by Howard Marks
‘Howard, what do you think about the talking wall by here?’ a fellow drinker enquired. ‘Bloody amazing, really, when you think about it.’
‘What talking wall?’ I asked.
‘The one upstairs by here, mun,’ he emphasised. ‘You know, it’s in what used to be the old council room. On some nights the wall starts talking in very old Welsh. They’ve had the professors from the University here loads of times. Hard to explain, mind, isn’t it? Walls talking, like, you know.’
‘Were the lads who heard it drunk?’ I asked.
‘Oh aye, but no more than normal, like.’
Sure enough, there was a talking wall upstairs. Drunk and sober people from all sorts of different places had made a special journey to Kenfig to hear it. Various audio experts from the BBC had recorded and analysed the wall’s spooky emissions. Welsh-language experts from the University of Wales had identified masses of medieval Welsh vocabulary whispering away in nooks and crannies. Specialists in solid-state physics and integrated-circuit theory suggested complicated theories to explain the phenomena. I couldn’t find out much more. I kept being told it was ‘something to do with the silicon in the sand’. The wall still hasn’t talked to me, but I’ve yet to give it a proper opportunity.
Judy, the two girls, and I also spent a few days in Upper Cwm Twrch at my father’s smallholding, stuck in the middle of nowhere with a view of everywhere. An almost completely overgrown path meandered from the dwelling, through the Black Mountains, to an otherwise inaccessible lake, Llyn Fan. Many Welshmen (including all the locals) believe this lake to be the one featured in Arthurian legend. It certainly looks the part. Sheer cliffs form the banks. There are no fish. There are no waves, even when the wind is blowing. Weird and large birds hover over it.
The weather was unusually sunny, and we took many walks, picking berries and mushrooms. The surrounding area was littered with everything from ruined Roman castles to disused coal mines. The native sheep were friendly. Some even belonged to us and had large M’s branded on their sides. Most of the sheep-shit trails ended in little pubs that served delicious beer and enormous portions of disgusting deep-frozen food. I’d brought my own hashish, and some of the mushrooms had psychedelic properties. Life was good, but the money stash was dwindling. And Ernie hadn’t got in touch.
Back in Brighton there were messages to call Bernie Simons, my solicitor. Since my release, a number of authors had contacted him expressing an interest in writing my biography with my co-operation. They included Piers Paul Reid, author of Alive and the latest book on the great train robbers. Bernie said there could be good money involved, but I would have to be careful. There could be legal complications.
The Inland Revenue had also been in touch with Bernie. I hadn’t paid any tax since 1973. The Revenue said I’d made lots of money from dope, whatever the Old Bailey jury thought, and they wanted their cut. Bernie said I needed an excellent accountant, both to sort out my taxes and to ensure me a proper income from any book written about me.
I kept wondering about the thirty thousand pounds Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise had seized from the Hans Court flat when I was arrested. I had ‘proved’ that the money had been given me by the Mexican Secret Service.
‘Bernie, can’t we sue the Customs for that thirty grand they nicked?’
‘Howard, you were astonishingly lucky to get acquitted. This would be pushing your luck a bit, don’t you think?’
‘But, Bernie, not suing them would be like admitting it was dope money. An innocent person would do exactly as I suggest.’
‘Are you instructing me to sue them?’ asked Bernie.
‘Yes. Yes.’
Bernie initiated proceedings for the return of the money. The Customs went berserk. They assured Bernie I’d never get a single penny, even if I won the court case. Bernie’s reluctance disappeared. We’d go for them. We’d get them.
Bernie took me to meet Stanley Rosenthal, a brilliantly astute accountant working in a nondescript office off Marble Arch. He suggested that a company be formed to receive money from publishers of any book about me. It was called Stepside Limited. Stanley said he would inform the Inland Revenue he was representing me. I told him about suing Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. He laughed.
The Revenue called a meeting for June 30th, 1982. I turned up at the Inland Revenue’s Special Office (A10) with Stanley and Bernie. We were greeted by an extremely amiable Welshman named Price and an English prick named Spencer. When Bernie introduced himself, Spencer said that solicitors were worth respect only when their clients pleaded guilty. This was a bad start. We should have walked out. Price and Spencer questioned me. My lines were easy: I had no money. I’d never made a single penny out of cannabis dealing. I tried to once in 1973, but the load was busted, and I got a conviction. Any evidence of my ever having money was either due to the kindness of other people giving me loans or to large advances from the Mexican Secret Services. Price and Spencer didn’t believe it. Despite my being cleared by the highest court in the land of any cannabis dealing, they felt I’d made some income over the last nine years. They’d be in touch.
To ensure against arrest, Old John had spent the last couple of years in Kathmandu. We wanted to see each other for old times’ sake and celebrate August 13th, my birthday and that of Old John’s lady, Liz. Appleton had extended my passport for another two months, so with our wives and children we met in Lyons, a good place for Leos. It didn’t take long to adjust to hotel room service and French restaurants. We went to the Beaujolais vineyards and drank a lot of Fleurie.
‘The thing is, what we should do, is bring this in and forget all the other kinds of madness, for now.’
Old John was still a little obscure, but he clearly wanted us to become wine merchants and importers, at least until things cooled off.
‘That’s not a bad idea, John. We could both put in a bit of money, re-rent the top floor of Carlisle Street and use it as our central office. But we don’t know much about wine.’
‘Yeah, but there’s the Mad Major, isn’t there?’ said Old John. ‘We sold him a stove, and the thing is, we then saw him in Greece. A complete lunatic, but the man is a total gentleman. Knows everything about wine.’
The Mad Major, whom I’d yet to meet, was Major Michael Pocock, a military alcoholic who had spent some years in the past exporting wine from France to England.
‘Okay, John, let’s do it. Judy will be pleased to see me doing something straight.’
Judy, the children, and I went back to England via Ticino, Switzerland. We wanted to see Campione d’Italia while it was still summer, relive some good times, enjoy the views, and eat in the Taverna. During our first evening we were given a warm welcome by our ex-neighbours, bar-keepers, and restaurateurs, who seemed not to know of my recent incarceration. Aware that, unlike last time here, we didn’t have unlimited money, we checked into a modest hotel just outside Lugano. The next morning, we took a lakeside stroll and sat down in a café in Piazza Reforma, the main square. Every building there is either a bank or a café. We were sipping cappuccinos and watching the children play when Judy suddenly sat bolt upright, caught hold of my arm, and pointed towards the Union Bank of Switzerland.
‘Howard, I’m sure I opened an account there. I think it was quite a bit of money you gave me to put in.’
It was possible, I suppose. Money was a bit like snow in Switzerland. It came in avalanches, and I often lost track of it. It was, after all, over two years ago, and there’d been some water under the bridge.
‘Was it a lot?’ I asked.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Is the account in your name?’
‘I think so.’
I watched Judy disappear into the bank. She was there a long time. I began to worry. She’d probably opened the account with her Mrs Tunnicliffe passport and forgotten. Maybe she was being grilled by the police. After half an hour, she emerged with an extremely broad smile.
‘Over twenty thousand pounds.�
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We checked out of the Ticinese doss-house and into Lugano’s Hotel Splendide. The mini-bar was emptied in about twenty minutes. Room service brought up several bottles of champagne. We got roaring drunk and had our first furious quarrel since my release. The next day, neither of us could remember what it was about.
On our return to England, feeling considerably richer and furiously scratching my head to think of any more banks that might be holding my money, I re-took possession of 18, Carlisle Street, that small part of Soho that the prosecution had alleged I used as my dope-dealing headquarters. The electricity bills were still in the name of Mr Nice. I met Old John’s Mad Major. He was a pleasant man, and knew his wine. He would do as our connoisseur, but it was a pity he drank so much.
The Soho Square area had a few secretarial/business services. I had spent a fortune on them in the past, each new identity requiring an address, a phone number, and headed notepaper. Now I was trading as myself, perhaps I should open my own business service and charge other people for taking telephone messages, making photocopies, and holding mail. It might even make money as well as being a good front. It wouldn’t be my package that arrived from Karachi, it would belong to one of my clients. I could start with just one secretary. I found one called Kathy.
I went to see Stanley Rosenthal again. Two more companies were formed: Moontape (trading as West End Secretarial Services) for the business service and Drinkbridge for the wine importation. Each would operate from 18, Carlisle Street, Soho.
Piers Paul Reid backed out of writing my biography. He’d been ruthlessly conned by the train robbers into writing a load of bullshit and had now read enough about me to feel fearful of a similar embarrassment. Bernie suggested David Leigh, the head of the Observer’s investigative team and author of books on government secrecy and high-profile trials. He had his own literary agent, Hilary Rubinstein, who could get the best advance. In fact, he managed to obtain only fifteen thousand pounds (less than Judy had found in her Swiss bank account). It was from Heinemann, and was to be split between me and David. But I’d agreed. It looked like fun. The money was super-straight, so I would be able to spend it quite openly. There’d be lots I couldn’t tell David, of course, like Ernie’s involvement in the Colombian scam, but I’d deal with that later. I could always be creative.
David and I went up to Scotland, where I showed him the offloading and storage points in Kerera, Conaglen, and Oban. We visited the falcons in Pytchley. He needed somewhere quiet to interview me and write. I took him to the smallholding in Upper Cwm Twrch and, after a couple of days, left him there. I phoned him a few times. He was spending most days collecting colourful fungi. He could have written The Observer’s Book of Mushrooms. It would have been better for both of us if he had.
The hearing for our attempt to retrieve the thirty thousand pounds held by Customs took place at the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand in the autumn of 1982 before Master Bickstall-Smith. Both parties to the dispute were represented by the same legal counsel that had appeared at the 1981 Old Bailey trial. A bit of a re-run. The Crown’s QC maintained that despite my acquittal, the money resulted from some kind of dope-dealing. I was a notorious drug smuggler and had made no money in any other way. The good Master would have none of it. He summed up with an extraordinary speech: ‘Mr Marks might be the biggest smug druggler [sic] in the world, but money is money, and we have to stop somewhere. He has been acquitted. The money is his. But before I finish, I want to say a few words about kif. Last summer, my wife and I went to Morocco, to the Kasbah and the Rif. We were driving through the kif plantations when we came across a man sitting in the road blocking our course. My wife told him in no uncertain terms to move. She threatened him with our gun. Do you know he just stayed there! He wouldn’t budge. He was stoned. That’s how strong that stuff is. Well, good luck, Mr Marks. The money is yours.’
Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise appealed against the decision, threatening to take it to the House of Lords if necessary. Eventually, HM Customs relented and agreed the money was mine but they would pay only on the understanding that the money be used to clear my debt to the Inland Revenue. They would not pay me directly. I wasn’t going to get a cheque signed by HM Customs payable to me. But I regarded the decision as some kind of victory.
Ernie still hadn’t been in touch since my release. Then Patrick Lane, who had been financially cared for by Ernie since my 1980 arrest, telephoned me saying that Ernie wanted to meet me in Vancouver. Would I go over? My passport had now been extended for a full year. Of course I would go to Vancouver. I checked into the Seaporter, the same hotel where I’d re-met Jim McCann six years ago. I lay on the bed and waited for Ernie to call. The phone rang. It was Patrick calling from the lobby. He came to the room. It was great to see him. He was already drunk, and I soon joined him in alcoholic reverie.
‘How’s Ernie?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing,’ replied Patrick, ‘but he’s become a hopeless junkie.’
‘What! That’s impossible! Ernie taking smack!’
‘It’s not smack, Howard, it’s Demerol, but it’s just as bad. He’s going to phone here. You’ll see what I mean.’
Ernie did phone. He was rather incoherent, but from what I could understand, he had been advised by Tom Sunde that it was too dangerous for him to travel to meet me. Things would quieten down, and he would see me then. I was disappointed.
‘What’s Tom Sunde doing these days?’ I asked Patrick. ‘Is he still at Ernie’s beck and call?’
‘Far from it. He’s now a full-time CIA agent.’
This was incredible. Ernie a junkie and Tom a government spook.
‘But how?’ I asked, finding this very hard to take. ‘I mean, is Tom working for the opposition, or does Ernie have all kinds of spooks on his payroll?’
‘I really can’t say any more,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m sworn to secrecy. Don’t forget, Tom might have been responsible for your acquittal. You’ll find out everything in due course, I’m sure. The only thing to remember now is not to trust Tom or believe anything he says.’
This was getting too bizarre for words.
‘Pat, I’m going back to England to do my own thing. Tell Ernie to call me whenever he feels it’s safe to do so.’
‘That’s definitely the best strategy,’ said Patrick, just a little patronisingly.
I returned to Heathrow, empty-handed and confused about Ernie, Tom, and Patrick. It seemed as if I would have to go straight, whether I wanted to or not.
I did go very straight for several months, and by mid-1983 18, Carlisle Street had become a hive of legitimate business activity. There were several telephone lines, a ten-thousand-pound word processor, a large photocopying machine, and a telex. West End Secretarial Services had over fifty clients who paid good money for message-taking and mail-holding. Office accommodation was let out at extortionate hourly rates, the telex constantly chattered out incomprehensible gibberish from remote parts of the world, and people would queue to use the photocopying machine.
Following visits to Paris and Dieppe undertaken by the Mad Major and me, Drinkbridge imported thousands of bottles of wines and spirits. The Mad Major stored them in a cellar in Twickenham, and a selection of Jarvis’s and Old John’s friends distributed them to diverse quarters. Our clients included the British Shipbuilders Association and Margaret Thatcher’s throat specialist, Dr Punt.
Kathy word-processed away at wine lists and at letters from strangers to other strangers. She also dealt with David Leigh’s rough drafts for the biography. Heinemann had paid the advance. I’d bought a Mercedes. The Chelsea maisonette had been completed, and we’d moved there from Brighton. Meticulous accounts were maintained, and national insurance, income tax, graduated pensions, corporation tax, and value-added tax were most conscientiously paid. I was very busy and very straight.
I was also very bored. None of this was exciting and none of it was making any real money. Although the cash stash was dwindling mor
e slowly, it was still dwindling. Accordingly, I wasn’t that unhappy to get a phone call from Jim McCann in his absurd Belfast accent.
‘I want to see you in Paris. Right away. Got something for you, kid. Check into the George V. You’ll be safe. My boys will be covering you. We’ve called an amnesty.’
‘Can you send me the air-fare, Jim? I’m skint.’
‘Fuck off!’
Twenty-four hours later, I was working my way through the mini-bar. I wondered what insanity Jim had in store. At my Old Bailey trial, I had publicly accused him of being the world’s biggest narco-terrorist and arms smuggler. He owed me for that bit of PR. The phone rang.
‘Get out of the room, take the lift downstairs, and walk slowly out through the hotel’s main doors,’ whispered a soft Dublin brogue. ‘Your man will be outside.’
I did as instructed. Jim was parked outside in a big Mercedes, bigger than mine. I got into the passenger seat, and he drove off. He burst out laughing and handed me a very strong joint. I burst out laughing and smoked it.
‘I’ve got everything under control, kid, from the fucking Khyber Pass camel jockeys to the decadent fascists that run this poxy pisshole,’ he boasted, for some reason pointing to the Louvre. ‘I can get what I want, where I want, when I want. I’m back in the fast lane.’
‘That’s great, Jim. You know I still owe people for those Thai sticks you lost in a lorry-load of bananas outside Dublin.’
‘I owe you nothing, you Welsh scumbag. You owe me your freedom and your life.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I protested. ‘What would you have done if you hadn’t met me? Probably carried on mugging old ladies in Andytown and setting fire to school libraries in the name of the cause. You Irish prick. You owe me a drink at least.’
We had several drinks in Castell’s and Régine’s. By now, Jim was well known at each. His front had progressed, buying and selling art. We moved to Elysée Matignon, a club patronised and rumoured to be owned by Jean-Paul Belmondo, who greeted Jim as a long-lost friend.
