Essex Boy

by Steve 'Nipper' Ellis; Bernard O'Mahoney

  I was told that they would be in touch to arrange the meeting but I didn’t hear from them again. I assume that they believed me. Malcolm was less forgiving; he refused to even discuss the episode with me. A few days later, I was shopping in Sainsbury’s with my girlfriend. We were queuing at the checkout and I was gazing out of the window. Suddenly Malcolm’s car came into view and as he glanced inside the shop our eyes met. I guessed by the expression on his face that he wasn’t pleased to see me. Any doubts I may have had were confirmed when he jumped on his brakes, flung his car door open and leapt out. I gave my money and my mobile phone to my girlfriend, told her to abandon her shopping trolley and disappear. I was in no doubt that Malcolm and I were going to fight and I wanted her out of the way. I walked to the main entrance, where I found Malcolm waiting for me.

  ‘We have got something to sort out. Where do you want to do it?’ he said. Before I could reply Malcolm suggested that we fight in the car park.

  ‘Fuck off. It’s covered by CCTV. I will fight you in the toilets,’ I replied.

  Malcolm looked me up and down, shook his head and said, ‘Fuck you, Steve,’ before striding away.

  The odd thing is, the next time we met he spoke to me as if the attempted robbery had never taken place. I did try to broach the subject but he simply raised his hand and said that he was not interested. When I saw Tate and Tucker, I asked them to apologise to Malcolm but their attitude to everybody and everything was ‘fuck them’. They really had come to believe that they were invincible and nobody would dare to even take them on, let alone defeat them.

  One evening we were out in Southend at a nightclub and Tucker asked me to go to Chris Wheatley’s house to collect some cocaine for his personal use. Chris had been a member of Tucker’s firm for a number of years, running the door of a nightclub called Club Art in Southend. I liked Chris. He was a really decent no-nonsense man who was prepared to stand up to anybody. A young guy named Danny, from Basildon, had been ejected from Hollywood’s nightclub, in Romford, by Chris and his uncle, a top Southend face was not happy about it. Threats to shoot Chris, petrol-bomb his home and cripple him followed, but he refused to apologise for ejecting Danny because he believed that he had been in the right. Fortunately for all concerned, Danny was a regular at another of the nightclubs where Tucker provided security, Raquel’s, in Basildon, and he got on well with the head doorman. This doorman was also friends with Chris and so he was able to resolve the issue amicably.

  When I arrived at Chris’s flat, I purchased five grammes of cocaine and approximately twenty Ecstasy pills. I returned to the club and asked Tucker for the money, but he began to shout about him not giving money to anybody.

  ‘Chris works for me. It’s my fucking gear. I am not paying for anything,’ he bellowed.

  ‘Well, if you aren’t paying for the drugs, you aren’t getting them,’ I replied.

  Tucker reluctantly paid me but for the remainder of the evening he moaned constantly about having had to do so. The following evening, we visited Raquel’s. It had once been a really violent venue; fleets of ambulances rather than taxis queued up outside when it was closing because the clientele were prone to fucking or fighting each other rather than enjoying themselves. A northerner named Bernard O’Mahoney had taken over the running of security at Raquel’s after numerous bloody encounters with the locals had forced his former boss to quit.

  In February 1993, O’Mahoney had invited Tucker into Raquel’s as a not-so-silent partner. They had agreed that O’Mahoney would fight the firm’s battles to secure the door of the club and Tucker would provide all of the illicit drugs that the chemical generation that frequented the venue would require. O’Mahoney soon cleared the local troublemakers from the venue (usually head first via the rear concrete stairs), which in turn attracted promoters keen to put on rave nights. Violence and Ecstasy did not mix and so O’Mahoney’s efforts to ban the local hoodlums reaped huge rewards for Tucker’s drug-dealing operation. Raquel’s went from being a club containing more than 800 snarling, spitting yobs to a club containing more than 800 loved-up pill heads. Tucker was delighted with the arrangement but, to my surprise, O’Mahoney didn’t seem too keen on Tucker.

  One of the very first things that he said to me when we were introduced was, ‘Don’t take any notice of anything Tucker tells you and don’t get too involved.’

  I thought it was an odd thing to say but, from what others later told me, Tucker was aware of O’Mahoney’s views and the pair only tolerated each other because they were both earning well out of the club. O’Mahoney led us through the reception area and up two flights of stairs to a dining area where he said we wouldn’t be disturbed. After identifying our party to one of the bar staff, O’Mahoney informed us that anything we required would be on the house. I am not sure what was on the diners’ menu but, considering all the horror stories that I had heard about the place, I suspected that it would have been broken leg of lamb.

  There was a fantastic atmosphere in the club and everybody appeared to be having a good time. As the champagne flowed a group of girls gathered around us and I began to talk to one or two of them. I don’t know what it was but I could somehow sense that all was not well with Tucker, who the girls appeared to be ignoring. When a man in his 20s approached the girls and asked them if they were sorted (for drugs), Tucker called him over.

  ‘Have you got any gear for sale?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, mate, what would you like?’ the man replied.

  Grabbing the man by his throat, Tucker slapped him hard across the face with his free hand and demanded he hand all of his drugs over to him.

  ‘Fuck off, you can’t do that to the guy,’ I said.

  ‘He’s nothing. I can do what I fucking want,’ Tucker replied.

  Before I could say another word Tucker emptied the trembling man’s pockets and shouted at all of the girls present to fuck off. A barmaid activated the panic alarm and the DJ began calling over the PA system, ‘Security to the dining area. Security to the dining area.’

  Moments later, O’Mahoney and several other doormen appeared, clearly expecting trouble. When O’Mahoney walked over to Tucker, he pointed out the young man whom he had robbed and alleged that he had been causing trouble. Almost immediately the man was apprehended and the last I saw of him he was disappearing from the club via a fire exit. The attention-seeking, jealous and vindictive Tucker that I had seen that night was the real Tucker, but rather naively I believed his actions had been out of character. The Tucker that I thought I knew was always telling me what a good friend I was and offering to do me favours.

  ‘You’re like a brother to me,’ Tucker would say, but looking back, he used to say the same to everybody.

  The longer I spent in Tucker’s company, the more O’Mahoney’s words of advice made sense. I began to feel uncomfortable at some of Tucker’s antics and this led to us arguing on more than one occasion. One night, we all went out to the Café de Paris nightclub in London’s West End. I had taken my usual one Ecstasy pill and the others had injected themselves with a cocktail of drugs and were snorting copious amounts of cocaine every few minutes. While out on the dance floor emulating a cripple trying to walk without sticks, I felt somebody pinch my backside. When I turned around, a black male smiled at me. Racial harmony is fine by me, as is brotherly love, but not in the biblical sense, which is where I draw the line. I pushed the man away from me and advised him that he should not return unless he had taken out comprehensive medical insurance.

  Out of nowhere a huge hand gripped my shoulder and a deep voice growled, ‘Leave it out, son. You don’t need the trouble.’

  As I turned towards whoever was offering me this advice I came face to face with former British heavyweight champion boxer Gary Mason.

  ‘That geezer pinched my arse. I’m not having that,’ I said.

  Tucker ran over to my aid, grabbed my admirer and launched him through a fire exit door. When he returned, he simply glared at Mason and told me to ignore hi
m. It has to be said that Gary Mason was doing no more than attempting to prevent trouble, but Tucker did not see it that way. Throughout the rest of the evening he made derogatory remarks to me about Mason and said that he had taken a liberty by interfering with somebody in our circle of friends.

  Later that week, Tucker, Tate, Leach and I attended a Luther Vandross concert at the Royal Albert Hall with our girlfriends. Tucker had hired one of the VIP boxes and every few minutes the curtains were drawn so that we could snort cocaine on the balcony. As the drugs began to take effect, the mood became more boisterous and Tucker began leaning out of our box to see who was next door. Tucker was like a kid at Christmas when he saw that it was Gary Mason and a boxing promoter. He spent the rest of the evening gesticulating and mouthing abuse but, to his credit, Mason did not respond. I personally found the whole sorry episode rather embarrassing.

  In a rare effort to relax, Tucker, Tate, Rolfe, myself and four girls went to a Chinese restaurant where Tucker claimed to be a regular customer. The staff greeted us warmly and the manager insisted on leading us to a table where he assured us that we wouldn’t be disturbed. I formed the impression that the manager was seating us at a table out of the way so that his other customers, rather than us, wouldn’t be disturbed. The meal passed off without incident, but when the waiter presented us with a bill for more than £250 Tucker said that he wasn’t going to pay. Tate pulled out a thick roll of banknotes from his pocket and offered to pay half but Tucker was adamant.

  ‘Don’t be like that. We’ve had a good night and it’s not right to cause trouble with the girls here,’ I said.

  ‘Fuck them. I am not paying and neither is anybody else,’ Tucker replied. I got up, walked over to the manager and began counting out my money in order to pay the bill. Tucker jumped up from his seat, grabbed the cash and repeated that nobody was going to pay the bill. Everybody in the restaurant had stopped eating and was looking at Tucker.

  He thought for a moment and then after producing a coin from his pocket said, ‘OK, we will flick a coin for the bill.’ He spun the coin high in the air before catching and covering it with both hands. ‘Heads or tails?’ Tucker asked the manager.

  When the manager muttered ‘tails’, Tucker showed him the coin and shouted out, ‘He lost, he lost.’ Moments later, we were heading for the door and being sneered at by a group of very unhappy Chinese waiters and their disgusted customers. This incident was typical of Tucker, he was a tight bastard; he would never put his hand in his pocket to pay for anything, although he never did mind dipping his hand in other people’s pockets.

  A huge outdoor dance event had been arranged at a stately home in Kent and one of the promoters invited us all to attend. Tucker, Tate, Rolfe and I met Leach and a few of his friends at the venue and soon immersed ourselves in the carnival atmosphere. Tucker took up a position near the stage and began handing out packets of Ecstasy pills to his drug runners to sell. As soon as he spotted a drug dealer that was not on his payroll Tucker grabbed him by the throat, slapped his face, stole his cash and drugs and warned him that he would be wise to leave. I am aware of at least four drug dealers that he robbed in a similar fashion that day. Tate and I had wads of fake £20 banknotes, which we used to purchase drink tokens.

  A clause in the venue’s licence prevented alcohol being sold over the bar, but there was nothing to stop alcohol being exchanged for tokens. The discs were £5 each and so for every one that we purchased we were given £15 in change. Tate and I made approximately £2,000 each at this event. As well as the £15 profit we made from each purchase, we were getting a steady stream of free alcohol when we handed the discs in at the bar. I don’t drink but by early evening Tucker and Tate were both drunk and beginning to behave boisterously. I had a water fight with a prostitute named Paula who was accompanying Tate and this attracted the attention of security. When the first two doormen arrived, they began shouting at Paula and me to calm down but when they noticed Tate and Tucker staring at them, they immediately radioed for assistance. By the time their colleagues had arrived, Leach had joined us, wearing a ridiculous pair of leather trousers, with his entourage in tow. I am not sure if it was the sight of Leach in leather trousers that scared the testosterone-filled doormen or if it was the thought of fighting the men who were backing me, but they soon turned and walked away without saying another word.

  Another of Tate’s prostitutes was a girl in her early 20s named Adele. Despite her tender years, Adele had only recently been released from her third prison sentence before accepting Tate’s offer of employment. Her attractive looks and feminine attire masked what was really a ruthless and very violent young girl. One evening she rang Tate and claimed that a customer named Rob, who he had sent, had slept with her but refused to pay the agreed fee. Not only that, but when Adele had threatened to call her boss, Rob had stolen her mobile phone. I found it hard to believe that a man Tate actually knew would do such a thing. It was more than likely that he had had some sort of dispute with Adele and the phone had been taken as a surety, but Tate was having none of it. Ten minutes after receiving Adele’s call Tate and I arrived at Rob’s front door. Tate rang the bell but before anybody had time to answer it he had demolished the door and was kicking Rob around the lounge.

  ‘The money. The phone. Pay me. Give it to me,’ Tate screamed as he attempted to put an impression of Rob’s head into the wooden floor.

  When we left with the mobile phone, the money Tate claimed was owed and a little extra we had taken for expenses, Rob was left lying motionless in the corner of the lounge with a 28-inch television set on his head. As I walked from Rob’s house back into the street, I practically bumped into a police officer who immediately recognised me.

  ‘What are you doing around here, Ellis?’ he asked. Before I could answer Tate strode into view and the policeman said, ‘Patrick Tate! I thought you were still in prison.’

  Images of Rob appearing at the window wearing his television set and calling for help raced through my mind. To humour the policeman, but more importantly to get him away from the vicinity of Rob’s house, Tate and I walked along the street chatting briefly with him. At the first opportunity we said goodbye to the officer and walked off down a side street where we waited until we were sure that the policeman had gone. We then made our way back to our vehicle.

  The following morning, I got into my car and drove towards my girlfriend’s house. As I reached the end of my street I noticed that a police vehicle had pulled out from a side street and appeared to be following me. I immediately rang Tate to warn him that the police may be going to stop me and, if I was correct, the flat could also be about to be raided. As I turned out of the road I lived in, the blue lights and siren on the police car began to flash and howl. Instead of pulling over I waved one hand to indicate to the policeman that I would stop my car further up the road. I had decided to drive to a gym and pull up in the car park where I knew there would be several witnesses to whatever occurred thereafter.

  When I eventually stepped out of the car, a police officer handcuffed me and informed that I was under arrest for wounding with intent, robbery and aggravated burglary. I made no reply and was taken to a police station where I found Tate occupying the bench in front of the desk where suspects are processed.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ Tate called out. ‘Say fuck all, Nipper, the best brief that money can buy is already on his way down here.’

  We both denied the allegations and were bailed to reappear at the police station in two weeks so that an identity parade could be arranged. The officer in charge of the case had wanted it to take place much sooner but finding several men of Tate’s size and stature at short notice proved to be impossible.

  That night we sent people to Rob’s house to talk to him about the health issues giving evidence against us would raise, but they were informed by neighbours that he was under police protection at a secret location. Undeterred, we decided to apprehend and educate Rob when he attended the identity parade. Two h
ours before we were due at the police station Tucker, who had insisted on involving himself, parked his car where he could see everybody that came and went. Tate parked his car near to the police car park entrance and I parked my vehicle adjacent to the exit. Confident that we would be able to trap Rob when he left the police station, Tate and I went inside to take part in what we thought would almost be a formality.

  Anybody who met Tate would remember him; he was certainly the biggest man I have ever seen in my life. It wasn’t so much his height, it was his sheer body mass. Without hesitation Rob identified Tate as the man who had assaulted him but he failed to pick me out of the line-up. I can only assume that Rob wasn’t able to focus after Tate’s first punch had landed. Even if he had, I am sure that the television set being wrapped around his head would have played havoc with his memory. When we left the police station, Tucker was waving manically and pointing to a vehicle that was exiting the car park. Realising that the driver was Rob, Tate and I ran to our vehicles and sped after him down the street. Soon we were hurtling along the A12 towards Colchester. Rob by this time was aware that we were following him. I could see his head turning around to look at us in an almost pecking motion and then back to navigate the road ahead. I tried to overtake him but he made a sharp left and disappeared up an exit slip road. Tucker and Tate managed to turn off and continued to pursue Rob into Colchester town centre.

  As Tucker and Tate were forced to slow down in the traffic several police cars boxed them in and ordered them from their vehicles. They both denied chasing anybody and said that they were visiting the town for lunch.

  ‘You know that we know the score, so get in your cars, turn around and disappear,’ one officer told them.

  That same week, Tate, Tucker and I were contacted by Rob’s brother-in-law, who asked us to meet him at a local gym. He explained that Rob was truly sorry for ringing the police but he had only done so because he thought that he was going to be killed. As for robbing Adele, it was total nonsense. They had agreed a fee for her services but later she had demanded more and snatched Rob’s money from his wallet. Rob had grabbed Adele’s mobile phone and simply said that she could have it back when the money that she had stolen had been returned.