by Lenny McLean
Then they spoke to Conrad, one of the managers. Talk about silly as arseholes. Instead of telling them that the guy was here, but there was no trouble or anything, he gave them the full SP about his being restrained and all that.
Coppers aren’t always stupid so they put two and two together and started quizzing the other people who worked there. It was no good me looking for support from most of that lot, because they were straights and wanted to look after their own arses. All the law had was Lenny this, Lenny that. I could see myself getting deeper and deeper in the shit. Once my name is mentioned down the nick, some bright spark’s going to be squealing Lenny McLean, King of the Bouncers, Guv’nor, Hardest Man in London, fucking animal – we’ve got ourselves a result here.
Anyway, days passed and nothing happened, so perhaps they found out that the fella died of a heart attack or something. Val was in bed and I was sitting in the kitchen talking to Ronnie Joyce. He came round early to see if I wanted to go to visit our pal Ritchie Anderson, who was being held in Brixton on a section 18 and attempted murder. It seems that Ritchie had just started to cross the road when a carload of drunks had come speeding round the corner and knocked him down. He wasn’t hurt, but he was fucking mad. If they had known what was good for them they would’ve kept going, but they stopped and he slipped into them with a knife and got himself nicked.
So Ronnie and me were talking about Ritchie and working out the best time to go and visit him. Then I heard a bit of a noise out front. I shot through to the front room, looked out the window, and I saw the law all over the place. The whole street was blocked off and the place was crawling with coppers. Ron came through from the kitchen, had a look and said, ‘What you been up to, Len, no tax on your motor?’
I said, ‘No, mate, this is serious. I think I’ve killed a guy and so does Old Bill – too late to go over the wall.’
Then the bell rang. Here I go. I opened up and two plainclothes officers pushed in. I blocked their way. ‘Hold up, what’s your fucking game?’ Then they flashed warrant cards.
‘DI Cater and DI Prunty,’ Cater says, ‘Leonard McLean, I’m charging you with the murder of Gary Humphries. You have the right to remain silent …’ and all that stuff you’ve seen on the telly.
I said, ‘Who’s he? Never heard of him.’
‘No,’ Prunty said, ‘I don’t expect you asked his name while you were beating him up. Now get the clothes you were wearing Saturday.’
He called up a uniform and told him to follow me upstairs. ‘No you don’t,’ I said. ‘Nobody goes into my bedroom when my wife’s in bed except me, so make your mind up. Any of you try it and I’ll unload the three of you before you can call up your mob out there.’ They saw reason.
I went up, dug out the clothes, and told Val I’d been lifted. She was crying but I told her to be strong. ‘We’ve got plenty of dough in the bank so you’ll be all right, but first off get hold of Ralph Haeems, our brief, and get him to work.’
Soon after, I was in Vine Street and banged up waiting for the interviews to start. After a couple of hours, I was told my brief had turned up so they’d be seeing me in five minutes. I thought, ‘Good-oh. Ralph’s here and he’ll sort this lot out double quick.’
I was taken to the interview room and there were a couple of uniforms, Prunty, Cater and a fella I didn’t know. It turned out Ralph was too busy, so he sent this South African solicitor instead.
DI Cater read the charge out. ‘Unlawful killing of Gary Humphries.’
I said, ‘Hold up, I never killed him.’
Prunty said, ‘If you didn’t kill him, why is he down the mortuary right now?’
‘All I did was give him a back-hander and he deserved that for pissing and wanking over young girls, but I never meant to kill him.’
Cater chipped in, ‘Whatever he deserved, McLean, it certainly wasn’t one of your right-handers.’
‘Piss off,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, you’ve got me hung already. It must be in the blood because you’re the same as your old man.’ His father had been involved in getting the Krays put away.
He had me flung back in the cell. I was lying on the wooden bench and I felt like my guts had been ripped out. Murder. That means I’m looking at life. The judge is going to look at me, hear all about my past and decide that I’m too dangerous to be left on the streets. ‘This man makes his living with his fists, he’s a street-fighter, a minder and an animal, so I’d better give him a rec. of twenty-five years – keep him away from decent people.’
The police cell didn’t worry me at all. It was summer, hot and the place was stinking of piss and vomit because of the drunks held the night before. If I’d been banged up for anything else but murder I wouldn’t give a bollocks, but a charge like that drains the life out of you. I was 40 years old. I might be drawing my pension the next time I’m on the outside.
I couldn’t think about it so I got up and did sit-ups and press-ups on that filthy floor, then I did a bit of shadow boxing until the adrenalin flowed through me and I felt like I was on a high. ‘Come on, Cater, try me now.’
He does. As soon as I was back upstairs, some other CID bloke said, ‘I know you from some business about 20 years ago. Wasn’t it you that smashed and belted the life out of some man and nearly killed him? What are you, a psychopath? Is that what you do every time somebody upsets you?’
On the outside, I would have knocked him down for talking to me like that. He knew it and was trying to goad me into flaring up, but I kept calm.
‘Yeah, all right, I did do him, but we’re pals now, that’s all in the past.’ They all looked at each other, then the penny dropped. I’d forgotten all about the tape recorder.
‘Oh yeah, I bet you lot think you’re the dog’s bollocks now I’ve dropped myself in it. Fuck you, I’m not saying no more.’
Three hours later they gave up. Every time they asked a question I did an impersonation of John Wayne or Michael Caine. They were doing their nut, but that’s all they got out of me.
I was doing press-ups again back in the cell. A cozzer opened up and said, ‘Come on, your wife’s here.’ I walked out and I could see Val at the bottom of the corridor. As we walked towards each other I could see tears running down her face. As I got hold of her in my arms she started crying loudly, so I kissed and cuddled her to try and calm her down. I said, ‘Listen, Val, listen to me. You and me are one, don’t matter what happens. I love you and they can’t take that away from us. Be strong for the kids and be strong for me. I know it’s hard but don’t give these slags in here any satisfaction.’
Then she was taken out. I was shattered, I’d never seen her so upset. I can take anything for myself, but it tore at my insides to see my lovely Val all broken up.
Cater had a beauty waiting for me the next time he pulled me upstairs. ‘You going to stop fucking about and come across for this one, Lenny?’ I just growled at him and said nothing. ‘OK then, try this. What would you say if I tell you we’ve got Robert Lopez pulled in?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to be joking – that kid’s got nothing to do with this and you fucking well know it.’
He just gave me a cold look. ‘I’m going to get a result, so if you don’t open up I’m going to pick up that phone and have him charged with murder, because one of you killed Humphries.’
He’d got my nuts in the grinder. Robert is a nice quiet bloke. I know he’s a minder but he’s not a bit aggressive and when I was straightening up the streaker he never laid a finger on him. He’d never been in trouble before so I could imagine what he was feeling like, being banged up for the first time. ‘OK. If you drop everything against Robert I’ll put my hand up. I chinned the bloke, it’s down to me.’
I just signed my life away, but at least I’d done it like a man. Now I’ve got to look after my own neck.
The next time Val came in, I told her about the cozzer who had remembered the fight 20 years before, and that I’d dropped a ricket on tape. ‘Go and see John Na
sh, Babe, and ask him to have a quiet word with the fella.’
On her next visit, she told me that John had squared it off. He’d gone to Jimmy and he’d told John, ‘I ain’t got no grievance with Len. It’s all in the past. If they want me at the Bailey I’ll go up and deny we ever had a fight and say that me and Len are pals who go back years.’ Ten out of ten, mate. I didn’t need you in the end, but you were there for me. Good luck wherever you are.
Then I found out all the details of that Saturday night that changed my life. Remember, I was sitting there convinced I’d killed a man. But when Martin Lee put me in the picture it started to look a bit different. Martin was the brief who worked under Ralph Haeems. He was really on the ball and what he’d done was to dig out all the facts about the movements of Gary Humphries that night.
It turned out he wasn’t on drugs as I’d thought, but he should have been. He’d not long been released from a mental hospital and, being a bit spaced out, he hadn’t been taking his medication. After a couple of weeks he’d had a breakdown. Who knows what was in his head? He went to the Hippodrome and had a fight with one of the DJs, who punched him in the face and chucked him off the stage. Then his gear came off, and that’s when I got involved.
Even if I’d known his state of mind, I don’t think I could have handled it any different. I’ve already explained what went on. I didn’t beat him up, I just gave him a backhander, dressed him and put him out. Then I found out what happened afterwards.
He left the club and, within a few yards, bumped straight into a special constable. Because he didn’t have any shoes on he was stopped and questioned. He said some big bloke in the club had beaten him up, but the only damage the copper could see was a slightly cut lip. He was talking normally and wasn’t injured, so he let him walk away. If he wanted to go barefoot that was up to him.
All these incidents were like bits of a jigsaw that night. Nobody got the real picture until afterwards, when they were all put together.
From the club he went into a café and tried to get himself something to eat, but because of the way he looked and the fact that he didn’t have any money, he was fucked off. Again, he was able to speak coherently, but perhaps the knock back over the grub did his head in, because he took his gear off again, and ran in and out of the traffic, naked, and making a right nuisance of himself.
Eventually, he ran in front of a fire engine, which stopped and took him to Soho Fire Station, where they called an ambulance. While he was being helped aboard he decided he didn’t want to go, had a scuffle, broke away, and ran off. At this point, Old Bill was looking for him. When they found him he was in Tottenham Court Road, dodging the traffic and banging on cars. After a very violent struggle with a number of coppers, he was overpowered. The law had to put a bit of effort into holding him down because he was like a maniac. They got him to hospital and a few hours later he died. Dead, according to Old Bill, from a broken jaw that Lenny McLean gave him in the club four hours before.
Don’t think for one minute that I’m giving you a load of flannel to cover myself. What I’ve told you is fact.
What do you think? Did I kill him? Did I beat him to death? Four hours doing a marathon round London, fighting all the way. Is that a dying man? The law seemed to think so, or were they covering themselves? At worst, I should have been threatened with a section 18 and bailed.
But no. Somebody thought it was about time I was taken off the streets and two weeks later I was nicked and in front of the magistrate.
While I was waiting for the prison bus in the cell downstairs, my brief tried to cheer me up.
‘If things start to look a bit iffy, Len,’ Martin said, ‘you might have to put your hand up to manslaughter. In your case, that could mean ten years, but at least it would save you getting double on a recommendation.’
I gave him the old cross-eye and said, ‘I thought you was supposed to be fucking well cheering me up.’
When he looked a bit hurt at that, I give a laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘Only kidding, son,’ then I did my John Wayne, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’ I gave him a hug, the cell door shut with a bang, and I was on my own.
Lying on my bunk, I thought about having to put myself forward for a ten stretch. British justice is the finest in the world, unless you get caught up on the wrong side of it. Here’s me innocent, but to save getting lifed off I’ve got say I’m guilty. Funny thing is, I’d go along with it. Get ten years, do six or seven, yeah, I could handle that. Then I thought about Martin’s last words. ‘I can’t promise you anything, so don’t get your hopes up … I think someone’s got it in for you.’
Brixton. Going into prison didn’t worry me a bit. I’m a strong man and a very proud man, and wherever I go people give me a wide berth. Even the screws, because they know if I start I’m a ten-man job. Most blokes are more worried about the other cons and screws than they are of being shut away. Same as the kids I mentioned, going into approved school for the first time. They hear all about queers and poofters when they’re outside, and that frightens them more than anything. But let me just say not so much of that goes on. If it does, it’s by consent – none of all that rape in the showers bollocks they like to put in films. None of that worried me – don’t forget, I’m 6ft 3in and 20 stone plus, and I’m like a time bomb waiting to go off.
Normally, murderers or alleged murderers go into the hospital wing first, so they can check out if you’re a lunatic or not. My reputation said I was, so I was put in A Section straight away. This is a prison inside a prison specially built for holding killers, drug-dealers, IRA and the very violent. You go through about four thick iron doors to your cell, and there are cameras everywhere watching you. Unlike cells in the nicks outside, you do get a bit of privacy on the toilet because there’s a sort of half-shutter and the camera can only see your feet or head. They unlock the doors for meals and a half-hour walk round, but the rest of the time is spent behind your door. Ordinary prisoners can’t speak to you if you come into contact with them in case your influence makes them worse than they already are. You can only speak to other A Section inmates, and that’s all right because you’re all in the same boat looking at long sentences. The only thing I can say in favour of A Section is that it’s cleaner than the main wings and there’s only one to a cell.
While I was out on my half-hour walk I used to fuck about with the screws, picking them up and dancing around and giving them what they thought was friendly aggravation. But it wasn’t and they hated it.
‘McLean, you’ll get us the sack, this is all on camera you know.’
I said, ‘All right, if you unlock me for an hour a day so’s I can visit Frankie in the next cell, I’ll leave you alone.’
So that’s what they did – not bad as screws go really. Sometimes they’d do it the other way round and Frankie Simms would come in to me. I remember one afternoon when the two of us went through all my legal papers for about three hours. When we were finished, Frankie said ‘How about going through mine, now?’ I just lay on his bed, closed my eyes and said, ‘Sorry mate, too fucking tired.’ He went a bit cross-eyed until he saw me laughing.
One afternoon I was lying on the bed and the heat was killing me. It was the beginning of July and I was sweating cobs. There was a bang on the door. I looked up and Frank was eyeballing me through my spy-hole.
‘Len,’ he said, ‘I’m just making a bit of stew on the quiet. How many dumplings do you want?’
‘Dumplings! Are you joking? I don’t want no fucking dumplings. I’m lying here thinking about the next 25 years that I’ve got to spend in prison, it’s a hundred degrees, and you’re talking about dumplings.’
‘Go on, Len, keep your strength up.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Frank! All right then, make me six.’ An hour later the screws let him in and he had a paint tin filled with stew. I just said, ‘Hope you washed that tin out first,’ when the door slammed shut and the lever came along.
‘What’s going on, mate
? Why we banged up?’
Frank said, ‘Look through the spy-hole.’ I had a butchers and there were four Nazi-looking screws going past and in the middle of them was this pasty kid of about 21.
‘See that c**t?’ Frank said. ‘He’s the slag that ripped all the insides out of a nine-month-old baby. He’s banged up 24 hours a day, gets his tea and meals in his cell, and only gets out for a visit. Screws can’t risk us getting hold of him.’
‘Frank,’ I said, ‘we got to hurt this nonce. Why don’t we get hold of the cleaners and get them to do him with boiling water?’
‘Len, we tried that, they don’t want to know – that’s why they’re cleaners, screws trust them.’ I never did get the chance to rip that bastard’s throat out, but one of the others got to him and that horrible little beast was well obliged.
Funnily enough, Frank was still inside when Ronnie Knight was put away. They palled up together and, unless Frankie had changed, which I doubt, he would have kept Ronnie laughing all day long. He’s a comedian, a live wire and a good man to serve your time with. I bet Ronnie was sorry to be left behind when Frank completed his term a few months ago.
Talking about that scum, that baby killer, reminds me of the time a lovely lady came down the club to see me one night early in 1993. She was really upset because her seven-year-old nephew had just been murdered by some low-life pervert, stuck in a sack and dumped in a lift. I was choked for her and the boy’s parents, but what can you say to take away the pain? I got her a brandy, gave her a cuddle, and told her the law would have the slag in five minutes. Give Old Bill their due, they did.
A year later, while I was working on this book, Geraldine Walpole came to see me again. She’d just come from the court after seeing a piece of filth by the name of Colin Hatch getting lifed off for killing the boy. She said, ‘Lenny, as he stood in the dock he was grinning all over his face.’
I said to her, ‘Let me make a phonecall and we’ll get him sorted, get the smile knocked off his face.’