by Ray Deveroux
I was straight on the phone to the police and the prison. An investigation was started. We were all exonerated of any blame; the police, however, were not. They should have been there, escorting us to and from the courts.
A few days later, the staff involved in the escape were called to the Governor’s office. This was a bit out of the ordinary. As far as we were concerned it was all over. However, the Governor wasn’t on his own in the office; there were a number of men in suits that stopped talking as soon as we walked in.
The head suit said, Come in don’t be afraid, it’s just a formality. A formality my arse, something was going on here. Big shots from Head Office and a Senior Police Officer do not come to a prison for a formality.
We would like you to come down to Scotland Yard to go over a few matters regarding the escape, the big man was saying. Now this was getting interesting. Why were high-ranking officials wanting a prison auxiliary driver, and three prison Officers to visit Scotland Yard?
Things started flying round in my head. Was this staged? Was one of my fellow colleagues in on it? Did they think it was me? I was the suspect’s main “handler”, as they called it.
We were all looking at each other, the same things going through each and everyone’s mind.
We were ushered out of the room by a policeman who had a bunch of files under his arm.
OK, Mr. Policeman was saying, I’ve got all your statements from when you were interviewed yesterday. What I would like to do is go over them with you, one by one.
He called my name first and led me into the Governors secretary’s office, which had been made available.
Don’t worry about anything. This is just a formality.
There was that word again. It made me feel worse. Why did he call my name out first? Yes, I was the most Senior of all the Officers on duty at the time, and yes, I was the suspect’s main handler. Was this why? Was I being questioned because they suspected me of something? My brain was going into overdrive. I could see the look on the faces of the other three when my name was called first.
The policeman went over my written statement, pausing at points at which he wanted to clarify. As I was quite good at making reports, mine was easy to read and to the point, so it didn’t take long.
When he finished he said, Right, I do not want you to discuss this matter with anyone. Not your colleagues, not your mother or father, your wife, kids, neighbours or even God. Do you understand?
Yes, I replied, rather more sheepishly than I’d intended. This scared me. What was going on here?
I was led out of the secretary’s office, out of sight of my colleagues, and called into the residential Governor’s office. He was there with the secretary, train tickets and expenses in hand.
Christ, Governor, this is all happening a bit quick isn’t it, I asked him.
Well, Ray, he said, like me, you are under orders; I haven’t got the faintest of what’s going on either. All I know is that I’m to issue you with train tickets to London, expenses for the day and tell you to report to Scotland Yard at 09.45 tomorrow morning. You are to go off duty now and you are not to talk to anyone…
Fuck-in-hell! What was going on here? Talk about secret fucking squirrel, this was getting me right worried.
The next morning I was off to Scotland Yard, in civvies as instructed. I told the missus that it was for an I.D. parade of the masked men who attacked the van.
What do you mean, she said, how the hell can you I.D. men who had masks on?
I just shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t say anything. This was getting surreal. I felt like James Bond being called up for execution. I was in the suit that I’d joined up in. I tried to look as normal and relaxed as I could, but I was bubbling inside with apprehension.
I got to Scotland Yard half an hour early. I didn’t want to roll up late. I was trying to make a good impression, as you do. I was ushered into one of the millions of offices and invited to sit on a leather chair.
One of the policemen I saw in the Governors Officer came in and sat opposite me, looked me straight in the eye and said, It was very important you came to Scotland yard today, there are many things in this world that you and I are not privy to and this is one of them
Yes sir, I nearly squeaked, trying to maintain an air of self-control, when all I wanted to do was shout what the fucking hell is going on here, explain in English please! But I didn’t. I just sat there and nodded.
The escape that went on last week; you maintain in your statement that you would not be able to identify any of the men in masks. Is that right? he asked in his deep authoritative voice.
I nodded yes. He went on: And what of the other Officers with you? Would they be able to identify them?
I don’t think so sir; they would only have seen what I saw – four men in masks, two with guns, and two with lumps of wood that looked like baseball bats.
OK, he said, that’s good enough for me. However, you must not speak about or discuss this with anyone else. The press will not print anything about this matter. As far as we are concerned, the incident and all investigations are now closed. Do you understand me?
Yes, I replied, but can I ask, sir, why you needed to bring me to Scotland Yard to tell me this?
Because, he said, this is a very highly delicate matter that the government and its associated agencies are keen to keep under wraps, and by bringing you to this building it shows the importance of your cooperation in the matter, I will say no more, but thank you for your help and understanding.
With that he was gone.
A woman came in, who, I presume was his secretary, with a wad of paperwork.
Sign here please, and here and here, she said, in her posh twangy voice, looking down her nose at me as though I was something the cat dragged in. Bloody hell, what was I signing for the crown jewels?
You are signing the Official Secrets Act. If you disclose any information about the matter the chief discussed with you, it will be an act of treason. You do know that you can still be executed for treason in this country don’t you? A look of complete disgust on her face that I had the nerve to question her.
I gulped.
I have no intentions of even thinking about what went on, let alone telling anyone, I said.
Good, she said. She stood and smoothed down her expensive dress, clicked her expensive high-heeled shoes and showed me to the door and out of the building.
Fresh air never tasted so good. I was glad to be outside and finished with the whole bloody lot. It was like a scene out of a film that I never wanted to see again.
In the back of my mind, I still had thoughts that I caught a glimpse of the man who had escaped from the prison van in the distance, walking down the corridor of Scotland Yard.
I kept playing that scene over and over in my head, trying to convince myself that I must be seeing things. But who knows what goes on behind closed doors in that huge building?
It goes without saying, I haven’t given a full account of what happened that day, although I don’t think the bit about me being executed for treason is current anymore. But I don’t want to take any chances. I never found out to this day what happened to the gang, no idea if they were ever caught or brought to justice. I was waiting for my next posting at H.M. Prison Hull.
My marriage had come to an abrupt halt, and I had moved into a tiny bedsit. I was miserable and unhappy. After a few months of misery, I contacted a woman I had met on one of the excursions to local pubs whilst training in Hull. I needed a friend outside the family and outside the Prison system to talk to. Jackie was pleased to hear from me and we kept in contact regularly over the phone.
I was still working in the courts, but had moved from Croydon to Guildford court. I started making breakfasts and lunches and putting on weight. My shoulder was troubling me, and I was not as good looking as before, now sporting a broken nose from the baldy bouncer.
I had made friends with people that I met in Hull. Because of the large intake of new Officers, th
e Prison Service had opened a satellite training unit at Hull College. Jackie one of the people I had kept in contact with, turned out to be my saviour and we have now been married for seventeen years, the best thing that ever happened to me.
Next Stop, HM Prison Hull
I got a transfer to Hull Prison. It took nearly a year before I eventually got released from Highdown, but it was worth the wait.
My new Principal Officer was P.O. Peter Deveroux. Would you believe it?
HMP Hull is a Victorian prison, opened in 1870, not far different to Winchester. It has been through various incarnations, as a men and women’s prison, a military prison and a borstal. In August 1976, Hull went through one of the worst prison riots in history. It was closed for nearly a year for repairs and changed from a dispersal jail to the model it is today, a local category B prison, holding both remand and sentenced prisoners. That’s how it was when I joined it, a busy local jail serving the local courts.
Pete Deveroux was nearing the end of his sentence, as he called it. He had been in service for forty-two years and it showed on his face. It had not been a kind forty-two years. He was sixty years old, but looked nearer seventy. He had taken on the training Officers task to get out of the jail and away from the cons; he had had enough and was eagerly waiting for his retirement, which was only a month away.
So Pete, I asked, where did you get the name from? I had never met another person with the same name as me and I was intrigued.
He told me that his family had originated from France in the last century, where they settled first in Ireland and then Leeds. He had joined the service at HM Prison Armley, in Leeds, a Victorian prison that had been built a few years before Hull. He moved to Hull prison just before the riots in 1976. It had taken its toll on him; he seemed to drift back to the days when it was common to have rioting prisoners and poor control.
I did feel sorry for him and made a pledge to myself that I would not let me or my family suffer in the same way as Pete.
He asked me about the origins of my name, but I had not really done any research. All I knew was that my dad was an orphan and he had been brought up with the name.
Everyone knew Pete as we walked into the jail. Ey up, Mr D, ow’s it going? It seemed as though they had their own language in Hull. I knew this of course, having been trained at Hull University, and my wife being a local. Nah then me old mate, Pete was saying to the Officer at the gate, who was just as old, bald and fat.
Smith Three had been in the service just short of thirty years. He looked, like Pete, to be older than his years. Jeez, what had I let myself in for? It was like a dumping ground for OAP’s.
Smith Three was so named because there were four Officers called Smith. All had adopted, in order, an addition to their name so that they could be identified. It seemed quite common at Hull – we had, Jones One, Two and Three, Williams One and Two and now we had Deveroux One and Two, except that Pete was never called by his surname. Everyone called him Mister D, so I became, D2. Some thought it was funny to add my first initial R and then 2, so I became R2D2 but that soon wore off as I got to know the people that worked in the jail. It was a good jail and I was starting to think that I had made the right move. I was now settled down with my new partner and starting to make friends. Things were looking up.
Pete Deveroux was having his farewell party at the local pub. Everyone was invited and it seemed as though everyone came. When he saw me there, he said that he was glad another Deveroux had joined Hull and the name would live on after his departure. He was a lovely man, not at all like a prison Officer.
Pete had all his family with him, right down to the new addition, his sixth grandchild. He was so proud of all his family. It got a bit embarrassing when he introduced me to each and every one of them, starting with the words, Ey up, tha’s another Deveroux for youse, one of the family. I think he took quite a liking to me. It was a shame he was going, it would have been a joy to work with him and listen to all his stories. I bet he had a few to tell!
Pete was seen off in style. He was genuinely upset. It was, for him, like leaving a family behind. I had the same feeling when I left the Service after twenty-five years.
He was off to the villa he had brought in Tenerife for a big bash with his whole family – all sons, daughters, grand-bairns (as they called them) and a well-deserved rest. Sadly, it didn’t work out that way. The day after he arrived in Tenerife, Pete suffered a massive heart attack and died peacefully in bed. Life’s cruel; old Pete deserved more and it’s probably the reason I took early retirement. I wanted to live a bit after I left.
My first detail was on Bravo wing, a fairly new unit that had been built only two years previously. My mentor, if you could call him that, was an Officer called Paul Swift – Swifty to his mates. However, there was nothing swift about him, except for when it was time to go home.
My new Senior Officer, Andy Perkins, told me to go find Swifty on the landings. He would then give me a run down on what happened on B wing. I couldn’t find him, so I went back to Andy.
Where’s Swifty then Andy? I asked.
He’s on the landings somewhere, supposed to be doing LBB’s (checking locks, bolts and bars, a daily ritual).
Well I’ve just walked on every landing and I couldn’t see him.
Andy was an impatient sort. He’d been at Hull Prison for his whole career and obviously didn’t like southerners.
Just go and look in the cells, you’ll find him.
And find him I did.
Swifty was in one of the cells, sitting on the toilet, trousers round his ankles, reading the prisoners paper and having a dump. Not a pretty sight.
Eh up fella, you must be the new warder from dahn sooth, he said, putting his hand out to shake mine. I politely declined his hand and gave him a mock salute. Yep, that’s me, I said, putting on a strong London accent. Apparently you have been given the honour of showing me the ropes, I said, backing out of the door. Swifty was fond of curries and it wasn’t pleasant standing in the cell doorway.
As soon as I’ve had me shit, I’ll be with you mate. Go get a cuppa, Swifty said from behind the sports page of the Sun.
Good start, I thought, the jail is full of old men and warders using prisoners toilets for a shit. Anyway, off I went off to have a cuppa in the staff room where the rest of the Officers were.
They were a bit of a mixture. To be honest, I thought at first I’d walked in on a mothers meeting. Everyone was complaining about the management changes going on. I couldn’t see what they were moaning about, the changes the management were trying to put in place were common practice in Highdown prison and, mistakenly, I told them so.
Fuck off back to Highdown then, if it’s so fucking great there, you soft southern monkey, was the chorus from the staff.
I just laughed at them and told them they were all northern carrot crunchers who didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Thankfully, northerners have a sense of humour and they laughed back. Wanna brew? They chorused. They made a space for me to sit down and shoved a mug of tea in my hands.
They addressed me as the new Mister D followed by laments of poor old Pete, what a bastard, him shuffling off the mortal coil like that. Most staff said almost the same thing when introductions were made; Pete was well liked in the jail and everyone had a soft spot for him. When it came round to his funeral, such was his popularity that the number one Governor shut the jail down for the afternoon so everyone could attend.
His wife, Pat, had Pete flown home. He wanted a cremation and his ashes spread in different places. One was near the gates of the jail, although she refused this on the grounds that the jail was the death of him. You couldn’t blame her for that. His ashes were spread between his home in Hull. His second wish was that some of his ashes were to be spread at the bungalow they had bought for his retirement in Tenerife. Pat and her sons honoured that wish. The funeral was well attended, it seemed like the whole of Hull was there to say goodbye to Peter Deveroux.
A
fter I had settled myself in the middle of the group of Officers the questions came thick and fast. These northerners were a nosey lot of bastards. The youngest among them was about thirty and he was destined for higher things than walking the landings. Rob was a short fat bloke with an unruly mop of curly gingerish hair. He also had a different accent to the rest and you could tell he was tolerated rather than part of the team. Still, Rob was the first one that made me welcome, so I couldn’t fault him for that. Perhaps, being an outsider himself, he knew it would be hard for me to fit in. The rest were a mish-mash of Officers who had been there years. Rather like HM Prison Winchester, they didn’t like change either.
I was introduced to them one by one, each Officer trying to outdo the other in the Seniority stakes. The oldest was Frank, grey curly hair and a hawkish nose. He had a deep Hull accent and I had to ask for a translation, much to his annoyance and the delight of the others. He didn’t have any kind words for soft southerners and made it plain that he didn’t want anything to do with soft southern ways, i.e. the changes that the management were trying to enforce. However, Frank had many stories to tell, and he delighted in telling them, especially about the riots in ’76, which had everybody else groaning. Obviously they had heard it all many times before, but I found the stories interesting.
Turkish Dave was the next Senior. I found out that his name didn’t come from him being Turkish; it was because he frequented the country and was forever trying to sell you cheap shirts from the back of his car.
I’d already met Swifty, a tall skinny bloke with huge hands (apparently he was a goalkeeper for the local team) and a wickedly dry sense of humour.
Then there was Bob the Builder. I kid you not, he was known by that name long before the kids programme and he was off to sue the BBC! Bob was a former brickie; no job too big or small was his motto and to be fair, he did a good job on our garden wall.
Marie was a mumsy type of woman, late forties, always on fad diets and failing every one of them, but she was good for the wing. She kept everyone in order and made sure we had enough tea, milk and sugar, so everyone respected her. She was good with the prisoners too. Marie would wag her finger at them if they swore in front of her and they in turn would reply sorry mother.