The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer

by Alexander Shannon

  ‘You’re getting no fucking guns,’ Pawny told him. ‘I’ll tell you what, the person that has the guns is Tam. Go down to Tam and tell him you want them, but you know what he’ll do if he sees you? He’ll blow a fucking hole in your head.’

  Lobban demanded that Pawny called Tam, then tried another manoeuvre, saying he’d go and see Tam and sort him. It was a threat made of desperation, and Pawny knew it. ‘Gibby, you fucking go anywhere near Tam and he’ll kill you,’ he said. ‘You know how he hates you and he can take you out.’

  Lobban thought for a moment. Leaving Pawny to head for Tam’s home would give Pawny time to telephone his brother, who would then be waiting for him. Lobban shuddered at the thought of appearing in the sight of a gun held by Tam Shannon.

  Lobban never got any guns. When he eventually calmed down, he started to tell Pawny that things had gone wrong but decided not to expand on what he meant by this. As he was speaking, he realised that Pawny’s wife or daughter might have already phoned Tam to tell him he was at their home. He was edgy, constantly looking around him, paranoid about Tam suddenly appearing out of the darkness. Lobban left as unexpectedly as he had arrived, leaving Pawny to guess at the reason for his desperation to have more guns.

  In Inverness, Alex had more important worries than the murder of a Glasgow gangster on his mind. On 14 September, his third child, Nicole, was born. It was a naturally joyous occasion, but the immediate happiness of the delighted parents was short-lived. Doctors discovered the newly born baby had developed pneumonia and had an air bubble next to her heart which was affecting the organ’s ability to pump blood around her tiny body. Alex and Angie were warned to expect the worst, but gradually their prayers were answered and Nicole crept slowly along the road to a full recovery.

  Tam, meantime, had been told by Pawny of the early-morning visit from Lobban. Alex, too, had been given details of the conversation. He was still making occasional visits back to Glasgow to see his brothers and complete documentation in connection with the house in Maryhill. Tam had been enraged by Lobban’s actions and had recruited Eddie Kennedy to help find Gibby. Although he did not openly say so, it was assumed that when Tam caught up with Lobban he would kill him.

  Now, the brothers began wondering whether Lobban had been badmouthing them to Paul Ferris, Bobby Glover and Joe Hanlon, which would have accounted for the non-appearance of the promised weapons from Paul. ‘Maybe Paul thinks we want nothing to do with Lobban,’ suggested Alex, and he would soon come to hope that was indeed the case.

  On 18 September, only days after he had tried to force Pawny into handing over guns, Lobban telephoned Glover and asked for a meeting. Glover’s car had been impounded by the police because they suspected it could have been used in the shooting of Arty, so he rang Joe Hanlon to ask if he would take him to the rendezvous.

  The following day was Arty’s funeral. That morning a passer-by in Shettleston noticed a car parked outside the Cottage bar, where Bobby had once worked. Two men were inside, apparently asleep, one slouched in the front well, the other on the floor under the back seats. The same man passed a while later and noticed neither car nor occupants had moved. When he looked closer, he saw blood. He tapped on the window, but the noise brought no sign of movement. The police were summoned and autopsies on both men revealed each had been shot in the head and chest with two different handguns.

  Police hunting whoever was responsible later issued an appeal for anyone who knew the whereabouts of Lobban to get in touch. He was said to use disguises and a description was given of the tattoos on his right and left hands and left arm, whose removal he had used as the excuse to skip prison. Lobban was also named in a report by murder squad police to the Crown Office, but he was never charged.

  The police, of course, did not know that shortly before the slayings he had called at the home of Pawny demanding guns. Nor that his uncle, William Manson, later boasted to another leading underworld gang boss that he, Manson, had been paid by the Godfather to execute the two men. The police might have been interested to know that Lobban had advocated the killing of two leading players in the gangland scene and had been a part of the Spring Inn massacre plot. But they were aware of none of this. And no one was talking.

  Alex heard the news of the double executions in a call from one of his brothers. There was no need to talk in whispers; the murders had made the headlines. But Lobban’s visit to Pawny had left Alex with a really bad feeling.

  The visit occurred not long after Arty was killed and just before Joe and Bobby died, then Gibby had disappeared off the scene. As far as Arthur getting murdered was concerned, Alex had no interest. Arthur was an old man, finished. But Joe and Bobby? It was bad, especially the way it all happened. He started to think, ‘There’s more to this.’ Everybody knew about the Shannon brothers and Lobban, but Alex had been getting offers to kill people. He’d been telling everybody he wasn’t interested, but what if no one believed him?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The murders of Bobby Glover and Joe Hanlon were meant to level the account of the Thompson faction over the killing of Arty. That was the way of it with most gangland deaths. One was followed by another and then the book was closed, at least for a time. It was how underworlds everywhere conducted their business. But these were not business matters. All three were personal and therefore the aftermath was all the more bitter. The executioners, whoever they were, could not expect the customary protection of gangland silence.

  Arty’s murder had been only half the plan. Old Arthur was meant to follow his son to the graveyard, the thinking being that his death would almost certainly quash any likelihood of vengeance.

  Arty’s killer had fled to England, some thought maybe London. From there, he made a telephone call to Glasgow. The conversation was brief: ‘I’ve done my bit, now you go and do old Arthur. It’s your turn.’ The individual at the other end of the line was no fool. He had been waiting for this call, but had long ago decided where his loyalties lay: to himself and his pocket. And he knew where there was profit to be made – but it wasn’t by taking out the Godfather. While he was aware of the awesome reputation of the caller – was frightened, even, of the man – love of money conquered all.

  ‘I’m no cunt’s fire in. I’m murdering no cunt. I’ll do what I want,’ he spat back, then he hung up. It might seem like he was taking a chance with this show of defiance, but what, he wondered, if a quiet word naming the killer was dropped in the right ear and found its way to the police? The identities of Arty’s enemies were widely known. What if the police were tipped off that one of them was the assassin? If they arrested the suspect and locked him up, it would mean he was safely out of the way, a situation the recipient of the call wanted for his own safety.

  * * *

  Paul Ferris was arrested and accused of being the Provanmill killer. While he was on remand, Bobby and Joe were shot. They were discovered in the same car in which they had driven off to meet Lobban. At the end of the road on which the grieving Thompson family lived was Hogganfield Loch, a local beauty spot favoured by courting couples. Shots fired there would be sure to be heard; however, some distance off, a motorway was being built. It was in this area that the car had been driven and when it came to a halt the terrible deed done.

  By the time the men had been shot, it was late – their meeting with Lobban had eaten up time. The dead men had been taken from the motor, shot again and then their bodies carelessly thrown back inside. The man who had set up their murders then drove the car to the Cottage bar, where it was dumped. He was followed by an accomplice, who waited for him and then drove him to Glasgow Central station, where he was handed tickets that would take him to London. By the time he arrived there, word had already reached the capital. Arthur Thompson had many friends in London. When the traveller showed his ticket and stepped past the barrier, a man approached him, hugged him warmly, gave him a cuddle and whispered, ‘That’s from Arthur.’ The two chatted amicably, their cockney and Glaswegian accents being
no bar to disturbing the conversation, although the Scot was nervous. As they left, he looked to see what time the next train arrived from Scotland, then he was driven to a hideout near a notorious gay area to the west of the city centre and given money and a number to call in the event of his needing help.

  Following the Hanlon and Glover deaths, William Lobban disappeared. When word leaked out about his telephone call luring both to the fatal meeting, he became a detested figure. Even some who had been close to him were appalled. Paul Ferris had been pals with Hanlon and Glover and he had taken Lobban in, looked after him when he was down on his luck. The Glovers had helped him out as well. People knew Lobban didn’t like Joe, but they asked why Bobby? Why throw in his lot with a wasted old gangster? There were others who wondered why Lobban, who was seen as wild, dangerous like an animal, had been allowed to hook on to the Ferris team.

  At Fort George, news of the double killing was telephoned to Alex before the newspapers began screaming out the blood-curdling details. In Glasgow, police were looking for Lobban and now they set out to trace his associates. Alex knew precisely where Gibby was holed up, as did many in the underworld, but nobody was passing that on to the police.

  * * *

  I was in the army now, but I had been in the same circles as these people. If something happened in the street, I knew about it straight away. The police went to our ma’s house, trying to find Tam and Pawny. I’d had such a low profile that they weren’t aware there was another brother who was in the army. Of course, Tam and Pawny had nothing to do with the murders, but the police wanted to find out if they knew where Lobban was and they were hardly going to tell them that.

  Four weeks after Joe and Bobby died, I was still being told that Lobban was staying in a hotel in London, constantly telephoning all sorts of people connected to us, wanting to know what was happening. Everybody was still sceptical about all the rumours dropping names as to who had done it and nobody knew where Lobban fitted in to all of this. Then the police found out exactly who I was, what I did, where I was and they became very interested in me. My attitude at this time was that the whole thing was none of my concern. I was concentrating on getting my career back on track by going on a Platoon Sergeant’s Battle Course. It was really important and I was determined to do well.

  Then one morning a telephone call came through to the training wing for me. At the other end of the line was the sergeant major, who left orders to ‘tell Shannon I want him down in my office straight away’. It was about a mile and a half to where he sat and so I set off running at top speed, a host of things, most of them stupid, going through my mind as to why I was wanted in such a hurry. I started wondering if maybe I hadn’t paid my mess bill and whether that might affect my chances on the course, had I failed to do this or that? I was still in that frame of mind when I arrived.

  The sergeant major at the time was a guy called Tam Butler from the south side of Glasgow. When I reached his office, I could see he was on the telephone, so I halted at the door but could hear him talking, saying, ‘I’ve got Shannon here.’ Then he put his hand over the mouthpiece, looked up at me and said, ‘I’ve got London Road murder squad from Glasgow on the line wanting to speak to you reference the killings of Hanlon and Glover. They want to come up and interview you.’

  The old me returned and I said, ‘Well, sir, you can tell them I don’t want to speak to them. Nobody’s interviewing me about anything. Tell them I have nothing to say to them.’

  Butler started speaking into the telephone again. ‘You’ll not believe this cheeky cunt. He’s telling me to say he’s got fuck all to say to you, so you’ll be wasting your time coming up from Glasgow.’

  There was more discussion on the line and eventually a compromise was reached. If I wasn’t going to talk, they would turn up next morning and lift me from my home. But if I was willing to be interviewed, they would do so in my house and leave it there. I wasn’t caring. I knew at the end of the day it wasn’t me they were after.

  Next morning, four detectives turned up. Angie and I sat and answered their questions, but everything related to Lobban, who seemed to have so many different names by now. The newspapers were calling him ‘Tootsie’ and ‘Gary’. The police tried to lay it on that they were looking for Lobban because they thought he had been murdered. ‘We really need to get hold of him,’ they kept saying, but everybody knows the way the police operate. It was the usual approach – try to panic you, make you think you have somebody else’s life in your hands, but I know the streets anyway. It was a case of hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil until you knew exactly what it was all about. Of course I knew where Gibby was, but this wasn’t my affair and I didn’t want to be dragged into it. I knew he hadn’t been murdered; so did the police. After a time, Angie got up to leave. They tried to prevent her going, but she just said, ‘Look, I have no dealings with Lobban. He was not allowed in our house because I disliked him.’ Then off she went.

  For the next two and a half to three hours, I was given a severe grilling. They threatened me and even in my own house tried to push me about a bit. They began threatening me that Paul Ferris and his crew knew about me and if I was ever to go near Glasgow I would more than likely be killed. They said they had already found out I was a marked man and was going to get murdered. But I paid no attention to that because I didn’t really believe it. They tried scaring me with a description of the murder scene, the number of rounds that had been fired by the killer and how, in their words, ‘the only thing the bastard didn’t do was to nail them to the front door of the Cottage bar’. I must admit that that had me shaken a bit, but by then I had worked out they would say and do anything to get the response they wanted from me, the information they were after.

  I wasn’t really interested in what they said because I knew it would not affect my way of life or my movement between Glasgow and Inverness. At the end of the day, even though I was back in the army I was still wearing my civilian head. No matter what they said or what threats they used, I wouldn’t have said anything. When it came to the crunch, although I had a career in the army, I knew where I was in Civvy Street, what I had to do and where my priorities lay. I was street wide and wise.

  They eventually left, muttering all kinds of threats. They telephoned me a couple of times after that to see whether I had anything to say, but I hadn’t. They were still trying to persuade me to go to London Road police station for a talk. But I wouldn’t entertain them. It was just that you didn’t deal with the police and that was it. Even if it had been one of my brothers who had been done in, I would probably have had the same attitude. That’s just the way it is. As a result of where I am from and the circles in which I have moved, I am a party to many pieces of information, including what some might term gangland secrets. Frankly, I don’t like knowing what I do. It is said that too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and that is true. While I totally disagree with the violence and crime that went on at that time, I don’t like talking about it. Knowing as much as I do sometimes makes me feel I was actually implicated in matters in which I was not involved. But while I wasn’t there, the fact is that when I look back and piece everything together, I tell myself, ‘Now, I know.’ And I do.

  But that wasn’t the end of the matter. Obviously, before speaking to the sergeant major the police had talked to the officer commanding and told him he had a soldier in his company who was involved in this and that. They wanted to know my history and what he knew about me. Although the army should not have done so, they told the police about me – where I had been, what I had done and what I was capable of, and as a result I became of interest to the police. That’s when they began thinking that maybe I was involved.

  After they had gone, nothing was said to my face, but I knew, through conversations with mates who used to tell me what was going on and what was being said, that a senior officer had tagged me as a ‘gangster’, a ‘hit man’, a ‘gun runner’ and a lot of other things. I tried to just ignore them and carry on
training.

  I was still conscious of talk when it reached Christmas and the company party. That’s when I met the officer who had been slagging me off. I told him the life I had led in Glasgow was now behind me, that he could trust me not to bring embarrassment on the company.

  ‘What went before is finished with,’ I said. ‘Forget it. Let’s move on. Give me the benefit of the doubt.’

  He promised he accepted my word and would back me 100 per cent. Soon after, I was arrested and accused of three attempted murders.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Private Tam Gow of the Royal Scots (The Royal Regiment) was a hero. Earlier in the year he had been out in the Gulf War, courageously crawling through an enemy minefield, ignoring heavy fire to clear two bunkers using grenades. He then rounded up three Iraqi officers and four soldiers. Tam, originally from Glasgow but who went on to settle in Inverness, was rightly awarded the Military Medal for his exploits and the Citation detailing the honour said he was a brave man who showed ‘initiative, aggression and determination’. He was also a good pal. I had known Tam before joining the army, one of his family had grown up in the same children’s homes as me.

  The day after I’d pledged to the officer that I’d be on my best behaviour the company travelled to Edinburgh to do Castle Duty, which involved formally guarding the city’s imposing structure over Christmas and New Year. It meant that, while most of the rest of the country were enjoying themselves and having fun, we had to stay sober, smart and alert.

  Tam knew how much I would have loved to have been with my brothers on 31 December and he showed just how good a friend he was by offering to do a couple of my duties. It would allow me to go to Glasgow for the New Year. His offer was a last-minute thing, so I accepted, but did not tell Angie what I was going to do. She did not like me going through to Glasgow and Cumbernauld to drink with all the guys. I understood her point of view. She was worried and just didn’t want anything to happen to me. I knew if I told her what I was planning, she would be upset, so I said nothing and simply headed off to Cumbernauld to meet up with Pawny, Tam, Eddie Kennedy, Andy Thompson, who was a distant member of the Godfather’s family, and Angie’s brother, Paddy.