The next thing that we had all gone done had been to get completely hammered and wasted. However, even if a few of us had sore heads that following Monday, we had all made the connecting flight from Tegucigalpa to Houston, for our scheduled ‘red-eye’ back to the UK – including Gaj.
Gaj is currently a prominent wild life artist and photographer, sharing Lake View Cottage, at the Manor, with Hughie, whose books of children’s stories and prose he frequently illustrates. A Black Belt, in Brazilian Jujitsu, at the age of 46, Gaj became an amateur Mixed Martial Arts fighter, with some success in his weight category. He would have gone professional, if it had not of been for his extensive current work commitments. Gaj specialises in long range distant kills, with Hughie ‘spotting’ for him. Sometimes, if the assignment warrants two shooters, then Gaj and I pair up together. As well as being readily available for tours and outings, Gaj also provides support and backup for other members of the Family. And, in addition to this, he is also the Family’s armourer, taking care of our vast stock of weapons.
Just as well, really. I myself don’t know one end of a gun from the other – and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Reg and Johnny are better known as the ‘Butcher Brothers’. Only their family name is not ‘Butcher’…nor are they butchers, by trade – nor are they actually brothers; they are not even related to one another! They had been called the ‘Butcher Brothers’ because of their propensity to use butchers knives when they had gone about enforcing the will of their previous employer, or disciplining those who had transgressed.
It had been back in the December of ‘89 – the end of the eighties. Margaret Thatcher had still been British Prime Minister – just! And, in the beginning of that year, George H W Bush had succeeded Ronald Reagan as the 41st President of the United States of America…a bit of a pity really – as, indirectly, Ronald Regan had put a lot of work our way. Serial killer, Ted Bundy, had gone to the electric chair; the Soviets had left Afghanistan; Chinese students had got crushed in Tiananmen Square; Yugoslavia had won the Eurovision Song Contest, and Cher had been trying to ‘Turn Back Time’ – and, early that December, I had received a phone call from Carol, Danny Boy’s wife.
Before opening the Manor for business, Anne had advertised for staff, and it had been a young, tousled haired sixteen year old Danny who had turned up at the recruitment evening. All prospective employees had been given application forms to complete, but Anne had noticed that Danny had been having trouble in completing his. In fact, he had not written down a single word on the form. Introducing herself to him, Anne had sat down alongside the young lad, tears welling up in his eyes and his face flushed with frustration. She had quickly realised that he had been illiterate, and had offered to fill in the form for him – which he had gratefully accepted. This had given Anne time to find out a lot more about Danny. He had lived in a village, local to the Manor, and had been the eldest of six children – with four younger brothers and an infant sister. Leaving school in the spring, he had been desperate to get a job – any job that would give him a wage to take home to his ‘Mam’. He had hated school – ‘no good at leaning’ – but he had been clearly aware that a lack of higher educational skills had meant that his prospects were limited to manual labouring.
“But I’ll always works hard. An I’s always willin to learn new things, Miss…Mrs. An I won’t let youse down – I promise.” And that promise had been enough to secure Danny a job.
Danny had initially been given a job working for our head gardener and grounds man, Bert. It had been clear that Danny had not been particularly confident in working within the hotel, itself – and Anne had felt that the strict regimented routine of the hotel would place undue pressure on the young lad. Whereas, working for Bert, would be a simple ‘one on one’ working relationship – quite unlike the tiered hierarchy, of hotel management. Bert had taken to Danny straight away, treating him more as a grandson, than an underling. Their relationship had quickly developed. During his working hours, Danny had taken care of the gardens and grounds of the Manor, quickly learning a new range of horticultural skills, learning how to care and nurture, how to propagate and how to understand the seasons and read the weather. After finishing work in the Manor grounds, he had then learnt other skills, from Anne – how to read and write, and how to do basic maths…especially simple accounting.
All had been going so well for Danny – new job – new friends – new self belief. Then he had run foul of the local law. A stolen motor bike had been found on waste land, immediately behind the garden of Danny’s home, in the local village – and Danny had been accused and arrested for its theft. Now, don’t get me wrong, Danny had been no angel in the past, having had frequent run-ins with the local police – but nothing ever serious, just youthful over exuberance. Anne had been in tears when she had told me – so had Bert. Being bailed to appear before the local Magistrates Court, I had taken the opportunity to talk to Danny and had asked the question – had he stolen the motor bike?
“I suppose I’ve been a bit of bad bugger in the past, Mr Martin – that’s what he had used to call me – but I’ve changed and I ain’t no thief,” he had stated quite firmly…and he had been telling the truth – I can tell when people are lying.
On the day of the Magistrates Court, the prosecutor for the police had not known what had hit him. Our solicitors had engaged a barrister to defend Danny, highly unusual for the lowly Magistrates Court. The barrister had run rings round the prosecution. The case for the prosecution had all been circumstantial, with no hard conclusive evidence, what so ever. No forensic evidence…no witness evidence – purely circumstantial. All inadmissible evidence. And all three Magistrates had agreed with Danny’s barrister, and had dismissed the charge against him. Danny had been in tears when he had thanked Anne and me.
Danny had also been in tears when old Bert had died, less than a year later, suddenly without warning – a massive heart attack in the grounds of the Manor, which he had loved and had taken such great care of.
I only saw Danny cry once more after that – but, then, on that day, a lot of others had cried, too.
Even though he had only just turned seventeen, Anne had appointed Danny as Bert’s replacement, as head gardener and grounds man – ‘A wise head on young shoulders,’ she had said. And Danny had not let her down. He had settled into his new role with the all the fervour and zeal of a young man, which had been naturally curbed and balanced by the need for him to: ‘think things through’. A popular young man, down to earth and sometimes a bit cheeky, he was well liked by those who had worked for him, and also by the hotel staff at the Manor. So, on returning from our second honeymoon, to Lake Garda, Italy, it had come as a complete surprise to Anne when Danny had informed us of his ‘Plan’ – he had wanted to start up his own business. He had been extremely apologetic about the whole thing, feeling as if somehow he had been betraying us both, especially Anne. I had pointed out to him that we had considered ourselves to be his friends, and, if he wanted to better himself, then we would be fully supportive and give him all the help that he needed. Danny’s plan had been simple; he had wanted to buy a local run down scrap yard and build it up. He had rationalised that, providing the scrap was properly sorted, he could make money on the resale of the reclaimed metals and materials to the large re-cycling companies. Anne had asked him if he would like us to provide some investment in his venture. To this offer, Danny had proudly explained that he had saved up enough money to put as a down payment, and that he had appointment with the bank for the rest of the balance – but what he had desperately needed had been advice as to how to put a business plan together. And, together, I had helped him come up with a credible, detailed five year business plan – one that had been readily accepted by the bank.
The one thing that Danny had never shied away from had been hard work. Initially, he had run the business single handed, working all the hours God sends, drawing a minimum wage and p
loughing the profits back into the business. Then he had an inspired idea. Instead of people bringing their scrap to him, he would go out and collect it from them – charging them for the privilege. Two of his cousins had joined the expanding flourishing business, and it had grown and grown. Soon they had become too big for the site that they had occupied, so Danny had purchased a larger site, selling off the old one to a property developer at a price that had paid several times over for the new site and premises. And still they had grown and expanded as Danny had diversified. He had gone into demolition, under cutting other contractors by offsetting the discount that he gave by the value of the scrap contained in the old buildings. Then Danny had been inspired again. If he can pull buildings down, then he can put them up…and overnight, he became a building contractor. Needing transportation, Danny had then acquired a light haulage company; again taking an existing failing company and turning it round to become a profitable business. And soon, all his siblings had been working for the family firm. However, it had only been when he had expanded his scrap business into London that his diversification had taken on a more sinister note.
In the late seventies, Danny had purchased a large scrap yard, in North London – but it had not been just the scrap metal business that he had bought into. The business had been owned by a London Sicilian gangster, who had been retiring to go back to his estates in the old country. With no male offspring to hand the business over to, selling it had been the only viable means of financing his retirement. The legitimate part of the business had been the scrap yard and a collection of ice cream vans…the proper ‘business’: money trafficking; fraud and extortion; clubs, drugs and prostitution; intimidation and murder – it had all come as one package. This side of the business had also come unusually free from territorial disputes. Being of direct Sicilian extraction, with very serious connections, not even the up and coming brash younger gangsters had dared encroached on Mr V…’s turf – for those that did had invariably met with rather gruesome ends. Danny had first met Mr V…on a visit to the North London scrap yard, where he had gone initially to seek advice and ideas on expanding his own business – the North London scrap yard had been state of the art. As well as the typical crushers, compactors and bailers, it also had shredders and separators – there had even been a filtration process for the distillation of oils and fluids, for recycling. The old Sicilian had been quite taken by this very respectful young man, who had been polite and courteous with his questions, and equally grateful for the answers and explanations that he had received. So, the old Sicilian had made Danny an offer that he could not refuse – pardon the cliché.
Danny had suddenly found himself the head of a substantial North London scrap business – with equally substantial ‘other businesses’, as well. Along with these ‘other businesses’, including the organisational infrastructure and extensive network of contacts, he had also acquired Reg and Johnny, the ‘Butcher’ brothers – who had been the old Sicilian’s loyal and faithful minders and enforcers. But Danny had been quick to realise that the Butcher brothers, alone, would not be sufficient to stop other gangs encroaching into his newly acquired empire – he had need of other allies. And Danny had gone out and got them. The only part of the ‘other businesses’ that Danny had definitely not wanted to keep had been the clubs, drugs and prostitution. ’I got three gals – they’d never forgive me if they knew I was into drugs, tarts and all fucking shit, like that!’ he had once confided in me. So, very astutely, Danny had gone out and had enlisted the additional muscle that he had needed; recruiting the main Afro-Caribbean Yardie gangs, of nearby Harlesden, Stonebridge, Hackney, Tottenham and, in particular, Brixton. In return for their muscle, he had gifted them the drug business, along with the ice cream vans with which to distribute them. Later on, he would hire out his Yardie muscle to other gangsters – to ‘take care’ of rivals for them. Danny had also disposed of the clubs and prostitution, allocating them shrewdly to those major players who, in turn, would make strong committed allies. However, the money trafficking; the fraud and extortion; and the intimidation and murder, he had retained. Over a period of time, Danny had steadily established connections throughout the Metropolitan Police Force, Local Councils and other Government Departments. And, his businesses had gone from strength to strength. So had Danny’s standing within the criminal fraternity as a ‘Mr Fixit’ – the man who could get anything, or anyone, ’done’! Developing and establishing his legitimate businesses, had made Danny a shrewd hard headed business man – protecting and expanding his ‘new’ businesses had turned Danny into a ruthless vicious gangster.
‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely!’
As well as keeping in regular contact, I had also kept abreast of Danny’s criminal enterprises and connections, through Section 9’s comprehensive criminal intelligence data base – which had contained every last detail of both his and his cousin’s activities. However, it had only been his two cousins who had been involved with Danny’s criminal activities. His younger siblings, along with their respective partners, had been kept in complete ignorance as to the other side of Danny’s business – which had been controlled and orchestrated solely out of the North London scrap yard. In fact, Danny had gone to great lengths to ensure that his four younger brothers had been completely excluded from the ‘other businesses’; by giving them responsibility for running the legitimate building, haulage and recycling businesses, based throughout the Midlands and the North East – keeping them out of potential harm’s way. Danny had only been too aware that if anyone had wanted to ‘get at’ him, then they would have probably done so through his younger brothers – and, placing them out of reach, had effectively placed out of harm’s way. With regards to his two cousins: ‘They’re fucking ugly enuff, and fucking mean enuff, to take care of themselves!’ unquote. He had been at frequent odds with them. They had wanted to move back into drugs and prostitution. Danny had always insisted that they did not, and would not, be involved in ‘drugs or tarting.’ He had also taken a similar hard stance when it had come to the trafficking of firearms: ‘You never know whose hands the fucking things might fall into…could even be little kids – and I ain’t avin that on me fucking conscience.’ All this from a man who would not think twice about ordering the execution of a rival, or anyone else who had: ‘pissed him off!’ It had probably been just as well for Danny that he hadn’t ventured into gun trafficking. Otherwise, he might have found himself placed on a ‘Scheduled List of Works’, as determined by the discreet senior Whitehall Mandarins, who had presided over Section 9. Throughput the late seventies, and pretty much all of the eighties, Patrick and I had been heavily engaged in the elimination of those gangsters, actively involved in gun running and arms trafficking. If Danny had of been involved in gun running then he, too, would have been on our ‘Scheduled List of Works’.
And what would I have done if Danny’s name had of been on the list?
I would have had to kill him – of course!
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It had been early that December, near the close of ‘89, when I had received a phone call from Carol, Danny’s wife.
For several years, Danny had suffered for chronic Emphysema. Whether it had been through his chain smoking habit of at least sixty cigarettes a day; or the inhalation of asbestos dust from one of his many ‘dicey’ demolitions – which had frequently been carried out with scant regard, if any at all, for health and safety regulations – we will never know. But, whatever the cause – the effects from the progressive degenerative disease, over the years, had turned Danny effectively into a cripple, with all mobility and physical activity strictly impaired and limited. Now, his life had been strictly governed by the supplemental oxygen that he had needed to take, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nevertheless, as debilitating as his illness had been, it had not affected his absolute and total control over his ‘other businesses’. Hooked up to a portable oxygen cylinder and sitting in his electric wheelchai
r, from his ten bed roomed mansion, on the outskirts of London, Danny had still ruled his business with an iron will and an iron fist. His cousins had carried out his bidding, and his criminal associates his commands. Transgressors had been dealt with harshly…punishment meted out by Reg and Johnny – the aptly named ‘Butcher’ brothers.
For small transgressions, the punishment had usually been a ‘slap’ or a ‘tickle’ – or sometimes both. A ‘slap’ had been a beating with pickaxe handles – a ‘serious slap’, had been with pickaxe handles that had lead flashing wrapped around them; so as to break bones! A ‘tickle’ had been performed with the long bladed butcher’s knives, which both Reg and Johnny had carried. If the victim had been truly repentant and remorseful, then they would be given a free choice of where they were to be ‘tickled’; Johnny usually advising that at the top of the buttocks, where the scars wouldn’t show and they could still sit down: ‘would probably be best’. However, if it had been a ‘serious tickle’ that had been ordered, then Reg and Johnny would cut neat parallel ‘tramlines’ all over the body and face of the hapless transgressor, completely heedless of the scarring that would be inflicting – after all, that had been the whole point of the exercise. Sometimes, if the transgressor had been: ‘really bang out of order’, then they might be treated to a ‘haircut’ as well a ‘slap and tickle’, carried out with an industrial garden strimmer or, if the victim had little or no hair, they would be treated to a manicure or pedicure with the strimmer, instead! For those who had seriously transgressed; or those rivals who had been trying muscle in on the business; or anyone else: ‘taking the piss’ – then Danny would order ‘pie and mash’ for them. The ‘pie’ would be a multiple blasts from pump action shotguns, each shell containing nine, 8.4 millimetre diameter balls of double 00 buckshot. The ‘mash’ had been provided by sawn off double barrel shotguns, loaded with number four birdshot, and fired directly into the face and head of the victim. At such close range, the effect of over two hundred small lead pellets tearing into soft flesh and cartilage, had invariably led to the face being blasted away – quite often ripping off the lower jaw, as well. The barbarity of this type of execution had served as a stark warning and graphic example to others.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 23