The Devil

by Graham Johnson

  The point of the armed robberies was that they provided the little bit of wealth you needed to start off your drug kitties. But apart from the business purpose, they were always intensely emotional experiences as well. Let me just outline the process we went through when we committed a robbery. To begin with, we would have a designated area where we were going to meet before the job. When we all met up, everybody would have their own ritual that they went through. I always went very quiet and very insular before kick-off. There was a possibility that we could get caught and killed, and all kinds of different scenarios went through our minds. But one thing you can be sure of, everybody was there for the same reason – the money.

  Let’s say we were doing a job for Edgar. We’d go to the house where we were supposed to meet. Edgar always took charge from the outset, always knew how to calm people down. He’d say, ‘Come on, time to put your kit on.’ This meant it was time to put your boiler suit on, your boots, your trainers, whatever you were wearing underneath, get your clothes on and get your bally in your pocket. There might be four or five of you. If there was five, that meant there was a driver and four of you in the car who were going over the pavement.

  The car was always stolen, and there were sometimes two. We might drive from the robbery to a second prearranged stashed car and drive away in it, because we knew that the first car we were in was going to be on top. It would have been outside, revving up waiting for us to run in and out. All hands will have had a good vidi at it – all these things are smash and grab raids.

  So, we’d be in the vehicle on the way to the job, and when we got to within 100 yards of where the work was going to take place, the order would be given: ‘Mask up.’ We were now in game, because we were five guys driving along the road with masks on. There was no turning back, and we were all on offer. The adrenalin would begin to pump. The best way I can describe it is to compare it to the moment just before you start a fight. Your heart’s pounding, your palms are sweaty and you don’t know what way it’s going to go. But when it actually kicked off, it was surreal. Sometimes things moved in slow motion. Then other factors would start to come into play – the buzz of knowing what we were about to do when nobody else in the street did. The pack mentality would kick in, together with a desire not to let any of our comrades down. We would begin to move swiftly and panther-like, and crash the gaff, making as much noise as we could, because noise frightens people. We’d bark instructions at the terrified staff, ‘Nobody fucking move. This is a robbery,’ and lace it with as much aggression and power that we could muster. If it was my job to smash the glass counter, then I’d do it like the SAS bursting a ken.

  This was the early 1980s. There were screens in banks at the time, but they weren’t bulletproof, reinforced or shatterproof. If I had a good heavy tool, I could fucking smash them to pieces. The adrenalin rush I got was phenomenal in these types of robberies; concentration in the extreme was required, enough to create a ballistic force to remove any obstacle between you and the prize.

  I remember one robbery carried out by some of the boys of a rival crew, who were later convicted for it. At the time, they had their own little firm doing the same kind of robberies as us. They just drove a lorry into the wall of the bank, smashed the concrete, made a hole, ran through the hole, grabbed the money and ran out. It wasn’t rocket science. Smash and grab – same methodology, different application. Later, the police said that Curtis Warren was involved.

  After the screen went in, we’d go over the counter first, ignoring all the staff and not looking at anybody so as to avoid eye contact. We had a job to do: to fill our bags, taking the path of least resistance.

  In those days, there’d be about four or five tellers, and they’d have the day’s money in their tills. So we would smash into the bank, grab the money and load it into our bags. There was no feeling in the world like that moment. This was the actual fight taking place. It’s like when you hear boxers talk and say, ‘I was nervous, but when the bell sounded I was all right.’ Once we’d gone over the counter, the bell had sounded. We’d rehearsed enough, and we were determined. We’d done this a million times before in our minds. We’d go on autopilot, just looking for pound notes. We’d be running along the counter from till to till, looking for those nice bundles with the pink wrappers on them that say £1,000 or £5,000. We’d bundle as many of these as we could see into the bags we were carrying. I usually used a kit bag or an adidas bag, one with a big flap on it, so I could fold it back and just throw everything in without trying too hard, throwing the flap over quickly again once I was done. It was important to have the right kind of equipment for this purpose. I saw many a robber lose all their loot on the jump back over the counter because they were using the wrong kind of bag. Then they had to waste precious seconds picking it all up again.

  The alarms would now be going off, ringing in our ears. There would be people screaming and women would be lying on the floor – bloody, fucking mayhem. But if we could remain calm, we would win. How right Rudyard Kipling was. That was my forte – being cool under pressure. That’s why Edgar had chosen me.

  So, we’ve crashed the gaff with no ifs or buts, just speed, aggression and mobility, like in the paras. We’ve got the money, so it’s time for the outro. We’ve got a guy sitting outside revving the car with a mask on. Next, we’d pile back into the car and drive away from the scene, looking behind to check that nobody was following. We’re away, and from then on it would all be at high speed. We were hardly going to observe the speed limits, were we? We’d want to get away as quickly as possible. We’d have a predetermined route to follow and would know where we were going to get out of the car and what we were going to do with the stuff. It was all sorted out in advance.

  So we’d be in the car, rallying along the planned route – left, right, left, U-turn – along backstreets and one ways, the works, losing any cars that might be on our case. At the point when we realised we were not being followed, we could take our masks off. Then everybody in the car would begin to laugh. Whether it was nerves, success, tension or whatever, it was funny. It was a relief. We’d got the money, and it was over. The feeling was euphoric. If you’re a footballer, it’s like scoring a goal. If you’re a boxer, it’s like knocking out a guy and winning a title fight. If you’re in a nightclub, it’s like chatting up Beyonce Knowles and you’re on the way to the hotel room. It doesn’t get any better. We’d done what we set out to do, and we’d got our bacon. We were on our way home.

  If the job was a switcher – when you swap into a second car – then there would be a clean-up operation in which every piece of clothing would be put into a bag and set on fire, something that was usually sorted by a pre-elected clean-up man. This sort of thing is pretty run of the mill now – you see it all on TV programmes, clothes getting covered in petrol and torched – but back then it was the difference between success and 12 years in the jug. It was all about not giving away any forensic evidence. When we’d smashed a counter, there would be fragments all over us. All the police needed was one piece of debris to match to the scene and that would be enough to put a bloke in prison. Kids’ stuff. Even schoolgirls know about all this now, because they’ve seen it on some crime programme on Five. But I’ve seen hardened villains get slovenly.

  For instance, one of the lads got a piece of glass caught in his trainers on one job, but he wouldn’t throw them away because a pair of trainers to a Scouser is like the Victoria Cross to a war hero. He ended up doing six years for a £90 pair of adidas. Fucking six years. What’s that? Fifteen quid a year? Come on, let’s have it real, use your fucking brain.

  The very best part of an armed robbery was when it was time to count the spoils. I’d usually know exactly what my end was going to be in advance, cos Edgar’s intel was mostly spot on. But let’s say I was expecting 20 grand and I ended up with 38 or 39 grand, it was brilliant. However, if I was expecting twenty grand and only ended up with fucking three grand, it was anticlimactic to say the least. It’
s like scoring an own goal or winning a fight by disqualification. It sullied the feeling; it emptied me. I’d take my share, but it wasn’t what I was expecting. It was not what I was prepared to take all that risk for. Of course, there’s the steward’s and all that. The whys and wherefores would be debated and blame would be apportioned if someone had fucked up. The research was wrong, but the job was done and the crew would be sad.

  That was when everyone would start looking at each other, getting bitter and twisted, wanting to search everybody. It was the old ‘stick down’ syndrome. Members of the crew would start to think that there must be some devilment to explain why the take was down. Someone would then turn and blame someone else for creaming a bit off the top. The actual phrase was, ‘Do you know what? I’m sure that cunt’s stuck down on me.’

  If you were supposed to get thirty grand and there was only twenty-four grand, then it stands to reason that six grand has gone missing somewhere, and someone would be suspected of hiding it by sticking it down their kecks. The stick down would usually happen as the guys were getting into the van after the robbery. During the confusion, when all eyes were distracted, someone might use this opportunity to put a bit of the winnings away on the sly.

  I remember coming back from one robbery to the rendezvous point – after we’d all had to split up during the getaway – and the first thing my mate Peter Lair did was put his hand in my pocket to see if I was hiding something.

  I said to him, ‘You know what, you’re just not that bright, are you? If I was sticking down on you, do you think I’d come into this meeting with it on me? Let’s have it real, now. What do you want to search me for? Cos I would have stashed it before coming here.’ Peter Lair resented me for my intelligence, like a lot of people do, because I point things out that are basic common sense. I continued, ‘If I want to stick down on you, I’m not going to come to you knowing that you’re going to search me. I’d leave it outside, wouldn’t I? So what are you searching me for? Do you think I’m stupid?’

  And that’s the way I talk to people. I don’t suffer fools, and I don’t suffer them long. Sometimes it can get up people’s noses.

  5

  DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  As an armed robber, I had built up a serious reputation. Not only that, but I had also become known as someone who would never leave his men behind on the battlefield. If you got stuck in a building during a heist, I’d come back in and pull you out – even if I was carrying the money or it meant getting collared. I was a man of honour, loyalty and integrity.

  One time, one of the robbers I was with got wrestled to the ground during a getaway. I gazelled it back down the street to rescue him. He was being slaughtered by two cowards that had set about him; however, I had a ting on me. I pointed it at them, and they fucking ran. I saved him.

  On another occasion, I went in and saved a guy who had been injured, despite the fact that he’d already turned the robbery into a nightmare by scheduling it wrong and missing the money. I risked ten years’ jail for the pittance that we stole, but I rescued him anyway from the jaws of certain capture. I was pissed off and annoyed, but I still went back for him – like a US marine.

  I was also getting a rep as someone who could tolerate pain. One of my most defining features is my unbelievable ability to endure horrific personal injury. Whenever I had to have stitches, I refused to take anaesthetic. I could feel them sewing through the skin, but I’d smile. It was a macho thing with me. I wanted my tolerance of pain to be known.

  The next robbery involved a wages van for a huge factory. The security guard got out of the van, and I ran over and punched the guy so hard in his visor that it smashed into his face, just as I had done on my first job. He immediately went down. The visor had cut into his face and blood poured out of his nose. Edgar grabbed the bag, and we made off with the booty. When we got to the safe house, I pulled off my mask and subsequently hit the roof. In front of me was a girl I knew; in fact, it was her place.

  ‘I don’t want nobody knowing what I do,’ I said.

  ‘Well it’s her house, and she wanted to be here,’ the others replied.

  A bit of pandemonium broke out. I got about £7,000 from that rob so gave her £500 to keep her mouth shut. She never, ever said anything, but she always looked at me funny afterwards.

  I was getting a good rep, so I was recruited by another gang. The first robbery with them targeted the monthly wages for a shoe factory. The intel reports said there would be £100,000 to £250,000 in a little glass office inside the plant. This time Johnny Phillips, Curtis Warren’s right-hand man, was on the team, as well as two white guys called Smith and Jones. My job was to stop any potential have-a-go heroes in their tracks. We gave little 18-year-old Jonesy a shotgun; he was only a baby, but the gun would be enough to persuade the cashiers to hand over the money. First, it was Smith’s job to get us into the glass office by any means necessary.

  Our problems started as soon as we got to the office. The cashier wouldn’t let us in, knowing she was protected by a big glass partition and wooden frames which supported the conservatory-style structure. Smith screamed, ‘Open the door, open the door,’ but she held firm, thinking she was safe behind the bulletproof glass. However, when it came to security, they clearly hadn’t catered for the powers of a world-class athlete. So I stepped up from behind and kung-fu kicked the structure on the right angle of one of the joints. The whole partition came crashing down. It was an absolutely fantastic noise. Everybody in the factory then knew we meant business.

  We got the money and got in the car. Suddenly, we realised that Smith wasn’t with us. To give Jones his due, he said, ‘We’re getting out the car, and we’re going back in to get him. He’s me mate.’ We couldn’t leave a Spartan behind, no matter how fucking stupid he was.

  Back inside, we found Smith still looking round for more money, trying to redeem himself for failing to get the door of the office open. He was running round terrorising everybody, the fucking idiot that he was. We grabbed him, took him out and drove off. When I counted up the loot, I realised we had only ended up with £2,000. I was fuming – absolutely livid. I had risked myself for a measly two grand. I never worked with those fools again.

  However, one good thing did come out of this incident: the importance of forensics and how dangerous they were to a criminal was reinforced to me. For instance, Smith had refused to burn a new Berghaus jacket that he had been wearing underneath his boiler suit that day. The bizzies went to his house and matched up fibres from the partition that I had smashed down with those found on his top. He ended up getting a nine-year stretch. I laughed my cock off when I heard about it. From that day forward, I always made sure I got rid of my clothes – no matter what job I was doing. I reckon that saved me 100 years in jail time. So, I guess the job hadn’t been a total waste after all. Every cloud . . .

  According to the papers, Curtis Warren was doing armed robberies too, and he was a good blagger. However, things started to change when all of these guys started to go to prison. There’s a scene in the film Essex Boys that illustrates the scenario perfectly. There’s a couple of blaggers in jail, where they’ve come across nerdy student types on the prison wings. One of the armed robbers has got a picture on the wall of his cell – I think it was a Ferrari Testarossa, a car worth about £100,000 in the late 1980s. He looks at the car and says, ‘This is my dream car. I’m going to have one of these one day.’

  Then the weak student guy nervously butts in and says, ‘I’ve got one of those.’

  The hardcore blaggers reply, ‘Shut your mouth,’ meaning don’t be fucking silly.

  Nonetheless, he explains, ‘No, no, no, I’m not bullshitting. I’ve got one of them. I’m in here for growing and bringing in weed, and I’ve got one of them as a result.’ He was a Howard Marks type of guy.

  So that was how those amongst the blagging community realised that drugs were the future. It was ironic that they had gone to jail to have their futures curtailed yet they’d found
a better path within the four walls of their cells . . .

  The bonus was that Customs weren’t even switched on at the time, and it was a free-for-all. It was much easier sending a mule to pick up a parcel of drugs from some country than jumping over a counter with a shotgun. You could just go to wherever you needed to go by day boat – Holland, France, Spain – load your granny up with gear and send her back. If you actually had the foresight to have a false bottom in your suitcase, that was even better, and you could do what you wanted. It was hardly James Bond, but Customs were going for the obvious smugglers, pulling over the guys that stood there with their scruffy suits on with fags hanging out of their mouths; in other words, the ones who looked a bit suspicious. However, a pensioner wearing a floral dress and a twinset and accompanied by a few kids could walk straight through with ten kilograms of cannabis and even get a smile off the duty officer as she went by. Once again, our two friends – misdirection and subterfuge – came into play.

  It was when the mainline hard-core criminal fraternity – not your burglars and your pimps but your armed robbers – piled into narcotics on a gold-rush scale that the drugs explosion took place. Armed robbers were the royalty of the criminal fraternity. They were the hard men, the violent men, the ones not to be messed with – the men that were supposed to be given respect. They were the men from the boxing and martial-arts fraternities who had the town halls to pioneer drug empires. Even if you traced the origins of families such as the Arifs and the Adams in London, you’d find that they were armed robbers before they became involved in drugs. If you traced their criminology and mapped out their criminal family trees, you’d find armed robbers at the core. It was where the initial funds came from – the first injection of six, seven, eight or ten grand that was needed to get from one continent to another and to pick up a shipment and get it back again. After that, when criminals saw the amount of money that could be made, they wanted more. Initially, everyone started off on weed – first one kilo, then two, then one hundred and so on. Back then, the main objective of every young ambitious gangster was to get a tonne of weed. If you could do that, you were a Hall of Fame guy. Then everyone started trying to outdo each other.