‘It’s a bomb,’ I warned the wide-eyed clerks. ‘Open this door and you’ll blow yourselves up!’ I hoped my little trick would gain us a few valuable minutes. I grabbed the sack and lifted the counter flap to leave and my heart suddenly skipped a beat. There on the counter was a little metronome gadget flashing red and green lights as it swung from left to right. I found out later that it was only a warning light in case someone got locked inside the vault, but at the time it only meant only one thing to us: an alarm direct to the police. For all we knew the cops were probably on their way already.
And so much for my ‘bomb’ warning! We were hardly settled into the car when one of the clerks poked his head out of the bank’s doorway. He stared directly at the car but bolted back inside when Andy levelled the shotgun at him. Then the engine kicked in and we took off. I drove fast, but not madly. I still thought the cops were on their way and I knew the clerk had clocked the car. I wanted to be on the M8 before the word went out and the car became a target.
I hit the motorway in about twenty seconds and slipped into the fast-flowing traffic. As I was driving Andy turned in his seat and flipped open the lid of the top suitcase. He stuffed the sports bag and sack into the case along with my shotgun and zipped it shut before pulling it forward to drop into the space behind our seats.
His overalls came off to reveal his suit and he flipped the second suitcase open. All his smother went into the case, followed by my wig and scarf which he grabbed from me while I wriggled about getting out of the trench coat at eighty miles per hour. Job done and cases closed, we swooped down the long curve off the motorway and into the airport area.
The huge car park was busy, but I soon found a slot and pulled up. Andy got out right away, grabbed both cases and headed directly for the terminal building to deposit them at the airport hotel luggage reception desk. Two days earlier, he had booked a room in the hotel under a false name, giving an arrival flight number that suited our timing.
The hotel porter service would take care of the cases now and see that they got to his room. Andy then strolled back across the road to check in and pick up his room key. The plan was clicking away nicely.
I left the car park, now a smart businessman in my suit and tie, but with one important addition: some years earlier I had joined the Glasgow Flying Club and finally realised my flying ambitions by obtaining my Private Pilot’s Licence (PPL), and now my lapel displayed a Glasgow Airport police identity card, issued to all flying-club members. Unchallenged, I strolled through a restricted area to the flying-club building hidden behind the huge Loganair service hangar in the far corner of the airport. It was good, sitting safe and comfortable while the world went mad not very far away. I even thought about putting in some flying time, but all the planes were booked.
Within half an hour, the place was buzzing. ‘The airport’s been shut down.’ ‘Bank robbers have dumped a car.’ ‘They’ve taken hostages.’ ‘They’re trying to get out of the country.’ The gossip ranged wide and wild as ‘information’ trickled in. I gave it a couple of hours, then got a lift back to the main terminal from one of the club members. I immediately spotted our getaway car. It wasn’t difficult, highlighted as it was by a ring of police and their colourful motor vehicles.
I must admit that my stomach lurched at the intensity of the police activity, more so when I entered the terminal concourse. There were policemen everywhere. Uniformed officers and CID were swarming like angry bees around innocent travellers, questioning, searching, tipping out the contents of bags and suitcases. Even the luggage deposit boxes were sealed off as another squad of cops master-keyed them open in a frenzy of expectation. If the cops ever deserved the nickname ‘busies’, they certainly deserved it that day. Their job wasn’t made any easier by the presence of a huge crowd of increasingly belligerent fanatical Glasgow Rangers supporters who should already have been halfway to Germany. Their team was playing Bayern Munich in an important European Cup tie and, bank robbery or not, they intended to be there. Things could easily take a nasty turn if the flights were delayed much longer. I had to smile though when a raucous voice roared out above the general tumult, ‘I bet the fucking robbers were Catholics!’ It seemed to me that the irate Ranger supporters had more of an idea of who had done it than the police!
I strolled through the bedlam unmolested, my security ID enveloping me in a protective cocoon of righteous respectability as I threaded my way through the crowd to the upstairs cafeteria. From there, surrounded by nosey cops and angry travellers, I checked the airport’s exit ramp. The barriers were gone and traffic was moving smoothly on to the motorway again. Just a bit of fine-tuning to the plan and it would be time for me to leave.
After a soothing cup of tea, I phoned the airport hotel and booked a room before boarding the airport shuttle bus into the city. An hour later, I picked up my car at my workshop and headed home for dinner.
I checked into the hotel around eight o’clock and, as luck would have it, my room was on the same floor as Andy’s. I gave it ten minutes before joining him in his room. Real life isn’t like the movies or TV. There was no wild celebration, no tossing wads of money into the air accompanied by shouts and dancing through a storm of fluttering banknotes. The suitcases were still zipped up and they stayed zipped up even after I arrived.
We already knew how much there was: it was splashed all over the evening papers in large, glaring headlines: BANK ROBBERS GRAB £67,500! BIGGEST BANK ROBBERY EVER! DARING BANDITS ESCAPE WITH HUGE SUM! Take your pick, it all made lurid reading. According to the press, the police were closing in on the raiders and their arrest was imminent. I got up and put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door – that should stop them!
Andy’s window overlooked the car park where we had left the car and he told me the biggest fright he got was when the police had turned up with a dog team. Dogs were something we hadn’t thought of. Sure enough, the hounds were sent into the car on a long leash and started sniffing and snorting around. But his fears proved unfounded as he watched the dogs tear away in the opposite direction across the car park, under the motorway and off across a field. So much for the bloodhounds! They had even less idea where we had disappeared to than the police.
Andy and I swapped suitcases. I took his to my room and left him with the one I had brought with me for appearances’ sake. It was just a precaution in case a smart cop realised the significance of the car park and its proximity to the hotel and decided on the off-chance to check afternoon arrivals.
Of course they didn’t – but they just might have. Andy checked out before me the following morning after making arrangements to meet up later on. I took a taxi into town and was amused when the driver handed me a police questionnaire directed at anyone who had used the airport yesterday and who may have vital clues in their memory banks. ‘Sorry,’ I told him. ‘I arrived last night after the excitement was over.’ But I kept the questionnaire. Maybe Andy could help them.
The money was spread all over a single bed in a flat we had borrowed. With no notes over a fiver and more than half the total in cash in ones, it made a spectacular sight. And I had kept the tobacco tin till the end, feeling in my bones that this was the real prize.
I called Andy over and with a loud fanfare ceremoniously spilled the tin’s contents across the surface of a coffee table. I should have blown a raspberry. No diamonds and no gold coins, just a few coppers and several pieces of paper. I picked up one of the bits of paper and read it: an IOU for 10p; another promissory note for 15p upped the ante. ‘One coffee and one tea,’ I read. It seemed I had inadvertently stolen the tea float. And they complained about it too: ‘They even took the tea money!’ a newspaper reported. Yeah, big deal!
Still, job done and another mystery for the hard-pressed Glasgow Police. ‘An arrest is imminent,’ they said. They could say what they wanted as far as we were concerned. With nearly thirty grand a piece after we weighed in Bob Ross and John the gopher, we were laughing all the way from the bank.
&
nbsp; Bob Ross made me smile. When I arrived home with the money, I spotted him peeking at me through the slats of his Venetian blind. I gave him a wave, but the slats snapped shut. That evening, I jumped the fence with a carrier bag in my hands.
‘You… you robbed that bank,’ he stuttered, clearly still shocked.
‘I told you I would,’ I said. ‘And here’s your share of the money.’ I tried to hand him the bag. ‘There’s £6,700 in there. Ten per cent, just like I said.’
‘I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it,’ he panicked. ‘I want nothing to do with it.’
‘Bob,’ I said. ‘There’s £6,700 in here.’ Remember, he could have bought his house for less than that in those days. ‘It’s yours. I said I would give you ten per cent and here it is. Fuck me, you said you were desperate, didn’t you? The wife’s motor … a holiday. This will straighten you out.’
‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘Nobody got hurt or anything. And the police have no idea who did it.’
‘Bob, nobody knows anything. The job was sweet. You just take the money and nobody will know anything about it.’
‘Right enough,’ he said and nodded. ‘It’s all a big mystery.’
‘So you can take the money,’ I told him again. ‘Just be a bit careful and you’ll be all right.’
‘Look … look …’ he was stammering again with excitement. ‘I’ll take a thousand pounds. That’s all I need anyway. £6,700 is too much for me. Just … just give me a thousand and that’ll be that.’
‘OK,’ I said, handing him a grand. ‘But I’ve still got £5,700 here for you. I’ll put it away and whenever you want it, you just have to ask.’
‘No,’ he told me. ‘That’s definitely all I want.’ He pushed the money under a cushion and ushered me towards the door. ‘I don’t want any more. Oh and James …’ He began to look a bit embarrassed. ‘If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to be seen with you just now. You know … just in case.’
‘OK, Bob,’ I told him. ‘Don’t worry about it. I understand. But don’t forget, I still owe you £5,700.’ I held up the bag. ‘I’ll keep it for you.’ By now he was practically pushing me out of the door.
For over a month Bob studiously avoided me. If I went out into the garden and he was there, he would go indoors. He wouldn’t even meet me in the eye. But one day he finally waved to me and that night I jumped the fence.
‘Hello, Bob,’ I greeted him. ‘You all right now?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Everything’s fine. Nobody’s said a word.’
‘So what did you do with the money?’ I asked.
‘It was no bother,’ he told me. ‘I bought a couple of suits and the wife’s got a better motor. We’ve even booked a holiday.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ I said. ‘See. Just be a bit careful and the money’s no problem. And don’t forget,’ I reminded him, ‘I still owe you £5,000.’
‘What!’ He stood back and looked at me indignantly. ‘What do you mean, £5,000? It’s £5,700 you owe me!’
And he took it, too – all at once this time and without even a blush.
Chapter Twenty-two
Blagger on a Bike
The efficiency of the job, followed by the successful getaway, had the city in an uproar. Both crooks and cops vied with one another in their efforts to discover who had pulled the job. All over the city, eyes and ears from both sides of the fence watched and listened for any clue that would help to identify the missing miscreants.
Nothing surfaced. After an initial week of unsuccessful dawn raids, car stops and sudden searches of increasingly disgruntled Glasgow faces, the investigators began a war of attrition, gradually nit-picking their way through a long list of possibles. It was all they had and their hearts weren’t even in it. The total lack of evidence – no clues, no signs of sudden wealth among the criminal fraternity, no unexpected disappearances, not even a decent rumour to go on – left them distinctly disheartened. But I knew they would eventually get round to me; my name would definitely be somewhere on their list. Sure enough, two weeks after the robbery the police phoned my house. It was the Serious Crime Squad. They wanted ‘a wee word’ with me.
‘Could we call round to your house at about seven?’ they asked. Of course, I had to act puzzled. I mean, what on earth could the Serious Crime Squad be wanting with me? I had a bit of tightness in my stomach when they arrived, but the interview went well. My story regarding my whereabouts on Tuesday, 15 May was unadorned. Nothing particularly memorable – a normal day in and around my workshop, dinner and tea breaks in the local café covering the crucial times.
Detective Inspector McGill and his underlings were satisfied. I was only a possible anyway, and my tale was good. Not too precise, but precise enough to rule me out.
The day after that interview, I left on holiday with Margaret and Gregory: two weeks in Porec, Yugoslavia. It was lovely to get away and finally totally relax.
I honestly don’t know what it is about me. I come from a respectable working-class background; no one else in my immediate family, going back two generations, has ever become involved in anything criminal. I cannot even think of anyone who has even been remotely adventurous, apart from a second cousin who became a Salesian brother and disappeared into the South American jungle for years.
Me, I just don’t seem to be able to sit still for ten minutes. Just two weeks after returning from Yugoslavia, I talked Andy into coming with me to sunny Cyprus, having made up a story for our respective spouses that we were looking at timber yards around the UK. The holiday was great. Even now, thirty years later, I can look back and laugh at the memories of it. We took the Sandy Beach Hotel in Famagusta by storm! Room service fought to answer our calls to supply the ongoing party with food and drink.
One day on the beach, I picked up an airmail edition of the Daily Express and started reading a front-page article that had caught my eye. I had to read it through twice to check I wasn’t making any mistake. No, the article was quite clear and well up to normal tabloid reporting standards.
‘Hey, Andy,’ I gushed with a wide smile. ‘Do you know where we are?’
‘Course I know,’ he said, looking at me funny. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Come on,’ I asked again. ‘Where are we? I mean, right now. Where are we?’
‘Fuck me,’ he retorted. ‘OK, we’re in the Sandy Beach Hotel in Famagusta, Cyprus.’
‘That’s what you think,’ I told him. ‘According to this’ – I crackled the newspaper – ‘we’re living in some place called Fear.’
I read the article out. The headline was THE MEM WHO LIVE IN FEAR:
Somewhere in the city of Glasgow, two men are living in fear. Several weeks ago these men robbed a bank and instead of the usual three or four thousand pounds they were expecting, they stumbled across the huge sum of £67,000. Now they live in fear, crouched in some dingy basement, afraid to spend even a penny of this money. They know that the police are hunting them and, even worse, they know the underworld is also scouring the city in a desperate search for them too. Their fate is in the balance. If the criminals find them first they will break their legs, torture them, or even worse, to get their hands on their loot. The best thing these men can do is hand themselves in to the police and return the money. This way, they will at least be safe from their criminal counterparts and no longer have to live in fear.
I lifted my beer to Andy. ‘Here’s to living in Fear! Come on, race you to the speedboats …’
Back in Glasgow, the furore over the bank robbery had died away, although I did hear from several criminal sources that the police were pulling their hair out over their lack of success. They just could not figure out why none of the money had surfaced, why there were no wild parties, celebrations or big spending by any of the local criminal element. And no matter what outrageous offers they made to informers, no one could tell them a thing. As far as the Glasgow Police were concerned, the job was a complete mystery. Eventually they decided it must have
been a mob from the Smoke that had carried it out and, as far as I know, they concentrated their investigation down there.
I carried on as normal with my work, producing furniture at Adamswell Street, generally doing well and enjoying life. Margaret and I had several luxury holidays and I began travelling about a bit more on my own. They say that travel broadens the mind – well, I certainly found out a few interesting things: in Italy, for instance, you could go into a gun shop and buy an automatic pistol over the counter.
I liked that and decided that it would be handy for me to own a decent handgun rather than the huge automatic twelve-bore shotgun I had hidden away. However, I also found out that you needed to produce your passport when you purchased a gun in Italy and its number was entered on a triplicate receipt, a copy of which was sent to the local carabineri. I didn’t know why they did this and I was worried in case the Italian Police used it to inform the UK authorities via Interpol that a British passport holder had purchased a gun. With my record, I couldn’t take a chance on this and it was a bit of a problem until I was introduced to a young guy who was a serving soldier in the Royal Scots Fusiliers.
This young guy, Kenny, had previously served two tours of duty in Belfast and it was this that gave me an idea. I put it to him. ‘Come to Italy with me and buy a gun using your own passport for ID. If the police there refer back to Scotland Yard and the cops come to ask you about it, you tell them that you have been threatened by the IRA because of your service in Ireland.’ I reasoned that as he was a serving soldier with no previous convictions, the cops would just give him a slap on the wrist. After all, he carried a big fucking gun to his work every day, didn’t he?
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 23