceal under an overcoat, and the sawn-off barrels meant a much wider spread for the pellets.
A professional gunsmith, on my payroll, had carried out some clever work on it. I put plenty of business his way and he looked after the tools of my trade. I was careful to use my professional man: amateur modifications usually resulted in the bloody thing blowing up in your face. I’d heard of robbers becoming brown bread (as we always said, instead of ‘dead’), with their brains blown out in a flash after a shoddy repair job.
Kennedy could cause havoc in a crowded bar. The full-size original version would have taken out two or three people, but the modified Kennedy – resembling a pirate’s pistol – had the potential of taking out an entire group because of that wide spread. Let’s say it excelled in crowd control.
Kennedy also made the loudest bang you were ever likely to hear and the room would be enveloped in an acrid, sulphur-type smell. Your mouth and nose filled up with the overpowering fug of Guy Fawkes Night thanks to a strong whiff of gunpowder. In Kennedy’s case, there were no bonfire night frolics; he dealt in life and death, and could snuff out someone’s existence with a flick of his trigger.
My brother Frankie was the other gunman on many jobs, and he had a revolver. Neil was the bag man, who’d scoop up the loot. Old Frank would take care of the transport.
We picked up our lethal tools and put them under our coats, with our masks in our pockets. We all had £40 on us, in two £20 notes, in case things went wrong and we had to split up. We had nothing else – no ID or anything – just the tools and the £40 each.
We walked down the stairs of the pad and got into the car. Once we walked out of that house onto the street with shooters, there was no turning back.
The gunmen always sat in the back of the car. There was no real reason for that, apart from being part of a strict routine where everyone knew their role down to the finest detail.
We drove along quietly, obeying the speed limits and not doing anything that would draw attention to us. We had no intention of getting nicked before going on the bit of work. Can you imagine having to live that down?
I could feel Kennedy nestled snugly against my chest, close to my heart. It was like a babe in arms – this tool was my protector – and you had to respect it and look after it. Kennedy would do the same for you.
Old Frank stopped the car and checked his mirrors to make sure all was clear. Then he went through his little ritual, with the words, ‘Gentlemen, are you ready?’
Next, my words, that everyone wanted to hear, especially Old Frank, who said my catchphrase really gave him a buzz: ‘Let’s do it!’
We were out of the motor and into the building in a flash. ‘Everyone on the floor!’ we screamed out.
If any of the staff weren’t moving fast enough or hesitating to obey the command, we fired a shot into the ceiling. That always sorted out the problem. The sound of a gunshot and the smell of burning gunpowder always brought everyone into line. We had three minutes to finish the work before the police arrived. The last thing you wanted was the Old Bill on your case.
Neil knew where all the money was because of the inside information. He moved like a sprinter, scooping it all up and thrusting it into his bag. He loved doing that – he said it made him feel like Father Christmas with his sack of presents for the guys.
When the job was complete, my brother Frankie was the first one out of the door with the hand gun, making sure that the bag man got into the car safely. I was the last one out, keeping the staff under control.
We all piled into the car and made for the change-over spot. We transferred the guns, masks and everything into the other motor, changed clothes in a jiffy, and Old Frank drove off alone. The car used for the raid was then parked up. It had been ‘acquired’, with no links to any of us, so we were in the clear there.
The rest of us split up and made our own way back. Neil now had the money in a holdall, along with a spirit level, on view, so that he looked like a building-site worker. My brother Frankie and I were dressed smartly to fit in with the crowds on the street.
What a relief to arrive back at the pad. Old Frank had already hidden the guns, disposed of our work clothes and parked the change-over car in a side street. We sat down to count the takings, letting Chrissy do most of that so he didn’t feel left out. He was keen to hear all about the bit of work, so we gave him the main details.
One of the boys went out to get some booze, plus bitter lemon for me, and we sat and divided the money into equal shares. I always stuck to bitter lemon, because my concentration levels had to be 100 per cent, twenty-four hours a day. I’d seen people making mistakes after drinking, and I vowed that would never happen to me.
I had a rule that everyone received the same amount, even if they were just minding the pad. That way no one became jealous or thought they were hard done by. They also had no reason to grass, because they got an equal amount for the bit of work. We didn’t ever bother reading up about it all in the papers the next day. For a start, the people who’d been robbed always multiplied their losses – but we knew exactly how much had been taken!
Armed robberies don’t always go to plan, however. I remember on two occasions when they went terribly wrong. I cringe when I think about the first bodged job.
Black Jerry came up to us one night in the pub, and said he had a bit of work that was too big for him but might suit us – Jerry was a shit-hot shoplifter, but wasn’t really into the heavy stuff. He said the guy who’d told him about the job – we called them spotters – said there were easy pickings from a van carrying wages for a building site. Apparently the foreman and a labourer went to collect the cash from the bank in the firm’s van. The labourer was tooled up with a pickaxe handle and the foreman carried the money bag.
We arranged to meet the spotter and did our best to check out his information, to see what kind of money was paid out at the site on pay day. We decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, gave him a grand up front and went on the bit of work.
As we pulled up in a side street near the bank, we saw the foreman and labourer get out of their van and go into the bank. Then they reappeared, obviously carrying a bag full of cash.
As I put my crash helmet on, slid down the visor and hurried out of the car with Kennedy, to my horror I noticed another guy getting out of a car, also masked and tooled up with a shotgun.
He looked at me, I looked at him and we both thought: ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ I knew he wasn’t Old Bill and he knew I wasn’t Old Bill, either.
While we checked each other out, the foreman and driver made a break for it. We both clambered into our cars and pulled off in different directions,
‘What the fuck was all that about?’ Old Frank asked, looking confused, as we drove off.
‘Haven’t a c
lue,’ I answered, just as confused. ‘That other firm was after the same prize as us, so someone has a lot to answer for. I bet the spotter sold the job to two firms and collected a grand from both of us.’
Well, we looked for him, but he had rapidly fucked off the manor with his two grand. We found out later that the other firm on that bit of work came from the East End. We had a laugh with them about it. Black Jerry was embarrassed about the whole thing, but it wasn’t his fault. We swore that if we ever met the little informant bastard again, we would string him up by his bollocks. And we would have done just that.
The other incident was much more serious. We went on a bit of work, scooped up the money, and chose a route over the River Thames on the return journey. I lay in the back, as usual, with the shotgun across my chest. All of a sudden I smelled shit. I checked my shoes but could see nothing.
‘Which one of you has trod in dog shit?’ I muttered.
‘It’s him,’ Old Frank said accusingly, pointing at Dave, who was an enormous guy and handy in a ruck.
‘Take your fucking shoe off and hang it out the window,’ I told Dave. ‘It’s stinking the car out and making me feel sick. I can’t stand bad smells.’
‘It’s not his shoes,’ Old Frank whispered. ‘He shit his pants on the bit of work.’
‘Is that right?’ I asked, hardly believing what I was hearing.
Dave looked at me and then looked at the floor of the car. He was shaking, with a regular flow of tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘That’s what happened,’ the giant of a man said. ‘I’ve never been on an armed robbery before and I did just shit myself.’
Old Frank and I exchanged glances via the driver’s mirror. It was my job to explain everything to Dave.
I Am Not A Gangster Page 5
