Later on, at about seven o’clock in the evening, I was taken up to the CID room and began telling the usual tales. It has always been my policy when dealing with the police to talk as much as possible, yet say nothing. This interview was no exception and I was getting to the point where they were becoming very slack with me. I reckoned in another five or ten minutes they would be leaving me on my own when other odd items of business needed their attention. Then I would be up and crashing out through a window – or something!
Things were very definitely beginning to look promising. I had just offered to sweep the floor for them and they were laughing at my innocence, when the detective handling my case picked up the phone. I heard him asking the station operator to connect him with Glasgow Central Police Headquarters. He was grinning over at me as he passed over my name and date of birth. Then the smile suddenly switched off and he straightened up in his chair. ‘What?’ I heard the inflexion of surprise in his voice. ‘Yes, yes. I’ve got him here in front of me,’ he said. ‘No, don’t you worry about that. He won’t get out of here.’ He put down the phone and turned to his mate.
‘This little bastard’s on the run from Glasgow. Jumped out of a courtroom window a couple of weeks ago.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Right, you! Downstairs, now!’
We were halfway down the stairs, with me in an armlock, when we met the custody sergeant hurrying towards us. When he reached me he gave me a hard clout around the ear and said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are… the Count of Monte Cristo?’ I knew he had found the tiles I’d pried from my cell wall in a futile attempt to escape.
I was hauled up before the magistrate on Monday morning and remanded in custody for a week in Wormwood Scrubs Prison.
At least reception in the Scrubs was a lot more civilised than the Bar L. The stripping off and medical were much the same, as was the bath, but I got a real towel and thought things weren’t too bad. One big improvement on the Bar L was that in the Scrubs remand prisoners could go to work. It helped to pass the time and if you wanted to you could get quite handy with a needle and thread and a huge sheet of canvas. Still, time passed slowly and every seven days I would be whisked through reception for an appearance in court to continue my remand. Very little broke the routine until, three weeks in, I got a visit from the police.
I wasn’t bothered about seeing them and it made a break from sewing mailbags, so off I went. It turned out they were from Greenford, investigating the break-in at Mr Chinnery’s house when the licence had been stolen. I told them that I knew nothing about the break-in and that the licence had been bought for ten quid months ago. They had nothing on me and because of the outstanding case in Glasgow they weren’t interested in pursuing the matter. Then they started questioning me on my movements on the day I escaped from the courtroom. I told them straight out that I wasn’t going to tell them where I had gone that day.
Then they asked me if I had gone straight to London or if I had stayed in Glasgow for a few days. I told them I didn’t want to discuss it. Then they came out with their bombshell. Shortly after I escaped, a young woman, Anne Kneilands, had been found murdered and robbed of her purse near East Kilbride.
As I was on the run and heading south, I was a suspect. Now what did I have to say? ‘Oh, well,’ I stuttered. ‘That’s different.’ I told them all about staying at Molly’s, but missed out the glazing job. I realised later that I was never really a suspect. I just had to be checked out, that one-in-a-thousand possibility. It gave me quite a fright at the time, but I never heard any more about it.
I had been committed to the County of London Sessions and, as I had already made a plea of guilty, I would be appearing there for sentence. I wasn’t looking forward to it, because all the feedback I was getting pointed to borstal. This was not a very attractive proposition, especially as you could be made to serve anything from nine months to four years, depending on your behaviour and the whim of the authorities.
My only hope was escape. At this time there was a high partition cutting off the bottom end of the remand wing in the Scrubs. I began to get ideas about it and gave the partition a close inspection. It rose about ten feet above the fourth-floor landing and I saw that by standing on the handrail it was possible to climb over it and drop down into the unused section of the hall.
Each end of the prison wings in Wormwood Scrubs was identical in design and I had inspected the cast-iron-framed windows that rose from the first floor almost right up to the arched roof. About eight feet above the fourth landing the straight sides of the window frame began to curve over to make an arched top. I had spotted that the central pane of glass, where the curve began, was a half-round section of window that was slightly wider and deeper than the others. The more I looked at it, the more I believed it was big enough to let me through.
I had been watching the screws and had an idea that they did not pay a lot of attention when they did the count at teatime. I had seen them talking to prisoners or sorting out some argument over the food and I decided that there was no way they could keep the count in their heads through all these interruptions. As they didn’t do a final check after our doors were locked, I knew that, when they shouted down ‘Forty-two on the fours,’ or whatever the number happened to be, they were only reading the numbers off the landing board and not giving the result of a physical count.
So one evening when we were opened up for tea, I stuffed all my blankets and things, including my door card, in the corner behind the door so that the cell looked vacant. Then I hurried along to the recess and, after a quick look to make sure no one was paying any attention, I climbed over the partition and dropped down on the other side. Once over the partition I was free to walk about, as it was impossible to see me from the occupied part of the wing.
First of all I climbed down to each landing and swivelled open the tall narrow sections that ran up to the beginning of the curved part of the window. I climbed up to the fourth landing again and stood on top of a handrail that ran across the face of the window frame. From there I could reach the half-round pane of glass; I smashed it with the heel of my shoe and cleared the broken glass away as best I could.
There is a sort of catwalk against the windows above the fourth landing in the Scrubs and I could reach this with my hands. I took a grip on it and, like a sailor swinging through a hatch, I aimed my feet out of the hole I had made and wriggled my body through. Somehow or other I managed to twist round and grip the iron frame of the window and then I simply climbed down using the windows I had spun open as a ladder. Finally I jumped down on to the small porch-like roof of the hall doorway and from there to the ground. I had the idea that I could make my way over to the reception area and try to get on or under some transport to get myself out of the prison.
The trouble was that the reception was at the exact opposite corner of the prison to where I was right then. There was nothing else for it: I had to try and get over to the reception area if I was to stand any chance of getting out. Fortunately, I was at the rear of the cell blocks and there was little coming or going of anyone there. Most of the movements were made either from the central doors leading directly on to a long corridor that connected all the halls, or from the hall doors facing the front of the prison.
I made it all the way to D Wing before I was forced to cut down towards the corridor. I managed to get across the corridor and kept going towards the front of the building. I got that far too; then, just as I stepped out to pass the front of the hall, the door swung open and I was standing there in a pool of light in my brown remand clothes.
‘What the…’ The screw couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got to go back to reception to collect my sheets.’ I tried to come out with something. But by now he had got a grip on himself. And on me!
‘You’re a remand. How did you get here?’ Then he noticed the blood on my hand, which looked a lot worse than it really was. ‘You better come with me, lad,’ he said, as another mystified off
icer joined him.
They walked me back to the remand wing and rang the bell. The screws inside didn’t even know I was missing and were amazed to see me standing there. I was taken over to the sick bay to get my hand attended to, then they marched me back to the hall to show them how I had got out. They were astonished that I had managed to get out of the window and had climbed down the face of the building.
I was relocated to the ground floor and put on the escape list. This meant you had to wear clothes with large patches on the jacket and trousers for easy identification. At night all your clothes were taken off you and left on a chair outside your cell door. I don’t know why they did that; I don’t think anyone has ever got out of one of those prison cells once the door has been banged. I appeared at the County of London Sessions in Marylebone Road and got what I expected: borstal training.
Chapter Seven
The Ballad of Reading Borstal
In 1956, Wormwood Scrubs was the allocation centre for anyone sentenced to borstal training, so back I went. For the first four or five weeks of my sentence there didn’t seem to be much difference in my status. I was still sewing mailbags, only this time I was dressed in the navy blue of a borstal boy. I had been taken off special watch and my clothes no longer exhibited huge light-coloured patches on strategic points; maybe it was because I was just beginning my borstal training and I was being given a fresh start.
I went through a twelve-week assessment so as to give the authorities an idea of where to send me. And the time came for allocation. ‘1484 Crosbie.’ A rising inflexion and my hopes soared. ‘Gaynes Hall.’
Yes, done it! I felt a buzz right through my body and heard a few expressions of surprise above the excited rise of whispers. ‘Jammy bastard!’ ‘Fucking anointed!’ were only two of the phrases I caught. I’d talked my way out of a hard time. Most of the lads were amazed at my result, but no one begrudged me my success. It was put down as a victory for the boys.
Gaynes Hall was in Cambridgeshire, near the small country town of St Neots and two of us had been recommended for that institution by the allocation board. Within a week we were on our way, the journey being made in style in a private car belonging to one of the escorting screws that had come from Gaynes Hall to collect us. We weren’t even handcuffed and the screws wore civvies.
The dormitories weren’t locked at night and there was only a night watchman on to make sure the lights went out and that there was no carry-on. I think I had been there about one week when that red flag was waved. I had arranged to meet a co-prisoner, Peter, at the rear end of the dining hall at one in the morning. I made up a bundle in my bed and simply walked out the door and over to the meeting place. Peter was already there and in a few minutes we were crossing the fields in the direction we knew would take us to a main road and then on to St Neots itself. I must admit it took us a lot longer than I thought to reach the road, but eventually we saw the glow of headlights in the distance and this spurred us on.
By the time we finally got to the main road, dawn was starting to break and instead of heading straight into the town we decided to cross the road and wait in the woods until it got dark again. I suppose it must have been about four in the morning by then and we were worried about the daylight, us still being so close to the borstal. Besides, we had been told all the stories about previous absconders hitch-hiking and being picked up by staff or police. We decided not to take any chances. It was a long day and, believe me, we were both starving by the time it got dark again.
We stayed in the woods and fields, walking parallel with the road until we reached the outskirts of St Neots. When most of the house lights had gone out, we made our way over to a golf club car park where we had spotted a couple of cars. I knew how to use silver paper in the fuse box and soon we were on the road to London.
It must have been about 1.00 pm when we arrived and I drove straight to Bravington Road. There were no lights showing and I didn’t want to disturb the Joneses by ringing the doorbell. I knew Don was out because he always pulled the curtains at night when we were in. He had to be down at Studio 51 and we decided to carry on down there. We had no sooner passed Harrow Road police station when a police car fell in behind us.
After a few moments they gave us a bell – they used bells in those days instead of the modern sirens. I had no chance of outpacing the Wolseley squad car, but tried anyway. They came alongside me and forced me on to the pavement where I had to brake. Peter and I tumbled out of the passenger door and we made a run for it.
I ran across Harrow Road and on to a bridge over the railway lines. Halfway across the bridge I saw another police car heading towards me, so I swerved and tried to cut back. The driver of this second police car must have seen this because he accelerated and crossed right over the bridge before stopping and letting his observer out to intercept me. I tried to dodge round, but I was hemmed in by the high iron sides of the bridge and ran right into the policeman. I was well whacked about by the cop who had been chasing me and got knocked to the ground; it later transpired that I had two cracked ribs. Peter had already been captured and was sitting in the first police car that had forced us off the road. My latest great escape was over.
We were taken to Harrow Road nick and our story soon came out. They took details from us but we weren’t charged with stealing the car or anything. The next day we were returned to Wormwood Scrubs. I was expecting but not looking forward to the big interview and the ‘you have let us all down’ routine, but nothing was mentioned. This was probably because we were kept in the remand wing instead of the borstal allocation wing. I don’t know why they did that. Maybe they didn’t want us talking to the new borstal boys. Whatever the reason, they kept us away from there until we were transferred to another borstal.
This time there was no need for allocation boards. There was no choice. It was Reading Punishment Borstal we were going to whether we liked it or not. And believe me, we didn’t like it.
The pleasant screw who had kept us supplied with fags and toffee on the way to Reading went around us and unlocked our handcuffs as the coach pulled into the prison yard. Outside, we could see one or two people gravitating towards our coach, obviously screws coming to check over the latest arrivals. We were still in quite a cheerful mood, glad to be out of the Scrubs and back into a proper borstal again, even if it was Reading. Since then I’ve often said that I wish they had called my name first to get off the bus. That way I wouldn’t have known what to expect and therefore wouldn’t have had time to get scared.
‘Adams?’ The screw at the door of the bus mildly called out the first name on his list. Tony Adams got up from his seat with a smile and sauntered down the aisle. When he got to the door he turned as if to make some remark to us. He didn’t get the chance to speak. A surprised yelp left his lips as the mild-mannered screw clouted him roundly on the head and thrust him down on to the pavement. There were two screws standing there to catch him as he stumbled, dazed and shocked, into their arms.
One of the screws threw him against the wall screaming into his ear, ‘You’re in Reading now, you little bastard!’ He pushed Tony against the wall as he yelled at him, ‘You do everything in here at the double, d’you hear me. At the fucking double! Now.’ He grabbed Tony and flung him towards the next screw. ‘Get moving! And double!’
‘Right!’ The new screw took over the screaming. ‘Keep doubling on the spot when I’m talking to you. Keep doubling, I said!’ His voice roared even louder as Tony seemed to falter. ‘You! You double through that gate over to that door,’ he pointed. ‘Downstairs, first right, right again, through the door, left turn, right turn again and mark time in front of the desk, knees up to the chest at all times.’
‘Bristow!’ The mild-mannered screw read the next name from his list in a calm, casual voice as if all this behaviour was a common everyday occurrence. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he encouraged the suddenly scared-looking Bristow. ‘We haven’t got all day, you know.’
We had a grandstand view of hi
s ordeal from our vantage point on the bus and it was a nightmare! We all sat and stared at one another as the hapless Bristow high-kneed it awkwardly out of sight. Jesus Christ! Was this it? I can tell you, we were all suddenly terrified. I don’t know if I was fourth or fifth off the bus, but whatever number I was, I had seen the treatment handed out to everyone before me and I was quaking in my shoes long before my name was called out. I was practically doubling on the fucking bus to try and please them!
Then, a complete bundle of nerves, I heard my name. Like those before me I was flung off the bus and bounced off the wall once or twice before being forcibly propelled towards the next sadist. Indecipherable instructions were screamed into my ear and I was thrust towards the building, completely confused by the shaking and the shouting.
Was it right, right, then left? Right, left, left? No, surely it was right first then… then…? I was totally bewildered, my mind running riot with the instructions. There was another screw waiting just inside the small doorway to reception. Another clout on the head. ‘Faster, you lazy bastard! Keep those knees up! Double!’ I was pushed on down a corridor. Was it right now? Please, God, don’t let me fuck up! Another turn. Another screaming maniac. ‘In there! There, you stupid bastard!’ Pushed through another door to come up against a desk. Three screws now, all shouting at once. ‘Strip! Clothes off! Don’t stop doubling, you bastard!’ Another clout.
Knees pounding up to my stomach, I tried to undress. I honestly don’t know how I, or anyone else, managed but somehow or other, between staggering and stopping for bare seconds of time, I got my clothes off and my borstal gear on. Then I had to stretch my arms out in front of me while blankets, sheets, clothes, boots, overalls and all the other kit I needed was loaded on to them. There was no slackening in the doubling and no slackening in the shouting. It was a thousand times worse than the RAF had ever been.
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 8