by Gordon Brown
I contacted his wife and she was hysterical but hardly in a place to stump up the readies. She wasn’t aware that her husband was in the protection paying business, Spain or his secretary.
It took two days to get the message to Spain and for him to return. Meanwhile I had a six year old with the appetite of King Kong and the attention span of a newt. On half a dozen occasions I considered throwing the wee shit in the Clyde and being done with it.
When I eventually handed him over to his dad at Kelvingrove Park — it didn’t matter that he saw us, he knew who we were and we knew who he was — I was so glad to get rid of the wee gobshite that I failed to count the cash. It was a grand light but by then I didn’t give a rat’s arse and I was well rid of the horror child.
The next year took on a turbo charged feel. The ‘errands’ grew in length, complexity and risk but I was up for the challenge. I shifted office after less than six months, as my needs outgrew the space, and took up residence in an old townhouse on Argyle Street.
I hit a new problem that I hadn’t had to deal with to date: what to do with the mounting pile of cash I was building. Now that might sound like a good problem but it wasn’t. Opening a bank account back then was a lot less rigorous than it is now but it was still folly to advertise a sudden rise in income. The Inland Revenue would take more than a passing interest in the discrepancy between what I declared and what I was bringing in. A discrepancy of enormous proportions, may I add.
The solution came in the form of Terry Usher; a disgraced banker who knew the ins and outs of the complexities of offshore banking, portfolio investment and tax avoidance. He managed a number of ‘clients’ and as far as I knew he hadn’t rolled over on anyone yet. Still it nagged at the back of my head that he was in control of my assets and as a precaution I took to hiding some of my cash in the most obscure places.
Even now I can guarantee that there are still a few wedges lying around in my old haunts. For all I know there could be thousands.
Probably more.
Eleven twenty eight and ten seconds.
Got to keep my foot down.
Success bred success and I was on a serious roll. Job after job was thrown at me and I met each one head on and delivered. My staff grew and before the year was out we had twenty-seven on the payroll. By year two we were up to sixty and I was no longer involved in the small jobs.
During all this time the chain of command from London didn’t change. We still received the ‘errands’ and we had little direct contact with our masters.
Our next big move was Edinburgh.
I had been told to stay clear of the Scottish capital for a number of reasons — not least that the place was as alien to me as the Amazon rain forest. London had never given me a job in Edinburgh and I was grateful as it meant staying clear of one Malcolm Morrison, known as the Major to his friends.
The Major was a well-heeled ex-financial genius who had grabbed Edinburgh the way London had grabbed Glasgow. He was highly territorial and renowned for his retribution should someone step out of line. He had the bizarre trait of wearing military gear and, as the years had progressed, so had his rank.
As far as anyone knew he had no background in the forces but there was a rumour that he had been rejected from the TA early in his life and this sat as a scar. He was never seen in public short of a uniform or insignia. It was testament to his status that he got away with it for so long.
The message came up from London that the Major was now surplus to requirements and Edinburgh was to join the empire. There was no subtlety involved in the plan of action. Exterminate with extreme prejudice. From the Major down take out the command structure and move in.
We hit in late November of 1981. The world had gone New Romantic and Martin had taken to wearing frilly cuffs on all his shirts. Twenty of us rolled into Edinburgh at midnight on the fifteenth.
We split up and played trash and burn with the Major’s property before taking out everyone from the Major, down to his lieutenants. Twelve dead — all made to look like accidents. The police went ape but back then we had brave pills by the dozen and alibis as solid as the Forth Rail Bridge. Even so I spent the best part of four months being escorted from my house to the Glasgow police head office almost daily.
The police knew I was involved. I knew they knew and they knew that I knew that they knew but it made not a hill of beans without evidence and evidence was thin on the ground.
Even while I was sitting in the interview room I had arranged for two of my more trusted compadres to scope out Edinburgh and start moving in.
It wasn’t easy. Chopping off the head was simple but the hydra had many more heads waiting to take charge. It took six months to whip the city into shape and even then we only had partial control, but it was enough to keep London happy and, when the police eventually backed off, I could get on with the business of making Edinburgh profitable.
Aberdeen was next, then Dundee and then the sticks. Four years it took us and an industrial amount of pain and effort.
However on the first of January 1986 I sent a message to London. It read:
‘ Scotland now ours — what next?’
We hadn’t really conquered Scotland. Any fool could see that but we had our fingers in most pies and the major jobs didn’t happen without our say.
Incredible as it might seem I was still none the wiser as to who in London was pulling the strings. I knew a lot more than I had at the outset and had been on frequent trips to meet my opposite numbers elsewhere in the country but, as to the boss, I was clueless. When I tried to discuss it with Martin, he didn’t seem interested and spent increasing amounts of time on holiday or just AWOL
By then I had more money than I could reasonably spend in the rest of my life. I had banked three houses in Scotland and was an early bird in the Spanish property market.
My car had progressed from a Ford Escort 1100 Mk1 to an Aston Martin DB4 — the one James Bond uses in Goldfinger. Women littered my path but no one had tied me down yet and the job was getting easier not harder.
I distanced myself from the day to day and if things went tits up I was six or seven people away from the pain. The police would still call but apart from enjoying a cup of tea and a Bourbon biscuit there was little else they could do. It didn’t stop them from trying but the better things got for business, the further from the action I flew.
Chapter 15
When the phone call came it was hardly a surprise.
‘Be in London tomorrow, you’ve a room booked tonight in the Hilton on Park Lane. You’ll be away for a while — make arrangements.’
Click.
And so I went. Martin was nowhere to be seen and I went alone.
I’m not a fan of London. Never have been. Too many people, too little space and it takes hours to get out of the bloody place to somewhere less crowded. Then again I’ve mates who swear by the place. Love it. Plenty to do. Plenty to see. Plenty to eat. A real buzz.
I just don’t like it.
Full stop.
The Hilton was stuffed to the gunnels with Yuppies — the real deal. Early adopter mobile phone freaks. Filofax. Power suit. Braces — the whole Wall St thing in one lobby. I almost felt like I had to miss lunch to fit in.
I sat at the bar after unpacking and hated it. Sterile decoration and the yuppies got on my tits. I slipped out, glad to be free of the smell of leather and sweat. I found a small pub in the backstreets and drank myself into a good mood and then drank myself into a shit one.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover and no sense that I had earned it.
A London suit appeared around twelve and insisted I join him on a little trip north. The Ford Sierra we travelled in was clapped out and smelled of beer and curry. I was pushed into the back seat and any notion that I harboured of being treated with some decorum, given my track record, was beginning to diminish.
We crawled through the London traffic and slogged our way onto the North Circular before cutting into the back end
of Highgate and into a run down council estate. The car stopped and an outstretched finger pointed to a door that looked like it had been firebombed. The house it served didn’t look much better.
I tell you now I was nervous. I was beginning to think that this was looking like my exit interview as opposed to promotion. I walked up a path strewn with empty cans of Tennent’s Super and began to rack my brains for the deals I had done over the last few months. For all the money I had salted away on the side, I could think of nothing that warranted a kicking — or worse.
Before I got to the door it opened. Another suit grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in. The door slammed behind me, and it was hard not to think of a condemned man being led from his cell.
The hall was stripped of wallpaper and carpet and the sole light bulb in the ceiling was either off or didn’t work. A door at the far end of the corridor opened and warm light flooded the space. I was pushed from behind and entered an altogether different world.
The occupant was obviously used to the double take that visitors went through and gave me space to let my jaw hit the ground.
Far from the expected hovel, the space around me would have graced a stately home and not put it to shame. The walls stretched double height around me and the floor space ran to the size of a basketball court. It reminded me of David Read’s gaff but far nastier on the outside and far grander on the inside.
Furniture was strategically placed amongst a full gambit of statues, display cabinets and paintings mounted on easels. The carpet was so thick that it threatened to suck the shoes from my feet and the room gave out an odour that would have been at home in a Chinese opium house a hundred years ago.
Near the far wall, behind a desk with a stone top that looked like it had been hewn from Mount Everest, sat a man. His head was bent down reading a sheaf of papers in front of him. He grunted and the two suits behind me left.
Thirty seconds silence followed.
Chapter 16
‘Take a seat.’
The man pointed to a chair in front of his desk. He didn’t raise his head and continued to give the paper he was reading his full attention and me none. He lifted a pen, scribbled a little and shuffled the paper into a tray. He leaned back and eyes as grey as a wet Loch Lomond sky wandered over me.
‘What did we take last year?’
No preamble. No small talk.
‘10.6 million clear.’
‘And this year?’
‘12’
‘Is that good?’
I thought it was fucking fantastic but it was clear that he didn’t.
‘Much more and we start to step on toes that will bring down a lot more heat. Most of our cash is in small amounts. That keeps the major crime boys off our back.’
He smiled. Cold.
‘Nice strategy. I approve. I reckon twenty five million tops in Scotland before we have to change the way we do things.’
Twenty five. Christ that would be hard work. The organisation would have needed to double again to get close and that was a lot of organising and recruiting.
‘Not your worry,’ he said. ‘How do you fancy south of the river.’
For a second I was lost. South of what river?
‘Giles is moving north and his number two isn’t up to it. I don’t see anyone better for the job. That is if you fancy it?’
I knew who Giles was. Giles Taylor and he ran south London. That meant I had just been offered the second largest patch in the organisation next to north London.
‘Think about it.’
With that he hit a buzzer, the suits reappeared and my time was up.
On the way back to my hotel my head was spinning. This was an altogether different scale. I knew Glasgow and I could get by with the rest of Scotland but London was foreign territory and not without its share of heavy hitters. In Glasgow shooters were thin on the ground. In London they grew on trees.
This was a different game on a different ground.
In my hotel room I fell back on to my bed and let my head wander. I suspected this was another offer I couldn’t refuse. Martin was more than capable of running the operation in Scotland and, if I showed a lack of ambition, or worse, a lack of gratitude, I would get short shrift.
I went for a walk but I knew my time in Glasgow was up and when I got back to the hotel I made the call and said I was in.
Chapter 17
I didn’t go back to Glasgow that weekend. In fact I didn’t see Glasgow again for near on eighteen months. London was a cold turkey job. There was no induction. Giles pissed off to the north and I took his seat the day after my meeting at the council house.
I relied on Martin to mothball my homes back north and keep things going. I had him ship me my clothes and a few bits and pieces. When the package arrived I realised, not for the first time, that when it came down to it, I really needed very little of my worldly goods to move on.
I was based in Blackheath in an apartment not far from the grass. From day one I was Jock unless the person was face to face with me when I was Sir. I had a learning curve that made going to the moon look easy. I knew no-one, I knew little of what was going on and my reputation was worth zip.
For a fortnight I tried to get up to speed and used what charm I had to try to endear myself to the people I needed day to day. This failed in a big way. They just took the piss. The final straw came as I was unwinding over a pint in the local, three weeks to the day since I had taken over.
Giorgio, my number two — he was the one that wasn’t up to the main man’s job — a fourth generation Greek with a first generation accent, was leaning on me for a bigger cut or he was for the off. He knew I needed him and was striking while the iron was burning a hole in my shirt. He wanted double what he currently got and since I had the same deal in London as in Scotland this would come straight out of my pocket.
I listened and tried to reason with him but the more I talked the more it sounded like a negotiation. At one point I got up and went for a slash. The urinals were all occupied so I used a cubicle.
As I let go I heard a familiar voice enter and I listened as Mike Ashby, Giorgio’s minder, gobbed off about how his pay was just about to double.
I realised that Giorgio had already pocketed the increase he was asking for. This was going nowhere good and I needed to act. I pulled the chain and exited, nodding a hello to Mike who suddenly looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. I walked up to Giorgio and said ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He objected but I told him I needed some air to consider his position and he stood up to follow me out.
It was a clear night and we walked towards the heath talking nonsense but keeping the nonsense around Giorgio’s demands and he followed like a lap dog.
We entered the heath and the street lights lost the battle with the dark. Giorgio wanted to know where we were going but, before he finished the question, I squared up to him and gave him my best Glasgow kiss — a head butt to the forehead. He went down in a heap and I lashed out with my foot and caught him in the face. Something broke and he screamed and tried to get up. I lifted my foot and brought it down on his hand and crunched half a dozen bones. He howled and, for good measure, I kicked him in the groin.
I bent down, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up.
‘You’re gone by tomorrow. I mean gone.’
Chapter 18
How is the clock doing? Not long. I need to speed up.
News of the incident with Giorgio spread like wildfire and I was eyed with a combination of suspicion and respect.
Giorgio left London — although to this day I have no idea where he went. I appointed a young lad called Spencer Cline as my number two. This managed to piss off about half the team I worked with, as Spencer was a new recruit I had employed on Martin’s recommendation. Spencer had worked with Martin in London for a few years and I needed someone who was loyal to me and not the old school.
I dumped the nicely, nicely approach and went for the cold heartless bastard approach. I found I was
good at it and kicking backsides was something I seemed to do well.
I re-organised the set up and appointed ten direct reports, each with their own remit. We met every Monday at 10.00am and Spencer was charged with taking the notes. He encrypted them and sent them out on the Tuesday. This was business and I had a target in my head — make south London number one.
This took balls. London wasn’t like Glasgow. You could walk a quarter of a mile in London and be on someone else’s patch. You could walk another ten yards and be in your grave. This was truly Long Good Friday land and, with one mind on how it all finished for Bob Hoskins, I had to get down and dirty.
I went after local gangs with a simple offer — join or cease to be. This led to more pitched battles than was good for a man. We fought where needed and some months we could be found knife in hand, gun in back pocket for fifteen nights straight. We rattled cages in a big way and we didn’t always win. But we won enough and a year after I joined we overhauled the north as the biggest earner.
I didn’t stop there. In less than eighteen months I was running out of steam south of the river. Most of the gangs that mattered were either on our side or were gone. Gaining new income was proving tougher. We set in motion some big jobs but these took time and were risky. So I turned my attention to the East End.
Technically this was north of the river but Giles was in no shape to tackle it. Unlike myself, Giles had taken a more laissez faire approach to his new job. After all it was already the biggest so why bust your nuts trying to grow it. As such he let a mean little fucker called Graham Stern go unchecked and he was now in control of most everything east of India Dock.
Graham was half German on his dad’s side and couldn’t have been more at home had he put on jackboots and a swastika. He was psychotic and like most psychopaths clever with it. Killing was no issue to him, as he didn’t value anyone but himself and his boyfriend — a circus acrobat called Helmut that hung around him like a cheap necklace.
