‘It was on the hurry-up,’ I pleaded, pointing out that I’d had to make quick decisions.
‘You’ve hurried up to do bird,’ Frankie warned. ‘You ain’t gonna walk away from this. There’s a gun involved.’
Andy the Greek arrived and pitched in: ‘You forgot the rules. We are all there for each other and we don’t bring in outsiders. We would die for each other. We sort everything out ourselves. So what the fuck has gone down here?’
‘For fuck’s sake, it was a bit of work and there was supposed to be a lot of money in it, so I went for it, OK?’
‘Not OK,’ Chrissy snarled as he walked in and sat down opposite me. His muscular body and square, manly face looked threatening as he stared me out. ‘You’re really in the shit now. We’ve never done an armed robbery before. That’s the big league.’
We had plenty of rackets going on, without the need for amateur armed robberies, so I could see his point. Up until then I’d charged people to ensure their property wasn’t damaged; moved dodgy gear around; put the right people in touch with the right people; and dabbled generally in low-level crime.
In the early days, firms would have regular business meetings, when boundaries of operations would be agreed. My territory in North London stretched from Highbury Corner to The Archway, across to Finsbury Park and the edge of Caledonian Road. But there were always those who wanted to expand. The Turks and the Greeks at Finsbury Park ran gambling in the cafés and prostitution all over the place. At Highbury the Tong – Chinese Triads – dealt in drugs, but that was usually among their own people. In Kilburn, the Irish firms dealt in building contract protection, and also had collections for the IRA. So you can see that plenty of people wanted to take over our patch and our lucrative businesses.
We had various money-making schemes going – and a lot of them provided income for doing nothing or not very much. My dad, in fact, gave me the inspiration for a really good earner, but he had no idea about it. A shopkeeper had told my dad that his insurance premiums were going through the roof because his windows were smashed by drunks on Friday nights. Kids who threw stones also caused him sleepless nights and the insurance costs went up and up. Well, I asked the shopkeeper about his problems and hit on a top business idea. I sussed that businesses had to pay a fortune after two attacks on their premises – the third claim meant prohibitive insurance premiums. So we arranged for some little horrors to break windows in shops and restaurants … making sure the owners were receiving their second ‘hit’.
We targeted entire streets, and the businessmen were terrified of having windows smashed for a third time. So we then offered to protect all the shops from vandals, made it known we offered value for money, and ensured that future window breakers knew we would go after them. The result: no more vandalism, no more high insurance premiums and a big drop in crime. Sweet!
Of course, one or two shops became complacent and decided to dispense with our services. They reckoned that, with such a huge fall in crime, they could do without us looking after their business interests. Well, we just walked away of course, and, surprisingly, a few bricks crashed through their windows once more. That did the trick, and we started taking their payments again.
Our services also included spreading bad news. One restaurant on our books had serious competition from another eatery, which wasn’t paying us. We spread the word throughout the manor that the other place had to be avoided at all costs because of the amount of food poisoning it sent its customers away with. Of course, that restaurant boss saw sense, was allowed to join our scheme, and received a clean bill of health from our ‘reviewers’.
I saw myself as a businessman. Even as a teenager, I wore a three-piece suit, and made sure other members of the team did the same. It added an air of respectability and made our operations appear more business-like. We were just businessmen going about our daily jobs.
My suits came from a tiny, thin man called Aubrey Morris – no longer with us, sadly – who was a Jewish tailor at Highbury Corner. He provided made-to-measure two-tone mohair suits. My favourites were a blue suit with a gold fleck and a dazzling champagne and gold version. I also wore a dark blue pinstripe outfit, which I called my ‘city suit’.
I didn’t pay for those high-class garments. Aubrey was an elderly craftsman who toiled at his cutting table with his skullcap and thick-rimmed glasses, he was an elderly craftsman who toiled at his cutting table; predators found him easy prey. He’d allow hard-up young blokes to pay ‘half now, half later’, but very often he never received the other half. Some of the punters paid weekly, although that system usually lasted for only two or three weeks. One gang used to take money from his till, then snatched jackets from the rack and scarpered. When he said he was calling the police, they threatened to burn his shop down.
One gloomy December day, planning my next job, I popped in to see Aubrey, and he told me his business woes.
‘They’re going to ruin me,’ he moaned, with a pained expression on his gaunt, lined face. ‘I can’t keep losing money like this. Anyway, at least I know you’ll pay up. What are you looking for?’
‘Listen to me, Aubrey,’ I replied firmly. ‘We can do business.’
‘Eh? What sort of business? You don’t want me to go robbing, do you?’
‘No, not at all,’ I assured him. ‘Here’s the deal.’
‘Deal? What deal?’ Aubrey blurted out, anxious not to be linked with the crime scene.
‘If you give me two suits a month, I’ll make sure that no one comes into your shop, robbing. At the end of the month, you give me the list of people who owe you money and I’ll collect it for you at no charge. Don’t worry – they’ll pay up.’
Aubrey grinned and held out his hand. The arrangement worked perfectly. It was a sweet deal, because my top tailor had zero trouble after that. I did knock shit out of some blokes who’d taken him for a ride, and word got round. In fact, Aubrey was so pleased that he took pictures of me in his best suits and placed them in his window. They advertised me as ‘the best-dressed man in Islington’. Can’t argue with that.
I also wore the finest hand-made leather shoes from a shop in Holloway Road. The shoe shop manager was having the same issues with shoplifters, and chancers who didn’t meet their payments. Aubrey met the manager in the synagogue and told him about our arrangement. I offered the same service to the shoe shop, which was accepted, and I chose a new pair of shoes to match every one of Aubrey’s suits. When I arrived for my shoes, the manager packed my old ones in the box for me. He was able to claim on insurance and say shoplifters had made off with the new ones.
As I reflected on those lucrative schemes, Tony the Greek appeared, and said, ‘Bobby, you are worth more than this. I thought you were shooting squirrels. Yes, shooting squirrels!’
Andy the Greek stood up and muttered, ‘We’ll go round to see those guys and make sure they take the rap for this.’
Just as I thought I could escape for a breather, Big Eddie’s enormous frame dominated the doorway. He’d been at his bird’s house and decided to join in the lecture. Big Eddie was about five years older than me. He came from a large Irish family, with a strict father in charge. Eddie’s dad was a big guy and Eddie had inherited that huge Irish frame. He was just enormous as a teenager, with oversized hands and fingers. He used to come to the boxing clubs with me – he was our ‘puncher’ and, if he clumped you, there was no getting up off the floor. No one messed with Big Eddie when it came to a fist fight. And for us, he was the complete loyal soldier.
‘Bobby, you must be fucking crazy. You know that we don’t work with people outside the firm.’
I decided not to make any more excuses. Eddie and the others went off in search of Stan, Mick and John. They found all three and gave them instructions for the court case. Stan, Mick and John agreed to say that they had carried the gun and organised the bit of work. Of course, the gun had been held by me, but their story was accepted; my co-defendants didn’t fancy taking on Eddie and his mates. The
y agreed to say that I was just on the fringes of their operation.
I then plucked up the courage to speak to my mum and dad, who were total straight-goers. Although sixteen or so, I still lived at home occasionally. I had my own flat, but moved between houses; it was important to keep on the move in case anyone was looking for me.
‘I’m in a bit of trouble,’ I told them.
‘What’s going on? What sort of trouble?’ my mum asked, looking upset.
‘I’ve got involved in something on the street. It’s nothing, really.’
When I confessed to everything, she cried her eyes out and pleaded with me not to do any more armed robberies. My dad was no fool and had sussed what had been going on in my life for some time. He just made sure I didn’t lie to him.
‘I don’t know what you do and I don’t want to know what you do. But if your mother gets affected by this, we’ll fall out big time. I want nothing coming back to your mother’s doorstep.’
‘I’m doing fuck all, Dad,’ I lied.
‘I’m not a fool. I haven’t just got off the boat. I’m not a fucking idiot. Don’t talk to me as if I am a fucking idiot. Remember the rule – it doesn’t matter what happens, you will never lie to me.’
I felt a bit sheepish, and probably looked a bit like an apologetic sheep.
‘I know you’re doing things that ain’t right. It’s your life, if that’s the way you want to go. Just remember this – you’ve had one taste. In those big prisons they tame lions. Do you understand?’
‘Well, they’ve never tamed a lion like me! And they never will.’
We had to go to the Old Bailey as the charge was none other than possession of a sawn-off shotgun.
I met the Krays for the first time during that court case. They were on trial at the Old Bailey for murder. We were walking along the landing from our cells to go to our separate courts. The twins were in Court 1, so it was a high-profile trial. They strutted along looking like a million dollars, dressed in smarts suits and immaculately groomed. I didn’t know who they were at first.
The stockier of the two, with a rounder face, asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m up for possession of a firearm and armed robbery. It was a sawn-off shotgun.’
The startled villain said, ‘You cheeky bastard. You’ve got some front, son. I’ll give you 10 out of 10 for that. What age are you?’
‘I’m sixteen,’ I admitted, feeling so young and inexperienced as I looked at two hardened veterans, who were dressed to kill. Perhaps I shouldn’t say ‘dressed to kill’, but they looked ready to enjoy an evening at the opera. But beneath their lavish garments their faces and whole demeanour gave the impression of serious criminals.
‘We’ll be seeing a lot of you.’ The stocky one grinned as the other nodded.
‘Yeah, you probably will,’ I said, as they disappeared down the steps to their court.
The screw who was with me said, ‘Do you know who you were talking to there? You may not have seen them before, but you’ll have heard of them all right.’
‘Well, they’re obviously villains. Who are they?’
‘You were talking to one of the most infamous criminals of all time – Ronnie Kray. Ronnie and Reggie are the kings of the East End.’
I froze. I gulped. The Krays. I’d just talked to the fucking Kray twins. They’d said they would be seeing me again. For fuck’s sake.
The sentence in my case, for the bodged armed robbery, ranged from two years to six months; I got away with six months at Aldington detention centre in Kent.
I went there in a well-guarded bus, and as soon as I got off I knew what lay in store. There were prison officers, some in uniform and some in civvies, all over the place. They made me stand in front of a wall and one of them came up and punched me in the mouth. They made me run along a corridor; it was horrendous, as they lined up and beat me as I ran.
As I’d been done for carrying a firearm I was classed as dangerous, and they needed to control and intimidate me. Most of the other guys were inside for stealing cars and all that, so they escaped the worst treatment.
I was taken to a reception centre and locked in a single room. When they bolted the door, it didn’t worry me. I was more upset at the beating when I arrived, because that was a million years away from rehabilitating anybody.
I stayed in that room for a couple of weeks while I was assessed. They made sure I wasn’t a suicide risk and didn’t have mental health issues. They delved into my background and found out all about my previous escapades and the botched armed robbery with the mugs. When they were happy that I’d only done what it said on the tin, I joined twenty-five other lads in one of the dormitories.
More brutality was to come. The ‘daddies’ of the dorms were allowed to steam into me. These guys were the top dogs who dominated the other prisoners. As they hammered into me the screws just looked on, but I took note of all the faces to make sure they would pay a hefty price.
At that detention centre, I met a black guy called Everton and discovered that we had a lot in common. We were both junior boxers, and developed a real bond. Everton had also been attacked by the daddy of his dorm, and wasn’t too happy about it.
‘We should really let them have it,’ he snarled over breakfast, as we nursed our wounds.
‘Let’s do it,’ I said, and we both nodded.
I need to explain something. I was short and wiry, but I had great inner strength. It all went back to the fights with Jimmy the school bully. There was something inside me: an animal instinct, a rage within me. I was only five foot six, and there was more fat on a greasy chip (I have the same build to this day). I hadn’t known that all this rage and ferocity existed until I beat the shit out of Jimmy.
As Everton and I plotted to get stuck into the daddies of the dorms, I thought to myself: ‘I am going to destroy you. I am going to really hurt you. If you hurt me, I won’t feel pain. I’m not afraid of anything. You can beat me up if you like, but I will rip you to pieces.’
Yes, I was ferocious. A bully could be six feet tall. He could give me all the lip he wanted. He could attack me with all his might. But for me, being so small, it was all or nothing. I went at people like a wild animal, and usually won, without any talk or hype. I was ruthless.
After breakfast we walked into one of the dorms and picked out the ones who’d beaten us up. There were several of them, but we fought like tigers, punching and kicking. No one could believe the level of our violence.
The rest of the prisoners looked on in awe as we became the daddies of the dorms. The screws came in and were really sweet to us because they needed us on their side. We could have caused all sorts of problems for them.
Mum and Dad decided not to visit me. It would have broken my mum’s heart. The rest of my friends came to see me, though, as I’d expected.
I survived those six months as one of the top dogs, and came out fighting fit and totally brutalised. I’d learned so many lessons. I was ready for a life of organised crime, carefully structured to make money.
I was ready to cause absolute havoc.
CHAPTER THREE
DAYLIGHT ROBBERIES
I EMERGED FROM that shithole of a detention centre as a superthug. I’d kept myself fit, running hundreds of laps around the football pitch: if you couldn’t complete twenty-five laps at a time they forced you to keep going, carrying a medicine ball.
It was time to concentrate on the business end of crime. I’d learned from my mistakes with the amateur armed robbery, and set about building a professional empire. Those insurance and protection rackets continued, but I raised the stakes to a frightening level.
You eventually get to a stage, when violence escalates, where you become like a god, deciding who lives and who dies. In practical terms, my tactics became a means to an end. If someone was interfering with my business, I ‘educated’ them by telling them that they were in danger. If that didn’t work they were intimated: put up against a wall and a gun smashed in their
mouth. If they still didn’t listen, and they continued to operate business in an unacceptable way, they were eliminated. I call that the eternal triangle of violence: education, intimidation and elimination.
I depended on reliable information, a detailed plan, the right people to carry it out and the right tools for the job.
Every day people get up to go to work, climb aboard the bus with the same people, talk about what happened the night before and moan about their workload. They talk about their boss being a creep, or discuss their debts and the kids. For years and years they go to work like bees working for the queen bee.
Management at the top of the tree exploit the average person, and there is no way out. When you’re trapped with a mortgage and a family to clothe and feed, there is no escape. They are slaves to industry, with the promise of a few weeks’ holiday in the sun in some shithole in Spain or Greece. There, they are ripped off by the locals and come home with dodgy trinkets, the type you might see in the local cut-price, rubbish shop.
Armed robbers, operating as businessmen, have a completely different life. On the other hand, gangsters charge around like bulls in china shops, causing chaos, drawing attention to themselves and giving everyone a bad name.
I’ll tell you how a real professional armed robber operates. These people enjoy the high life for short periods, then are caught and banged up in a concrete tomb for longer periods. They sleep next to the toilet and practise the art of chronic masturbation, dreaming of the women they’ve been with. They believe that it is better to live the high life for dazzling short periods than to endure a life of drudgery.
Armed robberies are not done on the spur of the moment. Only muggers do that, so you can see why they are called muggers. The wise guys rob the banks and get the big money. The muggers rob people in the street and get small money. Both get similar sentences when caught; muggers really are mugs.
We got up at the same time as our neighbours, but that was where the similarities ended. We went to a café to have a full English breakfast, and met the rest of the firm to look at possible jobs. It was important to have a normal routine; we didn’t want anyone to ask questions or get suspicious. The worst thing in the world was suspicious neighbours. Those who knew me and grew up with me kept their mouths shut, for fear of retribution.
I Am Not A Gangster Page 4