Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery

by James Crosbie

  After smartening myself up, I was satisfied with my appearance – even my mother would have walked past me in this gear – and just after nine o’clock I hit the pavement. My first thought was breakfast and I made my way a couple of hundred yards down the road to a workman’s café at the junction outside Haymarket station. It was lovely to get into warm surroundings again and I ordered a big mug of tea right away, with another to follow along with a full breakfast.

  I don’t usually suffer from headaches, but the night in the shop must have brought this one on. I tried to ignore it at first, but it was really becoming too much for me. Then, halfway through my mug of tea, I spotted a box of aspirin tablets on a shelf behind the counter and asked the girl for a packet of them. She reached up and felt inside the box, before lifting it down only to discover it was empty. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But if you really need them, we buy them from that shop over there.’ She pointed to a large newsagent’s directly across the road.

  I got up from my seat and, leaving my rucksack, hat and even my sunglasses behind, headed across the road to the shop. Traffic was heavy and I dodged across the busy lanes, dived into the shop and bought myself the life-saving aspirin. Unfortunately I never got the chance to take them, because on the way out of the shop I was hit by the ubiquitous Murphy’s Law in the form of two Glasgow CID officers who just happened to be driving back from the High Court in Edinburgh when they spotted me crossing the road in front of them. They leaped on me, stuffed me into the rear seat of their car and hightailed it for police headquarters. I was captured.

  Edinburgh Police Headquarters was disturbed by the sound of my chauffeur as he drove into the car park madly pumping his horn. Heads popped out from everywhere and in two minutes I was being frogmarched upstairs and directly into the chief superintendent’s office. He was almost beside himself with joy and hands were being shaken all round – except mine, of course!

  I was shoved down into a chair and became the object of intense curiosity as almost everyone in the building seemed to make a point of looking in to check on me. The circus went on for ten minutes or so before anyone actually decided to speak to me. ‘Right. Shoes off. Empty your pockets.’

  I did as I was told, having thrown in the towel by this time. My meagre possessions lay exposed on the chief super’s desk – very few items and just about £25 in notes. The chief super poked the money about for a second or two, then looked at me.

  ‘We’re looking for a lot more than this,’ he shouted, throwing the notes into my face. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ I looked up at him. Did he actually think I had twenty grand hidden about my body? ‘Come on!’ he screamed at me. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

  As I said, I had chucked it in by now. I was fucked mentally and just didn’t feel like putting up a fight or being awkward. ‘I left it in the café,’ I muttered.

  ‘Café? Café? What … what do you mean you left it in a café? What bloody café?’

  ‘Across the road where I was picked up,’ I told him. ‘I was in there having breakfast when I went out to the shop.’

  Faces paled and there was a mad scramble for the door as my words sank in.

  ‘The café! He’s left the money in the café!’

  ‘What café? Where?’ I could hear them shouting at one another as they scrambled downstairs. I could only describe it as a mélée as they thundered downstairs in a mad race to find the money, leaving just me and the chief super staring at each other. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d got up and ran out along with them. Looking back, I think that there’s every chance I would have got away with it.

  ‘You left it in the café!’ The chief super muttered the words almost to himself as I sat staring at him.

  Once the initial excitement of my capture had faded, I found myself locked up in a holding cell waiting for an identity parade to be organised. Although I had already admitted carrying out the raid in Gorgie Road, the police still wanted to gather evidence against me in case I reneged on my statement.

  Sometime in the early evening, I was opened up and taken to an interview room. The troops had arrived from Glasgow and Paisley, all of them anxious to speak to me. But I had very little to say. I told them I had thrown in the towel and would be pleading guilty to all charges. Of course, that brought a smile to their faces and you’d have thought it would satisfy them. But the next thing I know, Chief Inspector McGill from Glasgow gets out a blank statement sheet, puts my name on it and gets ready with his pen.

  ‘OK, James,’ he says (they’re all very friendly when they want something), ‘that’s good. So if you’ll just tell me when you first got the idea to rob a bank?’ He prepared himself to scribble.

  ‘Hold it! Hold it!’ I said. ‘I’ve just told you, I’ll be pleading guilty.’

  ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘I know that and that’s good. But you’ll have to tell us where the money is [he actually thought the Whiteinch money was still around!] and explain how you planned the robberies, where you got the guns, where you left the car, where you went after the robbery and, of course, we’ll need to know the name of your accomplice.’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ I said, plain and simple. ‘I’ve already told you, I’m pleading guilty. What more do you want?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ McGill said. ‘If you are pleading guilty, you’ve got nothing to lose by explaining things. I only want to dot the Is and cross the Ts. You know, fill in the details. And it will definitely go good for you if you give us back the money and tell us the name of your partner.’

  ‘Look, Mr McGill,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got me and you’ve got a result, but you’re not going to get anyone else or any money back through me. I’m pleading guilty and that’s all I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Look, James,’ he coerced, ‘you’re done and you’re going to jail. What harm can it do now if you tell us everything you know. Remember, we’re in a position to help you if you help us.’ He gave me a wink. ‘Know what I mean? All I’m asking is a bit of co-operation from you.’

  ‘Co-operation?’ I was getting fed up with his cajoling. ‘I’ve already told you.’ I emphasised my words. ‘I’m pleading guilty. Full stop. And as far as I am concerned, that’s cooperation.’

  ‘You do realise, James,’ he said, sitting back and trying to look confident, ‘that what I’m doing here is giving you a chance to show you are willing to help. You see, we actually know everything anyway. We know all about it, the whole shebang.’ He leaned into my face to drop what he obviously thought was a bombshell of information. ‘We even know about the Dundee connection!’

  I looked at him for a couple of seconds. I had momentarily forgotten about my bus ticket ruse. Then the penny dropped and I suddenly burst out laughing. It hurt him. I could see his eyes squint in frustration.

  ‘You … you…’ he stuttered with rage. ‘Listen, Crosbie, if you don’t help us out here, I’ll see you get twenty fucking years for this. You’ll be an old man by the time you get out.’

  I just couldn’t help it. The Dundee connection! I was still laughing. Jesus, it had worked! McGill gave up on me after that, stomping away with his face a picture of frustration.

  After that the others took turns talking to me and talking at me, always trying to sound so reasonable. ‘What have you got to lose?’ ‘You could only do yourself a favour.’ ‘Why should you take the rap on your own?’ I listened to what they had to say and simply reiterated my position: ‘You’ve got me and I’m pleading guilty, so think yourself lucky with that.’

  During one of the lighter intervals, I remember one of them shaking his head and saying to me, ‘A bike! Imagine getting away from a bank robbery on a fucking bike! Aye, you had us there, son. But tell me, what gave you the idea to use a bike?’

  I just couldn’t resist it, but I kept a straight face when I replied, ‘You know my record, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, we know that all right. But what has your record got to do with you getting away on a bike?’ He looked
really puzzled.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ I told him, my face as straight as a die. ‘My last offence was drunk driving. I’m under a year’s driving ban.’

  I saw him look puzzled for an instant, then my answer sank in and he lashed out, slapping me across the face – frustration, I suppose. ‘You … you … fucking Glasgow Keelie!’

  It was about the only bright spot of my day, finally convincing them that it was no use trying to make me talk. They gave up after that and headed back to Glasgow, leaving me to my thoughts.

  The following morning, the sheriff remanded me (no bail!) to Saughton prison, where I waited three dismal months before being called to perform a starring role in the trumpet-blowing, fancy-dress panoply of the long-running Edinburgh High Court pantomime. You would think that they would be happy with my guilty plea. You know, saving the cost of a trial and all that. But instead of getting a little consideration, maybe even a slight discount on my sentence, all I got was a severe tongue-lashing from a stern-faced Lord Robertson for my failure to co-operate with the police in naming my accomplices or returning any of the money stolen from the Whiteinch and Hillington bank raids. ‘James Crosbie,’ he said, ‘you are nothing more than a cold, calculating scoundrel, whom I consider to be the most dangerous man in Scotland and, indeed, a threat to the very fabric of our society.’ (I was beginning to think that he was talking to someone else at one stage of his diatribe). ‘And as such I have no hesitation in sentencing you to twenty years’ imprisonment. Take him away!’ And that was that.

  Twenty years! Twenty years tossed out as if it was nothing by a judge who later sentenced a multiple rapist to five years, then gave eight years to a paedophile who kidnapped, sexually abused, burned and tortured a three-year-old and left her for dead. Yet this same judge gave me twenty years for stealing money, with no one physically hurt or injured in any way. Lord Robertson’s message was clear and simple: people, even children, don’t matter – money does.

  What could I do about it? Not a lot, that was for sure. Only one thing was certain: I was going to have to get on with it. The Chinese have an old saying: even the longest journey begins with the first step. Well, even the longest sentence begins with the first second and I had just started. I remember lying on my bunk that night, on strict security with my clothes outside my door, light on all night and my cell-door spyhole being rattled every fifteen minutes. Twenty years? How many days is that? How many hours? How many seconds? I couldn’t work it out, not even the days.

  But one thing I did know for sure; I was on my way to Peterhead Prison. PH. The Napper. All names for Scotland’s very own Alcatraz. A place full of nutcases and psychopaths and I was booked on the very next bus.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Papillon of Peterhead

  The road to Peterhead and by this I mean the metalled road, not the metaphorical road paved by a wayward lifestyle, started for me at the gates of Saughton Prison. There were about eight of us on the fortnightly draft to the penal outpost and the journey began in an almost carnival atmosphere: cons were cheerfully passing round precious tobacco and sharing treasured sweets as they cracked jokes and made outrageous observations about the passing world beyond the confines of their bus. But the carefree convict carry-on and false bravado did not last for many miles. We were handcuffed two-by-two; the darkened windows were barred; the doors were securely chained; there was a sawdust-filled bucket for a toilet; and we were guarded by six surly, uncommunicative screws who soon destroyed the fleeting illusion of freedom. It wasn’t a bus we were on, it was a travelling jailhouse.

  Gradually we withdrew into a quiet, introspective silence as the bus drove us steadily northwards, pausing first at Perth Prison and then advancing to Aberdeen. Soon enough I was back at Peterhead and I did not like it at all. It was very depressing sitting on a concrete stool in a cold cell of the punishment block, waiting for my name to be called out, then hearing the tramp, tramp, tramp of approaching feet and the rattle of keys as a screw unlocked the door and led me through to the reception desk.

  ‘Crosbie?’ The reception screw looked up from his papers and spoke down at me as I stood in front of his high, schoolmaster’s desk.

  ‘Yes.’ I had long since learned to be economical with answers in jail.

  The screw studied me for a moment or two, a slight questioning look on his face. ‘Crosbie, James.’ He gave me my full name in reverse and continued his query. ‘Twenty years?’ He sounded sceptical, as if he had made a mistake

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘You’re Crosbie?’ He looked me up and down and there was no doubting the surprise in his voice. By now I was beginning to think that maybe there had been some mistake.

  ‘That’s me,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Huh!’ His snort was very definitely disparaging and he had a distinctly disappointed look as he began to process me. I didn’t realise it then, but I later found out that my appearance had been most disappointing to him. He had obviously been aware that I was arriving and had conjured up an image of some huge, thick-necked, brawny, bald-headed bank robber well worth slapping with a twenty-year sentence. But it was only me. And there I stood in front of him as threatening as a high-street handbag snatcher. He was not impressed.

  And it appeared that the resident gangsters had also seriously misjudged me, obviously equating the size of the man to the size of the jobs he had done, a fact that became clear when I was handed a cardboard box containing my prison issue clothing. In anticipation of my arrival, the gangsters of PH had had my uniform and shirts specially made up for me in the prison’s tailor’s shop. The clothes would have fitted John Wayne, with the shirt sleeves dangling from my wrists like two flapping sheets and a jacket that would have looked loose on Mike Tyson.

  I was very definitely a disappointment to the welcoming committee of known Glasgow faces. I even caught one of them looking at me in shock, his face screwed up in consternation and mouthing to his pal in tones of amazement, ‘Is that him?’ Yes, I’m afraid it is, pal, I thought to myself as I was escorted up to my security cell on the third floor of A Hall.

  The day after my arrival, as the final part of the reception procedure, I was marched in front of the governor – a kindly old soul (for up there anyway) called Angus – and officially ‘welcomed’ to Peterhead. You often hear of people being described as a fatherly figure and that was exactly what old Angus was. He never ranted and raved, was never vindictive, did his daily rounds of the workshops with a tolerant smile on his face and accepted the misbehaviour of his charges with a reproachful look and sad shake of his head as he imposed his inevitable penalties on them.

  But like all prison governors, Angus was merely a figurehead. The real power in any prison in those days was the Chief Officer. It still is, but they have different titles nowadays and wear suits instead of uniforms. But, a rose by any other name … So it was Gibbering Gibby who took it upon himself to put me in my place.

  ‘You! You, Crosbie! You’re the one that robbed all those banks. Aye, well, there will be no bank robbing here [he wasn’t called Gibbering Gibby for nothing]. You’ll behave yourself in this place, I’ll see to that. Tailor’s shop for you, m’laddie. Security party, that’s where you’re going. And mind, I’ll be keeping my eye on you!’

  And that was that. My reception was complete. I was in the jail and in my place, all sorted out in a matter of minutes.

  On my first working day in Peterhead I lined up with the other security men and off I marched to the tailor’s shop. I was witness to everything in that workshop, from near fatal stabbings to practical jokes and crazy killers telling crazier tales. It would be impossible to report on all of the players who starred in the continuous workshop soap opera that was the PH security party. The very fact that each individual had ended up there meant in itself that every one of them had a unique, often bizarre story to tell. And, just to give you a taste of the really bizarre, I’ll tell you about Hadgey.

  With a forehead that sloped do
wnward at almost forty-five degrees, ending up in a thick thatch of eyebrow fur that shadowed the deep hollows of his sunken eyes, Hadgey could easily have been mistaken for a walking, talking Piltdown man. Huge in the shoulder and strong as an ox, this modern-day Neanderthal worked on the sewing machine next to mine and naturally we talked about our cases. It didn’t matter that everything had been widely reported in the press and although every word had been minutely pored over and discussed in detail, other cons still thirsted for the inside story. And Hadgey’s story would make even a Hammer Horror scriptwriter recoil.

  How do you start a conversation with a madman? The trick is, you’ve got to pretend both to him and yourself that he’s not mad. You’ve got to learn to treat these nutcases with kid gloves and talk to them in a perfectly normal conversational manner. You must listen to them as if their story is simply part and parcel of normal daily life. Usually these sorts of conversations begin with the simple question: ‘How long are you doing, then?’ But this is merely a ploy to pave the way for the next question: ‘What did you get that for?’ It doesn’t really matter that nine times out of ten you already know the answers to these questions, it is just a polite opening gambit to get the guy to tell his tale. Hadgey’s story takes the top prize. Well, there was another guy who butchered most of his family, including the dog – but for now I’ll just tell you Hadgey’s tale.

  ‘Life!’ You always had to inject a little note of surprise when your first question was answered. ‘What did you get that for?’

  ‘Strangled a fucking dwarf.’

  Not exactly monosyllabic, but without any elaboration of any kind it sounded rather stark to say the least. And you mustn’t recoil or look in any way shocked at this bald statement of fact. It is, after all, just a normal conversation – for Peterhead, that is.