Essex Boy

by Steve 'Nipper' Ellis; Bernard O'Mahoney

  The anger generated by the untimely death of Malcolm was not going unnoticed by Essex police. In an effort to calm the situation and reassure the Tretton family that they would be unharmed, the police agreed to install personal panic alarms in their home. These alarms, when activated, would have an armed police response unit racing to their location within minutes.

  In March 1999, 54-year-old Terry Watkins appeared before Chelmsford Crown Court charged with the murder of Malcolm Walsh. He pleaded ‘not guilty’, but after a two-week trial he was convicted of an alternative charge of manslaughter and sentenced to life imprisonment. Manslaughter generally attracts a lighter sentence than one of murder, but in Terry’s case the life sentence was imposed after the judge heard that he had been jailed in 1986 by the same court for two offences of wounding with intent. He had forced his way into an ex-girlfriend’s home and stabbed both her and her new partner.

  Unlike my reaction to the news concerning the demise of Tate, Tucker and Rolfe I had been devastated when I heard that Malcolm had been murdered. He had been a good friend to me. I didn’t attend his funeral; I was advised by members of his family that the police were looking for me for the robbery Malcolm and I had allegedly committed near the Lakeside shopping centre. When Essex police had pulled me in over the Rettendon murders, Dorset police had sent me a letter stating that they were not going to take any further action against me for the garage burglary. That was it. I thought that I was trouble free and I could get on with my life, but it was clearly not to be. I didn’t want to disrupt my friend’s funeral by having police officers haul me out of the church, so I agreed to stay away. I did go to Malcolm’s grave once all of the other mourners had left. My feelings as I stood over his grave are personal and I will not, therefore, commit them to paper. All I will say is that I am proud to have called Malcolm my friend.

  Three days after Malcolm died, my brother-in-law Steven lost his fight against cancer. Malcolm had been 50 per cent correct when he had said that Steven would outlive us both. Steven’s death was tragic. I don’t wish to appear disrespectful, but it was more so than Malcolm’s in my opinion because the guy never hurt or bothered anybody in his life, yet he was still taken in his prime. It’s hard to understand this life sometimes.

  Despite being happy living with Rhiannon on the south coast, Essex was never far from my thoughts and I often toyed with the idea of returning home. The gruesome threesome were dead and so I had no fear of reprisals for shooting Tate or for trying to murder Tucker and Rolfe. They thought they had friends but apart from Leach blowing hot air and talking about avenging their deaths, nobody but their families really gave a fuck about them. The only person I feared in Essex was myself; I knew that if I returned there I would get into trouble. Then again, I was hardly involved in missionary work on the south coast.

  I am not sure how I knew but one evening, while talking to my father on the phone, I just sensed that something was wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Dad?’ I asked. Laughing, my father dismissed my question as paranoia. ‘Don’t fuck about, Dad. I know something’s wrong,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I am going to be OK. The doctors have told me that I have cancer of the throat,’ my father replied.

  I put the phone down, kissed Rhiannon goodbye, packed my bag and immediately headed home to Essex.

  My father had recently moved into a new house and so initially there was plenty for me to get on with, such as decorating and unpacking boxes. But as the weeks and months passed and the workload eased, I found that I got under my father’s feet and inevitably we began to argue. Perhaps my father and I were subconsciously angry and upset about his condition, I really don’t know, but we rowed so often I thought it best that I move out. I didn’t go far. Malcolm’s widow, Bernadette, lived locally and she suggested that I move in with her. Not in the biblical sense, of course; I had been a close friend of Malcolm’s. Bernadette had lost him in unimaginable circumstances and my presence somehow brought her comfort.

  One night I was in Yates’ bar, in Southend, when I saw my ex-cell mate Tony walking down the stairs. Before he could cover his face and fade into the crowd I had jumped up from my seat and accosted him. I could sense that he was a little dubious about meeting me again; the scars of the mental torture I had inflicted upon him had clearly not healed.

  ‘I don’t mind having a beer with you, Nipper, but for fuck’s sake, behave,’ he pleaded.

  As the night wore on and the beer flowed, Tony relaxed and by the end of it he was laughing and suggesting that we go into partnership together.

  ‘Doing what?’ I enquired.

  ‘Pills, coke and weed. We can sell it by the shed load in this town,’ Tony replied.

  I must admit that I was not initially keen on the idea; I had witnessed first-hand the many downsides of the drug trade. Tate, Tucker and Rolfe’s involvement in drugs had led to them ending up as corpses on mortuary slabs long before their mothers could have ever imagined. I didn’t relish following suit, but surely I was not like them? Surely I could control the drugs instead of them controlling me? I told Tony that I would take up his offer but I wanted to keep it local, among friends. Unlike my predecessors, I did not suffer delusions of power and grandeur. If people could replicate the demand for drugs in any business, they would all be millionaires and retiring in their early 30s.

  I started selling a few pills to people that I knew and, before too long, my phone was on meltdown.

  ‘Sell me ten pills. No, better make that twenty just in case I don’t see you next week.’

  ‘I know you have got pills for sale, but can you get me any cocaine?’

  Like a house on fire our business blazed its way across Southend. People planning to go out for the evening were ringing me all day asking for drugs. Throughout the night, I was in bars and nightclubs meeting the demand of revellers. Then when the pubs and nightclubs closed, those who wanted to carry on partying were ringing me in the early hours of the morning, demanding drugs. I struggled to get any sleep and so I began snorting the odd line of cocaine in order to give me that little boost of energy that I thought I needed. Before I knew it, the substantial profit that I was making was being hoovered up my nose.

  I walked out of Bernadette’s house one day and Alvin happened to be leaving his brother’s home at the same time (Alvin’s brother lived next door). I said ‘hello’, but I could tell by the expression on his face that he was not interested in exchanging pleasantries.

  ‘What’s wrong? You look like somebody has given you the hump,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about people giving me the hump. They are going to fucking regret it tonight,’ Alvin replied as he marched past me.

  Alvin crossed the road to a car and began talking to the driver, a man named Dean Boshell, who I knew sold drugs on Alvin’s behalf. The pair were in deep conversation but when I walked within earshot they both stopped.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked Alvin.

  ‘It’s a year today since Malcolm was murdered and I’ve been told that the Trettons are having a party to celebrate. I intend to make sure that their party gets going with a bang,’ Alvin replied.

  I know that it is wrong to talk ill of people but I also know that it is pointless trying to paint a pretty picture if you’re not in possession of the necessary materials. Life was never kind to Dean Boshell, but then again I can’t recall him doing himself any favours. Boshell’s father was an alcoholic bully who beat his mother while he was still in her womb. Six hours after his birth, Boshell’s father, who was barely able to stand through drink, took him out into the street in a pushchair. It was a cold, foggy day and the infant became so distressed that a midwife had to be called because he had difficulty breathing. Boshell’s mother divorced her husband shortly afterwards and a restraining order was imposed by the court, which prevented him from having any contact with Mrs Boshell and her child.

  Nobody can say for certain why Boshell grew up to be the unscrupulous man th
at he was. Some say he misbehaved because he craved attention. Others think he had no love for anybody and so he didn’t care whom his actions hurt. What cannot be disputed is that Boshell had no morals; he was a man who stole from his own mother and brother and betrayed everybody that he met, without exception. By the time he had reached his 13th birthday his mother decided that she could not cope with his bad behaviour any more. Social Services were contacted and Boshell was placed in the care of the local authority. Boshell returned home after just two months, but his behaviour had deteriorated rather than improved, and he continued committing petty crime, which in the main involved the theft of motor vehicles.

  When Boshell upset a gang of local hoodlums, he told his mother that he was going to leave Basildon and start his life anew. By chance, a friend of Mrs Boshell’s had recently told her that he and his partner were moving to Leeds to run a pub. When Mrs Boshell mentioned the problems that her son was having, the couple agreed to let him move with them. They assured Mrs Boshell that they would teach her wayward son all there was to know about the pub trade if he worked for them in return. Two short weeks after moving to Leeds, Boshell was taken into protective custody by the child protection unit after his mother’s friend had tried to strangle him. The man and his partner had been arguing and, rather foolishly, Boshell had tried to intervene.

  Rather than return to Basildon to face the hoodlums who had been baying for his blood, Boshell informed Social Services that he wished to remain in West Yorkshire. A week later, Boshell was placed in a foster home. After leaving care, Boshell once more immersed himself in criminality, stealing cars, committing burglaries and any other unsavoury act that helped to line his pockets. Inevitably, he was caught and after accumulating 22 convictions for a variety of offences he was sentenced to 15 months’ imprisonment.

  After being released from this sentence, Boshell returned to Basildon to live with his mother. Understandably, she wanted to believe that her son had changed and welcomed him into her home. As soon as her back was turned, he stole and sold her brand-new stack-system stereo, which was still in the box. Despite his mother’s pleas Boshell refused to return the stereo and so she called the police. Boshell was charged and convicted of the theft and when he appeared at Basildon Crown Court for sentencing he was given a meagre financial penalty. A few months later, Boshell called at his mother’s home on the pretext of visiting her and stole a cheque from his brother’s cheque book. After forging his brother’s signature Boshell withdrew £400 from the account. When the theft came to light, Mrs Boshell confronted her son and a terrible argument ensued. Mrs Boshell shouted at her son for what he had done and uttered the last words that she was ever going to say to him, ‘Piss off, Dean. I want nothing more to do with you and, as far as I am concerned, you are not my son.’

  Prison became an occupational hazard rather than a punishment for Boshell. He had far more like-minded friends behind bars than he ever had out on the street. He thought of himself as a wide boy, a player and a bit of a gangster. He loved rap music and in particular the artist Eminem. Boshell would often talk to his associates using slang that he heard in songs. He thought that it made him appear cool. Everybody else thought that he sounded ridiculous.

  While serving one prison sentence at HMP Chelmsford Boshell found himself in a cell next door to Damon Alvin. Boshell was impressed with the confident, smooth-talking hard man that had become his neighbour. Alvin appeared to be everything that Boshell had dreamed of being one day. As soon as Alvin realised that Boshell admired and looked up to him, he decided to exploit him. At first, Alvin presented himself as an extremely friendly and helpful man; he would read and write letters for Boshell and supply him with any contraband that he required. Once Boshell was securely hooked, he asked Alvin if he could do anything for him in return and, within a few days, he was selling drugs on his hero’s behalf.

  Another resident at this establishment who befriended Boshell was 45-year-old Christopher Wheatley. He had been sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment after police had raided his flat and found 30 grammes of cocaine, 3 grammes of amphetamine, 357 Ecstasy pills and £950 in cash. A further 170 grammes of cocaine were discovered hidden under the seat of his car. The drugs had an estimated street value of between £10,000 and £17,000. Wheatley’s solicitor told the court that he had become addicted to drugs after losing his job as a doorman. Five years earlier, Wheatley had been a prominent member of Tony Tucker’s Essex Boys firm. When a more ‘useful’ individual, named Patrick Tate, was released from prison in 1993, Tucker disposed of Wheatley and replaced him with Tate.

  The drugs that Wheatley had once sold with ease and relative safety, through his job as head bouncer at one of Tucker’s clubs in Southend, suddenly became a commodity he could only offload at great risk. A steady stream of punters knocking on Wheatley’s door soon came to the attention of the police and, after a short period of surveillance, they raided his home and caught him red-handed. While in prison, Wheatley continued to deal in drugs and one of the men he employed to distribute them was Dean Boshell. An unlikely friendship developed between the two and Wheatley, a competent and powerful athlete, introduced Boshell to the world of bodybuilding, supplements and steroids.

  With his ever-expanding frame and ego, coupled with his new gangster friends, Wheatley and Alvin, Boshell really believed that he had finally fulfilled his dream and become one of the big boys. He told fellow inmates that when he was released he was going to set up a drug-dealing empire and live lavishly off his ill-gotten gains. When the duo were released from prison, Alvin and his new sidekick Boshell immersed themselves in a criminal partnership. Everywhere that Alvin went, Boshell would either be at his side or not too far behind. In the pubs and clubs around Southend, Alvin introduced Boshell as his mate but Boshell would tell people that they were, in fact, brothers. It was Alvin who introduced Ricky Percival to Boshell around this time.

  Percival told me that he thought Boshell was a ponce who couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers, that he would never buy a drink and that he would not hesitate to sleep with any female so long as she had a purse and a pulse.

  Apart from seeing each other occasionally in our local pub, the Woodcutters Arms, there was no other contact between Boshell and Percival during this period, and nobody has ever come forward to dispute that fact.

  As the first anniversary of Malcolm Walsh’s killing had drawn near, the raw emotion that we all felt and the threats against the Tretton brothers and their family intensified. Two weeks before the anniversary of Malcolm’s death, Percival and a few friends had gone on holiday to Cyprus. Dealing with the death of a friend as a teenager is difficult enough, but when that friend has been murdered the entire grieving process is intensified tenfold. Percival had added to his own burden by doing all that he could to help and comfort Malcolm’s brother and three sisters. Pamela Walsh had taken Malcolm’s death particularly hard, so much so she had been prescribed antidepressants by her GP. Her weight plummeted and her general health became a concern for all those that knew her. Percival had begun visiting Pamela regularly in the hope that he could help her come to terms with her loss. Before he departed for Cyprus, he made a promise to visit Pamela as soon as he returned.

  While Percival was enjoying his much-deserved break, a man who I shall call Gary Baron arrived at Alvin’s home and said that he was looking for Dean Boshell.

  Describing the incident several years after the event, Alvin said, ‘He asked me if he could leave something with me to give to Boshell. I asked him what it was and he answered by opening the boot of his car. I looked in and saw a shotgun wrapped in a jumper. I opened up the boot of my car, he picked up the shotgun and put it in my vehicle. I said to him that I would give it to Boshell when I saw him. Because of all the threats that had been made about attacking the Trettons, I knew what it was going to be used for. Two hours later, Boshell turned up at my house and I told him that Gary Baron had left something in the boot of my car for him. Boshell took my keys, went ou
tside, transferred the shotgun from my car to his and drove home. Five minutes later he reappeared and gave me back my keys.’

  On the anniversary of Malcolm Walsh’s death, Alvin and Boshell were in the Woodcutters Arms in Leigh-on-Sea. Ricky Percival was also present and telling the bar staff about the holiday in Cyprus from which he had just returned. Alvin and Percival didn’t speak that night because Alvin appeared to be preoccupied with ‘a problem’ that he did not wish to discuss. He was drinking heavily and most people in the pub just thought that he was drowning his sorrows thinking about Malcolm.

  At closing time, Alvin and Boshell left the pub and got into a stolen white Vauxhall and drove to a park on the opposite side of which stood the Trettons’ family home. After sitting in the car talking for approximately twenty minutes, the two men got out of the vehicle and walked across the park. Both were wearing balaclavas and were armed with shotguns. As they crept up to the Tretton home there was little sign of life but they noticed that a neighbour and close family friend was having a party. Alvin walked to the rear of the neighbour’s property to see if he could see who was in the lounge. Peering through the window he saw members of the Tretton family were present and so he went back to the front of the house to inform Boshell.

  ‘Are there any kids in the house?’ Boshell asked.

  Alvin, who knew the family, replied, ‘There are, but it’s late and they will be in bed, so don’t worry about it.’

  Alvin was standing motionless outside the premises and Boshell asked him what he intended doing. Alvin replied that he was waiting for the people to leave. Getting agitated, Alvin began walking from the front of the house to the back trying to see through the windows to establish who was where and doing what. As he did this, he put his shotgun down by a white picket fence. Somebody must have walked into the kitchen because suddenly the light came on. The open kitchen door amplified the sound of music and muffled the voices that were coming from the lounge inside the house. Alvin told Boshell that he thought that it was pretty lively inside. Cold and tired, Boshell had told Alvin that it was late, he had been waiting for ages, nothing was happening, so he was going home.