by Lenny McLean
‘Did they find our smokes, Len?’
I said, ‘Too right they did, and right under my bed. Now they’re off to the PO and down to you I’m going to lose some time, and I’ve not even been sentenced yet.’
He said, ‘Sorry. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking, but I’ll tell them it was mine.’
I said, ‘You say nothing and I’ll say nothing, but afterwards I’m going to belt your ear’oles. What a stupid thing to do.’ Right enough, two hours later I was pulled into the PO’s office. He had these fags on his desk and he was flicking them with a pen.
‘Guv’nor,’ I said, ‘before you say anything, let me mark your card. I’m a fighter and I look after my body. I don’t need that sort of shit inside me, and if I did I wouldn’t be smoking it two at a time. But don’t ask me whose they are, because I’m not a grass, even if you charge me.’
While I told him this, his po-face became a grin, then he said, ‘Quite a speech, McLean. I’m already aware that this material is not yours, so there won’t be a charge. And as we can’t be sure who actually was smoking this drug, I’m prepared to let it go this time. But pass on the message that I will crack down in future.’ Fucking hell, that was a result. I saw the funny side of it afterwards, so Shibberton didn’t get a belt, but he came very close.
Life wasn’t all bad news, though, and after I did a little favour for a screw I got a favour myself that’s never been equalled by anyone in Wandsworth. This screw had been in the game for about 20 years, and all the cons reckoned he was a very fair man. So when he started speaking to me, I didn’t mug him off like I might have.
‘You’re a fighter, aren’t you, McLean?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If I have to, I’ll fight every screw in this place.’
He said, ‘No, what I want to say is I’m going to Crystal Palace tonight to see a boxing exhibition. If you like I’ll bring you back a programme. You might find it interesting to see who is on the bill.’
I said, ‘You’ve been fair, so I’m told, so what I’ll do is give you a phone number. Ring it now and you’ll get through to Alex Steen. It’s his show you’re going to tonight, so tell him who you are, mention Lenny McLean, and he’ll treat you right.’
Next morning this screw’s bubbling over. Alex had got him seats ringside, laid on drinks for him and his wife, and given them a lovely meal afterwards. He was over the moon. I told you he was fair, so he wanted to return the compliment. I didn’t know anything about this, but he’d got his head together with Alex and they’d cooked something up.
I was downstairs in the kitchens one afternoon when a screw came down and said, ‘Back to your cell, McLean,’ and before I could tell him to fuck off he winked at me. Up I went, opened the door, and there was Alex Steen and Bruce Wells – ex-boxer, twice Golden Gloves Champion – sitting on my bed laughing their heads off. I was knocked out, absolutely gob-smacked.
I gave them both a kiss and a hug and just sat there looking at them. Alex got out a bottle of wine and Bruce slipped six ounces of Holborn and 40 Bensons behind my cupboard. What a pair. Every now and then a different screw would stick his head round the door, look in, and go off shaking his head without saying a word. My screw’s got them all under his wing, so they don’t go running to the PO.
For an hour they sat in my cell and it was great. We talked and talked and it was just like old times. At five o’clock this screw came up, made sure the coast was clear, then slipped them both out the side door, and none of the bosses had a fucking clue.
Alex, being the man he is, offered to bring in some boxers to entertain the cons. He went through the channels and the Governor jumped at the idea. So that’s what he did, and it was a brilliant exhibition. Afterwards, the boxers answered questions and signed autographs and it went down a bomb. Alex got a nice letter from the Governor thanking him and his team for their efforts, and even today you can see it hanging on the wall among the photographs of friends of his, such as Muhammad Ali, Henry Cooper, Bruno, Diana Dors, and hundreds of others. I see it every time I pop into Alex’s office and it takes me right back to that day in my cell.
On one of Val’s visits, I said to her, ‘You heard anything from Ray Perry lately?’
She said, ‘I told you, Len, I haven’t had a penny from him since the day you were nicked. He called round the day after and when I said that you’d been arrested he put the money he had in his hand back in his pocket.’
‘Lovely, fucking lovely.’
This bloke came to see me in desperate trouble looking for ten grand. I used to do a bit of money lending if I was sure of the person, and, as I knew him – no problem. He cleared up his trouble and he was giving me good dough every week, on the nail. Then he got nicked on a fraud and got 18 months. OK, Lenny’s not one of those fellas who breaks legs when a payment’s a week late. In fact, Val says I’m too fucking soft, but I think fair is a better way of looking at it.
I bent over backwards to help him. When he said he was worried about paying me back, I told him to forget it until he was out. On top of that, I gave his missus mortgage money and put my hand in my pocket to square up her bills. If I was in the same boat, I’d like to think my pals were looking out for me. That was before my own nicking, when I was to find out that my pals would stand by me. Apart from money, I helped get him an early move to Ford Open Prison. Usually, there’s a three-month waiting list, but as I had some people straightened at the nick he was in, they managed to cut that time in half. So all he had to worry about was doing his time.
He came home and I gave him a few quid to get him on his feet and in no time he was back in business and starting to square me up again. He got his debt to me down to about five grand, then I was lifted on the murder. Everybody knew about it because it was all over the papers. Did he phone up or call round to offer a bit of help? No, he fucking didn’t. That slag took it on his toes praying for me to get lifed off and, as Val said, never paid another penny. If you read this, Mr Perry, call round and see Lenny.
So I had already got the hump when I was told to report to the PO’s office. I wasn’t brooding over the money. I’d give it to the bloke if he was in the shit, but I was gutted that he felt obliged to stitch me up after what I’d done for him.
The PO was smiling like he had my release papers on his desk. Some hope. ‘Good news, McLean, they’ve set your trial date. Two weeks from today. Get your things together for a move to Brixton in the morning.’
Twelve months I’ve rotted inside, and now the time has come to face the possibility of another 24 years. My stomach turned over and I walked out without saying a word.
As I went back to my cell to get my head together, I bumped into a con and he was reading the paper and laughing. ‘Seen this, Len? So much for big gangsters. That Ronnie Knight’s just had the bollocks beaten out of him in Fuengerola.’
I nearly belted this mug there and then. ‘So you think it’s funny that a bloke in his fifties gets a belting, do you, you c**t?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘these blokes think they’re so tough.’
Right at that moment the PO was doing his rounds so I walked off, but I hadn’t finished with him. Instead of going into my own cell, I slipped into his before he got back. I hid behind the door and as he walked in I belted him straight in the chin and caught him before he hit the deck. He was spark out, so I laid him on the bed and pulled the covers over him. His cellmate came in and I said, ‘Open your mouth and you’re next. Your muggy mate’s taken the piss out of a pal of mine, and he’s lucky he only got the one belt.’
The next morning I saw the con slopping out and his face was like a balloon. He walked past but he kept his eyes on the floor – he wouldn’t look at me, and his mate was laughing. As he got closer, he said to me, ‘Len, he didn’t wake up until four this morning.’ To give him his due, he never screamed, but I think he was well pleased to see me shipped off to Brixton later on.
It seems a lifetime since I first came through the gates of Brixton, and in many way
s it was. In the last 12 months I’ve thought and thought more than I have ever done in my whole life. Can you imagine being on a murder charge, and I mean charge, not sentence, and you know you haven’t committed the crime? You live and breathe it every second of the day. As you wake up in the morning, for one tiny second it’s not there, but count to two and your head’s filled. Murder-life-murder-life, and that goes on and on until you fall asleep, and even then it doesn’t stop. It’s terrible.
It’s not the prison, it’s the fucking charge. Three hours’ sleep every night because your brain won’t switch off and when it does, the dreams come. And then it’s like being smothered or drowned. Everything presses down on you until you wake up. You can’t breathe and one second later, murder-life-murder-life.
Can you, in your wildest dreams, imagine what Reg Kray went through? He went through a year just like me, but then he had the nightmare of facing 30 years behind the door. Thirty years – try and imagine it. It’s the difference between a newborn baby and a settled married man. The difference between a Jack-the-lad at 35 and an old-age pensioner. You can’t grasp it, can you? Nor can I.
Now think about Reg again. Could you be so strong? The media treated him like some exhibit in a cage. Whenever they’re stuck for copy they stuck another bit of shit in the papers. Did they say, ‘Look at this man … 30 years in prison and he’s strong, fit and his mind’s as sharp as it ever was.’ Of course not because those in power wanted him crucified. Why do I feel so strongly? Because I’ve known a tiny bit of what he’s gone through, so I understand.
I’m using him as an example, and he’s the best example. But now I understand people like Charlie Richardson, Tony Lambrianou, Joe Pyle, Charlie Kray, and many, many others, who’ve suffered and stayed strong.
And all this is going through my head hour after hour as they tick towards my trial. Then one morning I wake up, I’ve got one second’s clear head, then bang, this is the day. I’m suited up, loaded into the wagon, and we’re off to the Bailey. Court 12.
As I walked in the court, all I wanted to do was to turn round, not face that fucking judge. I wanted to look round and see my Val’s lovely face and that’s what I did. I’d fell out with Bobby Warren over some fight years ago, well the day I got lifted he was round my house offering my Val everything he could give. That hump with each other was stupid, because as soon as I was in trouble, it was all forgotten, so we could’ve made up years ago. Now he was sitting in court with Val and he said, ‘Lenny, turn round, show a bit of respect.’ Respect nothing. I don’t feel it, so I’m not going to pretend. Why should I? I’m innocent, I shouldn’t even be here.
It was summer all over again. I only saw the other seasons through the bars and it was hot in the court. I was sweating and wiping my head with Kleenex tissues and, as they got soggy, I rolled them up in balls and flicked them at Prunty and DI Cater. They were fuming but what were they going to do? Stick an assault by tissue balls on top of the murder? Bobby was getting a bit wound up, for my sake, so he said, ‘Pack it up, mate, you’re not doing yourself any favours.’ So, out of respect for Bob, I packed it in.
I was looking round the court and it was packed. I had a lot of supporters but the rest were punters off the streets looking for a bit of entertainment. I bet that if they lived in Roman times the same people would be right up the front sticking their thumbs down for the gladiators to get the chop. They should try standing where I am; they wouldn’t find it so fascinating then. Gary Humphries’ family were sitting over to my left and I didn’t want to look at them. I wasn’t ashamed, because I know I didn’t kill their son or husband, but they had suffered and I didn’t want them to think I was an arrogant bastard with no feelings who might be trying to stare them out. I just hoped they would hear some truth in the days to come.
If I could remember what was going on or all that was said, I think it would put you to sleep. It was making me nod off and my freedom depended on it. That first day, all the briefs and barristers were just warming up for the off so it didn’t seem like much was happening.
It’s funny really – I slept better that night than I had done for months and months. It was a bit like going to the dentist – once you’re there it’s not half as bad as you had imagined.
The next morning I was in reception at Brixton and in walked this very smart man – more than smart, he was immaculate and very relaxed. He said, ‘I’ve heard all about you … you’re Lenny McLean, the street-fighter. I’ve been banged up with a friend of yours in the Scrubs, Ritchie the Scotsman.’
‘Oh yeah, he was in here for a while with me, then they shipped him out. I can’t place you though … who are you?’ He introduced himself as John Perry, pulled in on the Brink’s Mat robbery, and he was due at the Bailey later on.
We carried on talking on the way to the court, and I asked him how long he’d been on remand. When he told me three-and-a-half years I couldn’t believe it. I thought one year was a bit outrageous. Then he laughed at the look on my face. ‘I know the system’s a bit slow, but not that fucking slow. What happened was, I got arrested in Spain and I’ve had to sit there all that time while they were arguing about extradition.’
John was one of the coolest guys I had ever met. Nothing upset him, he never got flustered, and always seemed to be on the one level. I think getting pally with him while the trial was going on kept me quiet as well, because I didn’t have any flare-ups.
As we travelled into the Bailey every morning in the wagon, John would look round and tell me where the photographers were. Because they’re so desperate for a picture for the papers, they jump up and stick the camera right against the windows and snap away. So he’d go, ‘On your right, Len, duck. On your left, look out.’ It was a bit of a laugh, though it didn’t work because I’ve got some copies of ones they took and used in the papers, and what with the flash in the van and my surprise, I look a right prat in most of them.
So one day was very much like the next and I was backwards and forwards. Nothing was missed at the Bailey, nothing. Every tiny detail came out. Nothing can be hidden because these barristers are shit-hot and what they don’t get one way they sneak round and come back from a different angle, and if you’ve been sprauncing, they’re on you like a dog on a bone.
Half of what they discussed I didn’t understand. In fact, most of the time they were being so technical and clever with words, that only the top few knew what the hell was going on. Even Cater looked like he was falling asleep half the time. I did gather, though, that I was being mugged and my chances were going downhill bloody fast. I understood quickly enough when I heard Judge Lowry saying, ‘What I would like to do is take the prosecution, defence and jurors down to the Hippodrome Night Club.’
I thought, ‘Fucking hell, they’re going to have a knees-up before getting down to lifing me off.’ But no, what he wanted was to let them all listen to a mock-up of the scuffle Humphries and me had in the cupboard.
I slipped a note to Val telling her to ring Mick Parker, who was regional director of the club, and mark his card about what’s happening. She did and he said, ‘Don’t worry, Val, when that lot turn up we’ll have the music twice as loud as normal. I know Lenny’s innocent, but we won’t take any chances.’
Judge Lowry took them all to the club for his little experiment, stuck three jurors in the cupboard, and told them to ‘make as much noise as possible’. After ten minutes they opened the doors. These jurors were sweating cobs and their ties and shirt tails were all over the place. Back in the court, all them out in the reception area said they couldn’t hear a sound, so that bolloxed all those muggy witnesses who said they heard a terrible ruck that Saturday night. I’ve got to give Mick ten out of ten because he did what he said he would and blasted the music out. But if you allow for the fact that there were a few thousand customers missing that morning, I suppose it all balanced out, so we weren’t really pulling a stroke.
One up to me, but the way things were going, the prosecution had about a hundred up
on me. Every time Cater looked at me I wanted to smash his head off. The minute that judge gives me a rec. of 25, I’d be over the rail and flatten him.
Then the prosecution brought in their star witness. They’d already had half of London giving me some stick, but this one was an expert. I won’t pretend I took it all in, but what she was saying was that I had killed Gary Humphries by breaking his jaw. I think I’m more of an expert on jaws than she is, because I’ve broken more than she’s had hot dinners, and nobody has ever died.
According to Dr Paula Lannas, she’s seen six deaths caused by busted jaws. She rabbited on for an hour with all the medical jargon, but at the end of the day it still amounted to her evidence putting me away, and I felt it was nearly all over.
I had a word with Martin and Kenny the barrister. ‘She’s getting me put away, you know that, don’t you? Can’t you fucking well give her a tug, because I think she’s got it all wrong.’
Kenny said, ‘Calm down, Lenny. Did you notice the old man sitting at the back, glasses, greying hair?’
I said, ‘Yeah I saw him. I thought he was a punter come in out of the sun for a sit down.’
‘No, Len, no punter. That’s Professor Gresham, world’s number one pathologist. He worked on the Australian dingo case, and many other high-profile cases. In fact, for a time, he taught Dr Lannas.’
I said, ‘Well, get him in the box and ask him what he thinks.’
It was the end of the day, and I was feeling gutted.
Now I was getting tired. This had been dragging on for eight days and the strain was doing my head in. I couldn’t sleep. I was still awake in the middle of the night and singing quietly to myself to stop my head exploding.