Once Upon a Crime

by Jimmy Cryans

  I was sitting in Central Cafe one Monday afternoon waiting to meet Christine when the door opened and in walked four men. I knew immediately that they were CID and that I was their quarry and I wasn’t wrong. They came right over to me and blocked any avenue of escape. The head honcho, who turned out to be Scottish and whose name was Davidson, said, ‘Are you Jamie Cryans?’

  I replied, ‘Well, some people do call me Jamie but, yes, I am Jim Cryans. What do you want?’

  ‘We are arresting you and you will be taken to the police station to be questioned on some matters relating to theft and burglary which we believe you to have been involved in.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but I have got absolutely nothing to say to you.’

  Once we were at the police station it very quickly became clear that this was no fishing expedition but that many of the allegations were spot on. There had been talk and not just by one person – the cops knew too many details. I refused to answer any of their questions. But they had obviously done their homework on me because they not only knew Ma’s address but also everything about Christine, her place of work and also her home address. They informed me that they had search warrants for all these properties, so why didn’t I just do myself a favour and co-operate with them?

  I said again, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you people.’

  Searches were carried out and after a couple of hours I was confronted with various pieces of evidence, the most damning of which was some bank passbooks that had been found in Christine’s bedroom. This threw an altogether much more serious light on things, as I had presented myself in various banks posing as account holders and forged signatures to relieve the banks of a few grand. Fraud, forgery and deception were serious charges. Christine was also under arrest and was being questioned next door.

  I looked at Mr Davidson and said, ‘Here’s the deal. This has got absolutely fuck all to do with Christine. She doesn’t even know about the bank books or all the clothing and jewellery from her place that you have. I told her I bought them. So you let her go and I will make a full admission.’

  I knew that they had a very strong hand to play against me but I also knew I was offering them a very tempting deal. It would not only save them a lot of time and effort but would also go on the books as crime solved and a big feather in their cap. So the deal was agreed. It was the right thing for me to do. You may recall something I said earlier about certain rules I try to live by, one of which is that when it goes pear-shaped you take it on the chin. You never, ever name anyone else.

  I appeared in court and was granted bail thanks to a good lawyer, but I had accepted the fact that I would be going away and it kind of took the pressure off. I continued to go about my business – now that much more choosey about who I did business with. I reassured both Christine and Ma that I would be OK whatever the outcome, but there is no doubt that both of them were extremely worried.

  Christine assured me she would wait for as long as it took, and it is to her great credit that she stuck by me all the way. It goes without saying that my wee ma did exactly the same. When I think back now to the love, loyalty and support I received from these two exceptional women I am truly humbled.

  Chapter Eight

  In the summer of 1969 I met John Renaldi for the first time.

  He was originally from Islington in north London and his story was almost identical to my own – he had even lived for a while on the same caravan park.

  John was a couple of years older than me and was someone who I admired and looked up to. He was so different to anyone else I had encountered: intelligent, street-smart, funny and easily the best-dressed guy I had ever met. John was of Italian decent, but a cockney through and through. He could have a real fight and he was a thief. What wasn’t to like? Now it was John I turned to as I faced prison. ‘You’re fucked, Jim,’ he said. ‘The best you can do is go to court with a good job in place and maybe a few good character references, maybe even make an offer to repay all the money you stole.’

  I knew John was right and I appreciated him giving it to me straight. He also added something else that in our game was a big plus. ‘The one good thing to come out of this is that you have really handled yourself well and your reputation with everybody is solid. We all know that you took it on the chin and didn’t give anybody up and you are a guy who can be trusted and relied on.’

  John was to figure prominently in my life for the next 30 or more years and he was like the older brother I never had. Though I haven’t seen him for over five years, my love and respect for him has never diminished and I miss him. John is no longer ‘at it’ and lives quietly with his wonderful partner Ann in a lovely little waterside apartment in Newbury.

  My priorities now were to spend as much quality time with Christine, my ma and the family and to prepare for the ordeal that lay ahead. I was quite confident that I would be able to handle whatever was thrown at me but I also knew that it was going to be very hard for me to be separated from Christine.

  My trial was to be held at the Berkshire Assizes in Reading on 9 November 1970, just a couple of weeks away. I went with Christine and Ma, driven by my brother-in-law James. My QC did not exactly inspire me with confidence, saying, ‘Yes, very tricky this one – in a bit of a tight corner but I will do what I can.’ My first thought was, ‘Fuck me, this is a bit over the top.’ I pleaded guilty and the judge did not even bother to retire to consider the sentence. ‘Very little has been offered on your behalf in plea of mitigation and I see no sign of remorse. It would appear that the only regret you feel is that you were caught and find yourself standing before this court today. You are therefore sentenced to borstal training for a period of not less than six months and not more than two years. Take him down.’

  I wasn’t worried for myself but I was aching inside for the pain that I had seen in both Christine and Ma’s eyes. But for the moment I had to put that to one side as I knew that I would need all the strength and determination that I possessed to get me through this.

  I was transported to Oxford jail on a single-decker coach. The prison was the oldest and the smallest in England and had only two wings – A wing for adult prisoners and B wing which housed the young prisoners. A wing had five tiers and held about 200 men packed two and sometimes three into cells that were meant to hold one prisoner each. B wing had only two tiers and held about 40 or so young tearaways, housed two to a cell. This was my first experience of an adult prison but like so many things in life it was not as bad as you imagine it to be beforehand.

  I was the youngest in the place so the guys kind of took me under their wing, though after a few days they quickly realised that I was more than capable of looking after myself. One of the things that has always helped me in situations like this is my sense of humour. I have always been quite a funny guy and able to make those around me laugh, and in prison this ability is almost as valuable a currency as tobacco.

  Both Ma and Christine came to visit me that first week and both shed a few tears, but I did my best to reassure them and let them know I was OK and coping well with everything. The regime was quite relaxed, with the attitude being that we were all in the same boat and tried to make things as easy and as pleasant for each other as was possible. This was also an opportunity to meet and to learn from other guys new and exciting forms of criminal activity and it truly was a finishing school for a thief. I made full use of this and also made contacts who would prove very useful in the coming years.

  Apart from one or two fights it really wasn’t a violent environment. We had PT most days, the food was bearable and we were allowed to smoke and had been given some tobacco and papers on admission. I now had to learn the art of rolling my own cigarettes, which I mastered very quickly.

  When I was transferred to Wormwood Scrubs prison in west London I was struck by how similar it looked to the Norman castles I had seen at the movies. The massive entrance gates were flanked on either side by turrets that included small narrow slots through which archers wou
ld be able to let loose their arrows. We were ushered into a small room where a doctor gave us our ‘medical’. This consisted of him telling us to take a deep breath and then to breathe out while he tapped once or twice on our chest, followed by him pronouncing the same diagnosis to each of us: ‘Yes, you are fit. Next.’ It was reassuring to know that I had a clean bill of health.

  I then had to strip naked and was handed prison-issue clothing. It was down to luck whether they fitted you or not. I wasn’t lucky and ended up looking like a mini scarecrow because of my small stature. I was then given a haircut, but I use the term very loosely as this was no more than some older convict given a pair of hair-clippers. I came away looking like a refugee from a Nazi concentration camp. We were marched through the prison and across several massive courtyards to the borstal wing. It was about 100 metres long and five storeys high and housed about 800 young guys.

  The first things to hit me were the smell and the noise. It stank with a mixture of piss, sweat, cabbage and fear, and the noise was somewhere between a football match and a lunatic asylum. Welcome to gladiator academy. I instinctively knew that I would need to be on full alert in this snake-pit and that any sign of weakness would be fatal. I was placed in a cell with two guys, both 20 years old. One was a very street-smart Londoner and he was a really smashing guy who asked me straight away if I needed toothpaste or tobacco. He was typical of most Londoners I was to meet over the years: always ready to lend a hand and with a wicked sense of humour.

  Fights were commonplace at slopping out, meal times or on the exercise yard and I witnessed some really tremendous battles. There was only one occasion when I was involved myself and it happened as we were queuing at the hot-plate and a guy tried to jump the queue in front of me. I said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ to be answered with, ‘Fuck off, you little slag.’ I just whacked him over the nut with the metal tray I was holding and he folded like a deck chair.

  Boys from all over England were put together in the Scrubs as this was where they would be allocated to the various borstals. It was a real mixture of guys from London, Birmingham, Portsmouth, Liverpool and some Scots boys who had lived in England. Many alliances were made that were to last a lifetime and many of the guys who ended up as top dogs in their various cities started their rise in the young prisoners’ wing at the Scrubs.

  I arranged a visit with Ma and Christine but on the day they walked right past without recognising me. Ma cried out, ‘What have they done to you?’ Both of them were in shock at my appearance and I must have looked a pitiful sight. ‘Oh, my God,’ said Christine and they both had tears in their eyes.

  I tried to make light of it by saying, ‘What do you mean? This is the latest style up here in the big London town’ and once they had calmed down we had a really good visit, though it only lasted half an hour. As they turned and walked away my heart sank and I was suddenly hit with a wave of loneliness. I have no doubt that both Ma and Christine were wiping away a few more tears.

  After a couple of months I was sent on to Guys Marsh near Shaftesbury in Dorset, an open borstal which was less severe. We arrived on 3 December 1970, a bitterly cold day with a covering of snow everywhere. I was allocated a job with the garden party and soon settled in. It was good to be out in the fresh air after being cooped up in a cell. I had a visit arranged for the week just before the holiday and I couldn’t wait to see Christine and my ma again. I knew they would feel much better after seeing me as I looked much more like my old self. They arrived on a Saturday afternoon and the visit was a real tonic for all of us and lasted for a couple of hours. This was to be the pattern for the next ten months and both of them were on time at every visit.

  I had my own small room, which had to be kept scrupulously clean. Every Saturday a very thorough inspection was carried out by an officer who was an ex-naval commander and he didn’t miss a trick. The whole place was run on military lines and discipline was very rigid with plenty of physical activity. My footballing ability was spotted early on and I very quickly won a place in the borstal team that played in a local league, so I managed to fill my time.

  The hardest thing for me was being separated from Christine who I had grown to love and cherish. She was everything I ever wanted in a girl and I missed her so much that it was physically painful. Christine was really wonderful during what must have been a very difficult time for her. She wrote to me two or three times a week and her letters were fantastic, full of love, support and encouragement.

  In borstal you did not have a precise liberation date and you had to earn the right to be released. The trick was to do this in such a way that you did not become just a yes-man. In the time I was there I only spent one period of five days in the punishment block for fighting. On the whole I managed to get on well with everyone and met some interesting characters. A guy called Pete Judge from Romford was a real live wire and a bit of a hard nut. A big character from London was called Dave Fabray and another Londoner who had real presence, what cockneys call ‘a tasty geezer’, was Harry Harris.

  Before I quite knew it I had been given my release date, 8 August 1971. Soon I would be back with the two people who meant more to me than anything in the world, my wonderful wee ma and my beautiful Christine. It couldn’t come quickly enough.

  Chapter Nine

  I was now almost 18 years old, had just come through what is a rite of passage for criminals, completed my first true custodial sentence and had emerged in pretty good shape.

  Of course, that may depend on your point of view. It could be asked if I had been rehabilitated and changed my ways? I have to be truthful and say, no, I had not. That is not to say that it did not register with me in any way, because it did, but only to remind me that this was the price that sometimes has to be paid if you choose to live your life outside the law. For me the rewards outweighed the risks. I was not at the stage yet when I would give any thought yet to the wider implications of my criminality in terms of victim empathy, moral implications and so forth. It was simply a case of staying one step ahead of the law. Yet I did not jump in straight away and continue where I had left off. For one thing, I was on licence and had to report on a weekly basis to my parole officer. It was also a condition of my release back into the community that I had to be gainfully employed.

  It was great to be back home with Ma, my brothers and my wee sister, and they were all so happy to have me back. But I had itchy feet and I knew it was time for me to strike out on my own. Christine felt this just as keenly. The opportunity arrived sooner than we anticipated when two brothers from Liverpool I knew gave me details about where to rent a small caravan for about £8 a week. It would be a bit primitive but at least we would be together in our first home. Ma gave us her blessing, which was important to us. I assured Ma that we would not be strangers and we spent almost every weekend at her house.

  Now Christine and me could sleep together in our own bed every night, but I use the word ‘sleep’ rather loosely. Christine had qualified as a hairdresser and decided to do her clients’ hair in their homes. She was very successful and with my job on a building site we had a good joint income. It was now 1972 and I was offered better pay on a new site almost in the centre of Newbury. This made life a lot easier, as Christine had also taken on a job working part-time in a pub called the Castle Tavern.

  We moved into large, self-contained room with shared bathroom in the town centre. Christine was brilliant and gave the room all the small touches that made it into our own little home. Now we had a place right in the middle of town, plenty of money and no worries. As the summer drew closer we made plans for a two-week holiday north of the border. I was keen to show Christine where I grew up.

  I had continued to stay in touch with my da, Hughie, and he took us to a small one-room flat in the Gorbals, which suited us just fine. I don’t think Christine was too impressed with Glasgow but I took her to watch my beloved Celtic and she really enjoyed the occasion. She was without doubt the gamest and bravest woman I have known,
literally fearless. She would not back down from anyone. There was a side to her that when provoked would unleash a fury that was marvellous to behold unless you were on the receiving end. On more than one occasion she pitched in when the odds were stacked against me – and I mean in fights against men.

  During this holiday I was first introduced to the man who was to become known as the Godfather of Glasgow, Arthur Thompson. Hughie and I met at lunch time one Sunday to go to the Celtic Social Club on London Road. Christine had opted out so it was just me, Hughie and a few of his pals. The club was always a bit lively with a band on and anybody could get up on stage and do their turn. It was a full house and it generated a great atmosphere. At one o’clock the double doors to the hall opened and on each side stood two very broad-shouldered and flat-nosed men wearing well-cut suits. They silently scanned the whole room before letting in an immaculately dressed man in his early forties. He stood about 5ft 10in and was powerfully built. He had the coldest, most piercing eyes I had ever seen and he exuded power and menace. I had been around enough tough guys in my time to recognise the real deal.

  I turned to Hughie and said, ‘Who the fuck is that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Arthur,’ came the reply from Hughie. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘Arthur who? He looks like he works for Murder Incorporated,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Aye, you’re not too wide of the mark there, but don’t let him hear you say that. He’s Arthur Thompson and he just about runs this town. We are old pals but I havenae seen him for a wee while – he’s not long out of Peterhead.’

  As Arthur made his entrance the whole place became deathly quiet. Even the band stopped playing. He moved slowly and deliberately, stopping to shake hands and smiling the kind of smile that came only from the mouth but never reached those cold eyes. To say he had presence would be an understatement and as a young guy I was duly impressed. Hughie left it until closing time before introducing me as we walked down the steps at the front of the building. It was almost like being presented to royalty. Hughie did not wait in line with the many others but simply stepped forward and with his hand outstretched said, ‘Hello, Arthur, good to see you. You’re looking well.’