Essex Boy

by Steve 'Nipper' Ellis; Bernard O'Mahoney

  I had never even heard of the town of Swanage in Dorset, but it turned out to be a place of outstanding beauty in more ways than one. I met Rhiannon while she was working as a part-time barmaid in a pub next door to where I lived. Her family were law-abiding God-fearing folk, who frowned upon the long-term unemployed, criminals and other types of social misfit. By day, Rhiannon studied at college, at night she worked for a pittance behind a bar and, when she wasn’t sleeping, she attended to her horses. I have no idea what she saw in me. Perhaps she was feeling charitable; perhaps I was a bit of an enigma, a welcome distraction from her Groundhog Day-type life. I had several reasons for wanting to be with her: she had her own flat, she had the means to serve me free meals at the pub and she looked pretty amazing. What more could a man who was out on his arse want? Within a few days I had moved out of my bedsit and into Rhiannon’s flat, which she shared with her dog, Bleep.

  Rhiannon rang me one morning to say that one of her horses was ill and would I give her a lift to the vet’s as she needed to pick up some medication? When we arrived, Rhiannon began giving an in-depth explanation of the animal’s condition to a woman at the counter, so I sat down in anticipation of a very long wait. As the pair rambled on about the joys of horse riding my eyes roamed the room and came to rest upon an open till stuffed with money. Unfortunately for the vet, there was no known cure for my craving for cash and so that night I returned to the premises and broke in through the roof. As I emptied the contents of the till into a bag, a girl walked into the room. We looked at each other momentarily before turning and running in opposite directions. I clambered through a window and she headed for the front door. Once outside, I fought my way through a hedge and thorn bushes before making good my escape across a field. Among the £1,500 in cash that I had stolen I found receipts, invoices and various other pieces of paper. I was going to put them out with the rubbish for the bin man to collect but I remembered that he had called earlier that very day. Not wanting to have any incriminating evidence at my home, I threw the bin liner containing the papers and my household rubbish into an empty builder’s skip that had been left in our road. Mid-way through EastEnders the following night my front door was kicked off its hinges by two very unhappy-looking police officers.

  ‘Get your shoes on, Ellis. You’re under arrest for burglary,’ they said.

  I was still on bail for the burglary at the garage and knew that, if charged with any other offence, the chances of me being returned to prison were extremely high. I decided that I would refuse to answer any questions during interview because the only evidence they could possibly have was from the girl who had caught just a fleeting glimpse of me. Even if she said that she could identify me, it would be her word against mine. My confidence boosted, I sat opposite the officers in the interview room with a broad grin on my face. However, my grin soon turned into a grimace as one of the officers produced an evidence bag that contained a bin liner.

  The spectres of Tate and Tucker and the threat that they posed had never left me. For insurance purposes only, I had broken a shotgun down into three sections, put them in bin liners and stored the pieces around my car battery. If the police had found the shotgun while searching my home and vehicle in connection with the burglary, I was going back to prison for a very long time.

  ‘Can you explain this, Ellis?’ the officer said holding the evidence bag aloft above his head.

  ‘It looks like a bin liner,’ I replied. My heart was in my mouth as he opened the evidence bag and tipped the contents onto the table.

  ‘Well done, Mr Ellis, correct answer,’ the officer said. ‘Can you now explain how your household rubbish came to contain paperwork that was stolen from a vet last night?’

  As the story unfolded I sank deeper and deeper into my seat. The man who had hired the builder’s skip was outraged that somebody had the audacity to throw a rubbish bag into it. So, after retrieving the offending bag, he had gone through the contents, found the vet’s paperwork and driven to the surgery. When he arrived, he had emptied the contents onto the reception desk and warned the vet about his future conduct. Anger soon turned to laughter as the irate skip owner discovered that he had not only snared a litter lout but he had also caught a burglar.

  I am not sure if I laughed with relief because the police hadn’t found the gun, or if I laughed at my own stupidity for putting the bin bag in the skip but laugh I did.

  ‘It’s a fair cop, hang me now,’ I said. I was, of course, only joking but when I later sought the advice of a solicitor she told me that the police had been concerned about comments I had made and my general demeanour.

  ‘What do you mean “concerned”?’ I asked.

  ‘They think you may have mental health issues. Apparently you were laughing when you found out that you had been caught red-handed and you also talked about wanting to be hanged,’ she replied.

  With a prison sentence looming, I needed some form of defence, so I decided to milk the situation. I told my solicitor that I had suffered some sort of mental breakdown following the campaign of attacks by Tate and Tucker.

  ‘I break into places so that I will get caught and sent to prison. It’s the only place I feel safe,’ I lied.

  I was sent for a mental assessment and all the experts concluded that I needed help rather than punishment, so when I appeared in court for the burglary at the vet’s I was given probation. I knew that I had used up all of the chances the courts were going to give me, so I made a concerted effort to go straight. There was still a chance that I might be charged and imprisoned for the garage burglary, but I knew that I had to stop offending, regardless. If I didn’t go to prison for that burglary, I knew that I would eventually be imprisoned for some other offence in the future.

  Apart from Malcolm teaching me how to break into other people’s premises, I had not received any form of specialist training and so my skills were, at best, limited. I could hardly make an honest living employing the only trade that I knew and so I began to look at alternative ideas. Bodybuilding had given me a fine physique and Tate had provided me with a fairly comprehensive knowledge of body-training techniques and fitness regimes and so I decided to apply for vacancies at local gymnasiums.

  When that failed, I paid £3,500 for a three-month course to become a qualified fitness instructor. Once I had successfully completed the course, I set up my own company, providing personal training for large businessmen and -women with equally large bank balances. The business was extremely successful, so much so I was forced to appoint a partner in order to cope with the demand. We hired out a gymnasium for evening classes and purchased two vehicles, which were used to make home visits. When a local newspaper published a story about our success, we were contacted by a production company that asked us to appear on a TV show. I was concerned that Tucker and Tate might see me on the programme and learn where I was living, so I declined the offer. My partner agreed and after appearing on the show and flexing his muscles he was contacted by a healthcare company in London who offered him a full-time and well-paid job in Harley Street, where some of the most prestigious medical practitioners in the world are based.

  I couldn’t blame him for accepting the job offer, but I did when he set up a rival company and took most of my clients from me. Within weeks the bills from the gymnasium had mounted, forcing me to fold the business. I had built up a fairly good credit rating with the banks and so, rather than lose the roof over my head as well as the business, I applied for numerous cheque books and credit cards. Armed with these cards, I would spend a day visiting chain stores along the south coast where I would purchase goods using my cheque books and cheque guarantee cards. The following day, I would visit the same name brand stores in different towns and claim cash refunds. Since I had the goods still boxed or unwrapped and a receipt, my request for a full cash refund was never denied.

  Like most criminals who stumble upon a good thing, I got greedy. Instead of taking back one item at a time I started walking up to counters buried ben
eath piles of boxes and bags. In Bournemouth, a member of the security staff became suspicious of me and called the police. As I attempted to walk out of the store two police officers blocked my path and advised me that I was under arrest for suspicion of theft. I was then taken to a police station where I was searched and my property taken from me. Among my personal effects the police found my car keys and a car park ticket. When they located and searched my car, they found that the boot and back seats were crammed with goods waiting to be returned to the shops for cash refunds.

  In total the police recovered £11,000 worth of goods and £3,000 in cash. I told the police that I had done no wrong; the cheque books and credit cards were in my name and I had every intention of paying the banks back. The goods were bought legally from the shops and had been returned simply because they were unwanted. I was interviewed and then bailed to reappear at the police station in 14 days, as the officers said that they wished to consult the Crown Prosecution Service regarding charging me. When I returned to the police station, I was told that all my accounts had been closed and the banks did not want to press charges and so I was free to go. I was naturally pleased to escape prosecution but I did think that the banks would pursue me for the debts. However, for reasons known only to themselves, not one of them bothered.

  As I stumbled from one problem to another, back in Essex Tate, Tucker and Rolfe continued to live as before, creating problem after problem for everybody that they encountered. Sarah Saunders had waited both patiently and faithfully when Tate had been imprisoned after his arrest in Gibraltar for the Happy Eater robbery. The prospect of ten years’ imprisonment had made Tate realise that he was not only going to forfeit his liberty but he might also lose the woman he loved. In an effort to salvage his relationship, Tate had promised Sarah that he would change his ways when he was released and begged her to give him a second chance. Against her better judgement, Sarah had eventually given in to Tate’s pleas and the relationship had staggered on, albeit via prison letters and monthly one-hour visits. After four years, Tate had been granted weekend leave and Sarah had fallen pregnant, an event that appeared to have galvanised their faltering relationship for a short time. However, Sarah confided in me some time later that deep down she knew that she didn’t want to be with Tate, but felt obliged to allow the relationship to run its course, if only for the sake of their then unborn child. When Tate first came to live with me, he had talked excitedly about his plans to start up a legitimate car business, buy a family home and, more importantly, give up drugs. I had believed Tate and tried to help him as I was genuinely pleased that he had found happiness, but Sarah knew him better than me and was under no illusion. She knew from past painful experience that his promises were more often than not just empty gestures.

  One of Sarah’s closest friends was a former neighbour named Pauline Squires. Her partner, Angus Fletcher, was an astute businessman who was always on the lookout for new ventures where he could invest his hard-earned cash. During general conversation when Tate was still in prison, Sarah had mentioned Tate’s plans to launch a car sales business and Angus had expressed an interest in meeting him when he was released. Angus said that if Tate produced a viable business plan he would be more than happy to make funds available so that the stock that would be needed could be purchased.

  When Tate was released, he met Angus at the Five Bells public house in Basildon to discuss the loan for his business. Tate explained that he had found vacant business premises opposite Westcliff-on-Sea police station, which he thought he could develop as a good place from which to sell cars. Bill Baxter, a friend of Tate’s, had offered to remain on-site selling vehicles, while Tate went in search of stock to sell. Angus said that it sounded straightforward enough and asked Tate how much money he would need. Tate initially asked for £20,000 but after two hours of negotiations he was offered just £5,000, with a promise that further funds would be made available if the business went well. The two men shook hands and agreed that Angus would be a partner in the business and receive a percentage of each vehicle sold.

  Within a month, the business flourished and Tate returned to the negotiating table to ask Angus to increase his investment. Tate explained that if he was able to purchase better-quality cars he could make higher profits on each sale. Angus agreed and, later that day, he handed over £10,000 in cash to Tate. Having honoured his promise to Sarah to set up a legitimate business, Tate began looking for a family home to purchase. The property that Tate eventually found was in need of renovation, so he telephoned a man named Mick Steele to look over it for him.

  Tate and Steele had met and become friends a few years earlier, while incarcerated at HMP Swaleside in Kent. The bond between the two men had been reinforced when they discovered that their partners were old friends. Sarah had once owned a horse, which she kept at Longwood riding stables in Basildon. These stables had been owned by Steele’s partner, Jackie Street. Sarah and Jackie had not seen each other for some time and so they were pleasantly surprised to meet by chance one afternoon in a prison visitors’ waiting room. The two women were even more surprised when they learned that their imprisoned partners had also become friends.

  After that initial meeting, Sarah and Jackie would travel to the prison together and go shopping once their visits were over. The couples became very close and when Steele was released, prior to Tate, both he and Jackie did all they could to support Sarah. Steele was an intelligent man, who had outwitted Custom and Excise officers for years by single-handedly flying large consignments of cannabis into the country. He was eventually caught quite by chance and sentenced to serve nine years’ imprisonment, during which time he met Tate.

  When Steele looked over the property that Tate wished to purchase, he found that there were a multitude of defects and concluded that his friend should look elsewhere. When Tate had found a vacant bungalow in Gordon Road, Basildon, he had been able to provide a substantial deposit but was unable to secure a mortgage. The deposit was in fact the £60,000 proceeds from the cannabis robbery that we had carried out together at the house in Kent. I find it rather ironic that the property I assisted him in purchasing is the very same one in which I tried to shoot him dead. Friendship is undoubtedly fickle.

  Prior to his incarceration Tate had always been able to earn large amounts of cash but all of his business ventures had been illegal, so he had no checkable credit history. Rather than risk losing the property to another buyer, Tate agreed to allow the mortgage to be solely in Sarah’s name. Having built up a business and secured a family home, Sarah could be forgiven for believing that Tate really was going to fulfil his promise and settle down. Unfortunately for Sarah, her son and the good people of Essex, Tate had met and become involved with Tony Tucker.

  After I attempted to murder Tate, I had telephoned Sarah to ask her what he had been saying about the incident and she had agreed to meet me at the Lakeside shopping centre near Tucker’s home. I didn’t fear meeting Sarah as we had always got on well and I knew that she would never betray me to her bullying boyfriend. Sarah told me that she didn’t blame me for shooting Tate. Since meeting Tucker, he had turned into a drug-crazed monster. He had pleaded with his brother Russell not to tell Sarah about his drug addiction and threatened others with death if they revealed his sordid secret. Inevitably, Sarah had found out and confronted Tate, who broke down, admitted he had a problem and asked her to help him.

  At first, she refused to have anything further to do with him but he begged and cried for her to give him another chance. Out of pity more than anything else, Sarah agreed. Together they visited a drug rehabilitation centre in Southend, where Tate spent an hour with a counsellor. At the end of the session, Sarah had asked Tate if he had found the advice helpful. Tate began laughing and said that it had been a waste of time; he had spent the session discussing how to take various drugs and the counsellor had actually been impressed by his knowledge. Sarah said that she then tried socialising with Tate to help him resist the temptation of using drugs, but
that too had been a fruitless exercise. Tucker and his minions were simply not the sort of people whose company she enjoyed. They would flaunt other females in front of their partners, openly take drugs and intimidate everybody else around them. Sarah told me, ‘It’s horrible, and it’s just not the type of behaviour Pat would previously have condoned. The drugs have ruined him. I really cannot believe that the man I first met is the same man who has trashed your home and attacked you after all you have done for him. He is vile, just vile.’

  I was not the only friend that Tate had turned on. Angus, his partner in the car sales business, had been complaining to Sarah that her boyfriend had become moody and temperamental and the repayments on his investment had ceased.

  ‘I am going to tell him that our relationship is over,’ Sarah had told me. ‘All he is bothered about these days is Tucker and drugs. I will probably have to leave the country because he will never let another man near me but I can’t continue living like this.’

  When Tate was safely back behind bars, following the discovery of a gun in his hospital bed, Sarah had plucked up the courage to tell him that she didn’t want anything more to do with him. His broken promises, mood swings, stories about intravenous drug use and infidelity with his harem of prostitutes had finally proved too much for her to take. Tate reluctantly accepted all Sarah had to say, but he had made her promise that she would not tell a soul that she had dumped him because he didn’t want his already bruised ego damaged further. Tate insisted that he would continue to provide for his son so long as she pretended to be with him and, when she agreed, he arranged for Tucker to continue paying his mortgage. Tucker happened to be holding £20,000 of Tate’s drug money for him while he was in prison and this was used to pay Sarah a weekly allowance.