He was, however, convicted for witness intimidation, which might give some insight into the low conviction rate for murder. Was this simply bravado to show off to the media? Well, not according to the off-duty police officers and other gangsters I spoke to in Manchester and beyond.
Desi continued wise-cracking jokes and making implicit threats. He may have been high; I don’t know. With a Noonan, you never knew. They are fast-witted and clever enough to know how to keep you on the edge, if that’s where they want you.
Out of the blue, the brothers started talking a strange language. Was it a dialect or a patois? No, this was a special language that the Noonans had constructed and crafted over the years to avoid the attentions of covert Police recordings and to allow them to speak on the phone in safety. I asked for a translation and was told, in no uncertain terms, where to go.
A couple of weeks later, I met Desi again. The mood was darker this time, and the conversation was more prophetic.
‘I’m a Catholic: I don’t believe in a life for a life, I don’t believe in taking life,’ Desi told me with a wicked grin. He sipped his pint of Becks. His son was slouching on a nearby chair in the lobby of a Manchester hotel. I had wanted to meet in public this time: it felt safer and the situation would be more manageable.
I suggested that he was lucky to have got off so many charges.
‘It’s not that we have luck – it’s just that the jury believes we are innocent people and, you know.’ I had a fair idea.
‘Would anyone ever take out a Noonan in Manchester?’ I asked him.
‘I hope so and I hope it’s me. I’m fucking fed up, fed up of life. No money, not got a pot to piss in. Shitty car, marriage, kids, mortgage – fed up. If there’s anyone thinking of taking the Noonans out, can you take me first, please? But please do it as quickly as possible. In fact, I’ll even come to you if I have to. Just give me a phone call, I’ll meet you anywhere you want, make sure it’s round the back of here and it’s fucking clean,’ Desi said, pointing to the back of his head.
Dominic looked on laughing and encouraging, as he had done for 40 years. His brother was wise-cracking again but it was hard to separate this from his serious side. He was heavily into crack cocaine at this point according to reports, but still active. He had recently stolen a £300,000 load of cigarettes from another gangster family and had been given a warning that his life would be in danger if it happened again.
‘Don’t let me linger, for fuck’s sake,’ Desi cointinued, ‘I am a whinging bastard. Please make me the first. But in the meantime, if you want to take Dominic first, you can have him! You can’t take out the Noonans: we’ve not done anything to be took out. No one wants to hurt us at the end of the day. And if they did, by God, there’d be some fireworks. I’ve got a bigger army than the Police; we’ve got more guns than the Police. I’m down for 25 murders! Well, load of bollocks, innit?’
I asked him how many he had killed and he indicated 27. I ran the figure past some of the main heads in Manchester and it seemed to be a realistic figure.
Less than eight weeks later, a drug dealer who he had fallen out with killed Desi Noonan. The man who lived by the sword died appropriately. ITN reported:
Medics were called to Merseybank Avenue in Chorlton, where they found Desmond Noonan with two stab wounds to his abdomen. [He was] stabbed in the stomach near his home in Chorlton just days before he was due to appear on a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Tonight, Police said there would be large numbers of extra patrols around the Chorlton area over the next few days, to reassure members of the community.
I was on the scene within hours. I met up with Dominic and he drove us to Chorlton. Very soon, he knew who had done it. He didn’t tell me who it was, but he had initiated the manhunt already. The Police had pulled him aside and warned him, but Dominic was not to be advised. There was revenge in the air. Later, outside a fish and chip shop across the road from the mortuary, while his crew ate their fill, he was keen to let it be known that he wanted the worst for his brother’s killer.
‘If someone whacks him, they whack him [the killer]. Got fuck all to do with me. But good luck to them. The amount of people that have come up and told me how much they want to kill him.’
‘You don’t think there’s been enough killing?’
‘It’s only just begun, it’s only just begun.’
I did not want to be caught up in what was about to happen and went back to London. I returned for the funeral and heard threats issued from the altar by a close friend of the family. The threats were clearly directed at the man suspected of killing Desi. The 5,000-strong funeral procession closed roads and schools. There were more than a few raised eyebrows among those assembled when the priest delivered the Catholic funeral rite:
God of holiness and power, accept our prayers on behalf of your servant Desmond. Do not count his deeds against him, for in his heart he desired to do your will. And may almighty God bless you, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Just a couple of months later, Dominic was arrested in possession of a gun and was remanded in custody. The Noonans’ chaotic world was falling apart. Death, murder, jail and rape had been part of their everyday lives: it was bound to unravel eventually. I was glad that my time in this community was coming to an end, as I felt sure the Police wagons were circling around Dominic. Whatever happened I was at least sure of two things: He would wind up in jail and he would protest his innocence.
In the event he was convicted of gun possession and sentenced to 16 ½ years. With remission, concurrent sentences and time already served, he would serve just five.
* * * * *
That was five years ago. I remained in contact with Dominic while he was in Frankland, the UK’s most secure prison, but he was not allowed by the authorities to see me. As he prepared for his release, his claims that his conviction was on the back of a Police set-up continued, and he was still hoping for a retrial. As ever, he protested his innocence, despite admissions of guilt from two of his junior street soldiers who were co-accused.
In February 2010 Noonan was released on the most stringent licence of any newly-released prisoner in the UK, terrorists included. He has to live in a bail hostel, report in every hour, and is not allowed to phone any number, board any bus or car without first informing the authorities. In addition, he was placed on a 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. curfew. But on a brighter note, he told me recently that he had finally found love.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘It’s a she. I’m now bi,’ he told me enthusiastically. ‘We’re in love. Her name is Danielle; she’s gorgeous. We are committed Christians and we are going to get married.’
I’ve kept up with Bugsy, too. He is now 16 and has been to my house to stay and has played with my children. By and large, he hasd stayed clear of the law until recently. But, just as Dominic was released, Bugsy was arrested with 56 rocks of crack cocaine. He was later released without charge but, like his dad, was placed on a 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. curfew by the courts.
Out of all the chaos of the Noonans’ world, a sad predictability has emerged. It is extraordinary how their roles are being played out as if they’ve been mapped for every grid reference and rite of passage. By contrast, out of my comparatively stable upbringing has come a life of unpredictable chaos and flux.
The sadness for me is that the children of that world are living lives foretold. Yet despite the sense of inevitibility that hangs over the Noonans, I’m still hoping that young Bugsy will break the mould.
5
DIET TILL YOU DROP
I have often been accused of being a touch crazy. While there may be some truth in the accusation, I’ve always protested that I am relatively sane for what I’ve been through. That is why I am a little reluctant to tell the following story. I feel that it might sway the floating voters and leave me stranded somewhere padded for my own safety.
We were undercover in Moscow investigating the dangers facing foreign businessmen in the ci
ty. Over 500 businessmen had been killed in recent years, victims of bribery and corruption. In many ways this was a city on trial. Here the underworld figures have their fingers in many pies, from oil to casinos. My investigation examining this unorthodox business culture wouldn’t change the world one jot, but it would change me in one very dramatic way.
In Russia it was nearly impossible to conduct investigative journalism. The culture of surveillance in this society meant that people were very careful about what they said, and were often so fearful about who was listening that they would say nothing at all. This was a world of incredible violence, where life was cheap no matter how much money was sloshing around. Working in such an environment was stressful and the number of issues that we were trying overcome meant that the team often ended up in conflict.
I was going to a strip club to meet a source on the story, who we hoped would be able to give us the breakthrough we needed to crack the investigation. I walked up to the entrance laden with secret recording kit, and there in front of me stood armed guards and an airport-style security scanner. I was doomed. I didn’t stand a chance of getting past the burly bouncers and the scanner.
Here was the sticky situation: arriving at a strip club in Moscow armed with covert recording gear can result in a swift one-way trip to the bottom of the Volga, no questions asked, no excuses given.
It was all my own fault. Earlier that day, I had argued that I should go in with my covert camera kit, while Paul, my producer, had suggested I take the safe option and go in clean, to get the lie of the land and consider my options. I was bull-headed and refused to take his wise counsel. I imposed my own will on the situation and naturally it was all going to go horribly wrong. There are some things I can talk myself out of, but a full-body scanner is not one of them.
So here I am, facing the scanner and a couple of Russian heavies who look like they could break my arm between two fingers. ‘Where are my fags?’ I think. I don’t smoke, but in undercover operations, cigarettes can be more useful than an Uzi. They are great for sharing, to break the ice and open conversations or to gain trust.
I take all the time in the world to take out my packet of Marlboro. Every move I make is deliberate and slow: in this world it has the appearance of cool. Of course my head is doing ninety speculating on what is going to happen when these ex-KGB goons find out that I have been secretly recording their friends for the last week.
‘Now, who can I share my fags with?’ I ask myself, slowing down, trying to appraise myself of the situation. ‘Who can I give one to, to buy time? Who can I distract while I figure out what to do?’
I feel that this might be a good time to fake an insulin incident. At times when you fear that your cover is about to be blown, pretending to be a diabetic can be very useful. In the past it has allowed me to buy time, escape via the toilet, arrange an emergency trip to the ‘doctor’ or just to get a private moment to consider my options. So, out comes my kit: I have a little insulin pack that I always carry with me. Of course I am never going to use it but it is my lifesaver, nonetheless.
But first of all, who do I give the cigarette to? I always try to strike up a rapport with doormen and cloakroom attendants. They are the ones who are most grateful and who have their eyes open to odd behaviour. Let’s face it, a foreign bloke with a full filming kit under his jacket can appear a bit odd.
So, time to buy some credits. In front of me are two blacksuited crew cuts with square jaws and iron fists, which looked to be permanently clenched. I pick out the one with the warmest eyes. This is a tense moment, as I could be wrong and may simply compound his suspicions. I nod towards the door and tell him about my diabetic predicament. He nods back and takes me to a quiet place where I can inject myself. He’s glad of the chance to have a cigarette break and takes out his lighter as he takes me aside. He lights my cigarette and then his own before pointing me to a private toilet. We smoke and chat about football a little, before I flush my covert kit down the toilet. Better hundreds of pounds’ worth of equipment at the bottom of the Volga than my dead body! My new friend then escorts me back to the queue and I am able to pass through the scanners without problem.
I was out of danger but I was still keen to defend my rash decision. Now Paul was always the guiding tactician on the team and if I am to admit it (and it kills me), he was the strategic brains behind this operation. He pulled my strings and I moved. The puppeteer was in charge and sometime the puppet – me – didn’t like it.
Back at base that evening, I lashed out at Paul over tactics. Really, it was probably more about leadership of the pack than anything else. Notionally, I was in charge, but Paul was really the boss. I was in the infantry and he was the general directing operations.
Well, that evening there was a row in the ranks. We had a right ding-dong about the rights and wrongs of undercover strategy. I was angry and emotional and, as usual, Paul was cool and collected. Clearly, my working hours were getting the better of me. Just a couple of weeks earlier, I was so tired that I had walked into a glass door. That was in Italy, and since then I had been to Paris, London, and now Moscow. Lack of sleep was affecting my judgment.
The argument left things simmering and unresolved, so over a few drinks that night we stumbled upon a solution. Be wary of the solutions you come up with after a ‘few’ drinks! In great male tradition we decided that the matter would be settled with a competition. A drinking competition? A contest that would show off our sporting prowess? A duel, perhaps? Well, no, not exactly. It just so happened that both Paul and I needed to lose weight. He was two stone over his ideal weight of 14 st 7 lb, and I was about two stone over my fighting weight of 13 st. Obviously, a ‘diet-off’ was the only contest that made sense! I can’t remember where the idea came from, so let’s just blame the vodka.
The plan was this: upon our return to BBC White City on the following Monday, we would reconvene at the gym and have a weigh-in. We would also be filmed and measured, and two weeks later we would be weighed, filmed and measured again. The man who had lost the most weight would be declared the winner. It wasn’t entirely clear what the argument was about any more. In fact the entire point of the argument was now irrelevant as we got caught up in the prospect of this testosterone-fuelled competition. It was an idiotic response to a work dispute, but boys will be boys.
And so, on the Monday morning, weighing 14 st 13 lb, I strolled out for a five-miler. I was confident that a few runs around the park, a modest reduction of calories and a ban on alcohol would do the trick. But by Friday, Paul was reportedly down nine pounds and I was down just four. This was not looking good.
On Saturday I stepped up the intensity of my running and went to the gym for a full-on work out. On Sunday I went canoeing and running. I cut my calorie intake down to about a thousand per day, just over a third of the normal recommended intake. I was living on salad for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with the odd Oxo cube thrown in for flavour. Bearing in mind that I was exercising three times more than normal, I was effectively surviving on food fumes. It was purgatory. Physically, I was weak but I thought that it at least couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong of course. By Monday I was nine pounds down with a week to go.
But word from Paul’s camp was that he had lost a stone. ‘I cannot lose this competition,’ I kept repeating to myself. For some reason what had started out as a row over tactics had developed into a ludicrous alpha-male competition for Silverback dominance. My state of mind did not allow any leeway: I had to win. God bless my silly, febrile brain. It seemed so important at the time.
I decided to try the black art of propaganda. If I could lull Paul into a false sense of confidence, perhaps he would ease off a little and I could catch up with him. I decided to try to put him off by suggesting that we should back off a little for the sake of our health.
‘Ah Paul,’ I said. ‘Listen, you’re going great and I am going great. You’re losing weight and I’m losing weight. Let’s not get silly! I don’t care who wins; we all win
if we lose weight.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I think I’d rather win all the same,’ he replied, flatly.
He wasn’t falling for it. I phoned him again but his buddy, Mike, picked up and said: ‘He’s not here mate; he’s gone for a ten mile run.’
‘Jesus, I’m a gonner.’ I said to myself.
This was not a just a battle to lose weight, it was turning into a game of bluff and counter-bluff between two covert undercover operatives who should know a thing or two about this type of black magic. I chose to believe the stories I was being told, but then I had also chosen to believe that I could survive on lettuce and Oxo cubes. Yes, there was always a suggestion that I was being lied to, but I couldn’t take that risk. My pride was at stake, and I desperately needed to win the argument, even if I had forgotten what it was about.
It was time to redouble my efforts and half my intake of calories. I didn’t realise it at the time, but my levels of madness appeared to be directly related to the number of calories I was consuming, so this was perhaps not the best move. At this stage I was training two hours a day on 500 calories, and I was still losing to Paul. There was little more I could do without amputating a limb. And I even considered that!
The following Monday morning, the morning of the weighin, I was so weak that I couldn’t drive. I called a taxi to take me to the BBC and arrived there at 8 a.m. for the 9 a.m. weighin.
In order to gain every advantage, I cut holes in a vest to keep my weight down and also wore an unseemly, threadbare pair of boxers to further increase my chances. I was still convinced that I was going to lose. I sat down alone in the gym, feeling that there was no more I could do. Win or lose, I had done my best. I had not weighed myself after the first week because I didn’t want to demoralise myself, so the weigh-in would be as much a surprise to me as anyone else.
Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me Page 7
