by Howard Marks
England’s consumption of marijuana and hashish was about three tons a day, considerably less than America’s twenty-eight tons. One to two tons was, and still is, consumed in London every night. But to sell that amount took longer. It would be difficult to sell more than a ton of Colombian marijuana a week, every week. Fifty tons would last a year.
Stuart Prentiss was ready to do another scam into Scotland, but he wasn’t able to handle fifty tons. He could get away with importing fifteen tons, but he would need money in advance to buy another boat. He could store five tons for as long as was necessary, but that was it. The other ten tons would have to be quickly taken from Kerrera, preferably by boat, and stored elsewhere. Another landing place and some suitable storage facilities were needed. The Florida gangsters grudgingly accepted these terms.
Peter Whitehead, the person from whom I had obtained World-wide Entertainments’ office in Soho, bred falcons for the Saudi Arabian royal family in the tiny village of Pytchley in Northamptonshire. The building looked completely innocuous from the outside, but inside, fierce falcons occupied a complex of enormous purpose-built cages. It was ideal for storing marijuana.
Peter Whitehead also continued his profession of producing and directing films. He would sometimes have to rent locations in strange places. In Scotland, one can rent stately homes with land down to the sea. Whitehead could make a film at a location rented for the purpose of landing and storing marijuana. It was an excellent front.
The following letter was written on stationery headed ‘World-wide Entertainments Inc., European Head Office, 18, Carlisle Street, London’, to the Lochaber Estate Agents, Fort William, Inverness-shire:
Dear Sirs,
During the winter period, our company will be producing a semi-documentary film located in the Western Isles, and set in the latter half of the last century. We intend to rent a large lochside property capable both of accommodating the staff (about 6 to 10 people) and of featuring in certain parts of the set.
We would wish to assume tenancy by about December 1st of this year and stay for a minimum of three months. Adequate funds are available for the right property. If you have anything which you might consider suitable for our purposes, would you please let me know as soon as possible?
Yours faithfully,
Donald Nice.
Conaglen House, a baronial mansion on the coast just by the entrance to the Caledonian Ship Canal at Fort William, was available for £1,000 a week.
James Goldsack, after a brief spell of being in prison and a long spell of being a junkie, was now back to perfecting his business of wholesaling marijuana and hashish. Jarvis, Johnny Martin, and Old John were also keeping body and soul together in similar fashion. The three of them should be able to sell a ton a week.
Patrick Lane was now in a position to move almost unlimited quantities of money from one part of the world to another. If given cash in London, he could credit it to any account in the world. Patrick and his family moved from Limerick into an expensive mansion overlooking Hyde Park.
Karob was a deep-sea salvage tug, an ideal craft for smuggling large quantities of contraband. Salvagers could be found anywhere on the ocean without attracting suspicion. If questioned, the captain could claim to be acting on a tipoff of a boat in distress. Communications between salvage tugs were often covert and coded. Loading and unloading equipment was in abundance on the decks. In December 1979, Karob picked up fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana and steered through the hot Caribbean towards the chilly and stormy waters of the Irish Sea. Stuart Prentiss’s two 40-foot yachts, Bagheera and Salammbo, slipped north from the island of Kerrera into the maze of deep-sea lochs round the Inner Hebrides. Salammbo returned to Kerrera with five tons of Colombian marijuana. Prentiss’s family and friends unloaded the cargo. Bagheera took ten tons to Conaglen House, where four large three-ton box-vans were waiting. Tom Sunde, Ernie’s number one, was there to help unload. By his side were eight vegetarian New Yorkers, friends of Alan Schwarz, who had been flown in for the occasion. They had no idea where they were. Jarvis took five tons to the falconry in Pytchley. James Goldsack took five tons to a stash he had in Essex. On New Year’s Day, 1980, fifteen tons of the highest quality Colombian marijuana lay poised to hit the streets of England. It was the largest amount of dope ever to have been imported into Europe, enough for every inhabitant of the British Isles to get simultaneously stoned.
While the builders were fixing the bathroom at Cathcart Road, Judy, Amber, and I moved into a £500-a-week flat at Hans Court, Knightsbridge, directly opposite Harrods. We would have breakfast of caviare omelettes at the Caviare House. Judy became pregnant again. I asked her to marry me. She refused. She would marry me only in my real name. No Mrs Nice for her. But she did approve of our getting engaged. We threw a disgustingly lavish party at Hans Court. The food was limited to caviare and foie gras, the drink to Stolichnaya and Dom Perignon, the décor to swans carved out of ice, and the sounds to the Pretenders. Peter Whitehead married Dido Goldsmith, daughter of Teddy and niece of Sir James. I was Peter’s best man. Bianca Jagger was Dido’s best lady. Our daughters met. Jade played with Amber.
Every head in England was stoned. The streets were awash with Colombian marijuana, and everyone knew it, including the police and Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, but they couldn’t bust any. It was selling at the predicted rate of a ton a week, but the Florida gangsters couldn’t believe sales were so slow. Something had to be wrong. Were they being ripped off? They thought so and strong-armed Ernie to agree that they send some representatives to England to make an inventory of unsold marijuana. The Florida representatives were Joel Magazine, a Miami defence lawyer, and a Sicilian with the unlikely name of Walter Nath. They stayed at the Dorchester Hotel. While checking the quantities of unsold marijuana, Nath also made private enquiries with his own London friends to determine whether they could sell the Colombian marijuana at a faster rate. Nath’s friends unwittingly introduced him to an undercover officer of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, who followed him to Scotland, where he was with Stuart Prentiss checking the marijuana stored there. Stuart Prentiss noticed they were being followed, lost his pursuer, and threw a few tons of marijuana into the sea. For the next few weeks, large bales of Colombian marijuana were being washed ashore on the Scottish coast, smoked, handed in to the police, and eaten by sheep and deer. The news media were amused. The Florida gangsters were not. But sales carried on.
Marty Langford helped out by occasionally driving marijuana to London from Pytchley, where Jarvis’s friend, Robert Kenningale, was keeping an eye on the stash while feeding dead rats to the falcons. Marty also kept in touch with McCann’s wife, Sylvia. While British Customs Officers were closely watching London dealers and Scottish beachcombers making fortunes out of Colombian marijuana, McCann’s trial for the importation of Thai marijuana into Ireland began in Dublin. McCann had been beaten up by the IRA while awaiting trial but had recovered sufficient poise to mount an inspired defence: he was tracking down an enemy of Ireland, an agent of MI6, who was poisoning Irish youth by importing marijuana. The name of the agent was Howard Marks, who used the alias Mr Nice. McCann was acquitted.
I sent Jarvis out to Campione, where I had stored my Mr Nice passport and other Nice documentation, instructing him to bury the passport in the public gardens in Campione. There it remains. I kept noticing strange things: clicks on telephone lines, the same unfriendly faces wherever I went. I was being followed. But if they knew who I was, why didn’t they bust me?
I was sitting at the bar of the Swan Hotel, Lavenham. I had become very paranoid at Hans Court and had booked a weekend break in the name of John Hayes. Judy was settling Amber into bed. The hotel provided a baby-listening service, and she was going to join me at the bar before we had dinner. Two men about my age came up to the bar and ordered their drinks. I had ordered a Tio Pepe sherry, and I took it to a vacant table. Suddenly, one of the two men grabbed my arm.
‘Can I see your watch?’ he asked, and
firmly put a pair of handcuffs on his and my wrists.
I recovered quickly enough. It was fairly obvious I was being nicked.
‘We are Customs Officers and we are arresting you.’
‘Why am I being arrested?’
‘You are being arrested on suspicion of being involved in a cannabis drugs offence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your name?’ asked one of the officers.
Maybe they didn’t know who I was and thought I was a regular dope dealer.
‘I’m not saying.’
‘Why not?’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you staying in this hotel?’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you staying here alone?’
‘No comment.’
‘Turn out your pockets.’
I emptied out my pockets: a driving licence, a book containing up-to-date accounts of the Colombian scam, and a key to the falconry in Pytchley that gave me access to the several tons of dope there.
‘This driving licence is in the name John Hayes. Is that your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this your address?’
‘No comment.’
‘What do you do for a living, Mr Hayes?’
‘I’m training to be a Customs Officer.’
He didn’t even smile. A couple of other Customs Officers came up to our table.
‘This has been found in Room 52, your room. It is clearly hashish. Is it yours?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘This hashish was in your jacket pocket. Are you suggesting we put it there?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Does it belong to your girl-friend in your room?’
‘No, it’s mine. Could I see Judy and our daughter?’
‘Of course. You must regard us as your friends. I’m Nick Baker, and this is my colleague Terry Byrne. We can go up to your room before we all go to our London office in New Fetter Lane.’
I hugged and kissed Judy and Amber. I knew they wouldn’t mess with Judy, just question her a bit and let her go. I also knew, more certainly than I have ever known anything in my life, that no matter how much she was questioned she wouldn’t tell them a thing.
‘Be strong, love,’ we both said.
At London the questioning continued.
‘What do you do for a living, Mr Hayes?’
‘My work is of a secret nature. Look, what’s all this about?’
‘Have you got a passport?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve never been abroad at all?’
‘No.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I can’t answer these questions. My work is secret.’
‘What time did you arrive at Lavenham?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you know Martin Langford?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you know Stuart Prentiss?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you know James Goldsack?’
This went on for ages. I asked after a while if I could merely raise my finger rather than having to say ‘no comment’ all the time. Baker wouldn’t oblige.
‘Mr Hayes, I am making a contemporaneous note of this interview. I won’t see your finger being raised. Would you make an audible reply, please? Do you understand?’
‘Bleep.’
‘Is John Hayes your real name?’
‘Bleep.’
‘Would you object to giving us your fingerprints?’
‘Bleep, bleep.’
‘Is that because your real name is Howard Marks?’
A wave of relief came over me. I was me again for the first time in six and a half years.
‘So, Howard, how have you been earning a living these last few years?’
‘No comment.’
And so it went on through the night until Baker and Byrne took me to Snowhill Police Station. Judy came to see me the next morning and asked me to marry her. I said yes.
After thirty-six hours in the cells, I was hauled in front of Judge Miskin at the Old Bailey. Represented again by Bernard Simons, I was being remanded back into custody at Brixton Prison for the 1973 speaker scam. The next morning, the Guildhall magistrates also remanded me into custody for conspiring to import several tons of Colombian weed and having a bunch of false passports. Also with me were Marty Langford and Bob Kenningale, who had both been arrested at Whitehead’s falconry; James Goldsack and his worker, Nick Cole, both of whom had been arrested in London; Californian yachtsman Stuart Prentiss and his worker, Alan Grey; and Patrick Lane’s assistant, Hedley Morgan. Patrick Lane somehow escaped the net and fled to the security of Ernie in California. Customs Officer Baker told the magistrates that the Customs had just busted us with more dope, £15 million worth, than the grand total of dope they’d ever busted up to that point. I felt proud, completely forgetting the consequences of being accused of such severe illegality. Newspaper headlines proclaimed that I had just been severely grilled by the British Secret Service, that I had joined the IRA, and that I had been protected by the Mafia.
Back at Brixton, these bulletins, coupled with radio news reports, had assured that I would be accorded a notorious criminal’s welcome. I was separated from my co-defendants and put in a two-man, toilet-less, water-less cell in A Wing. My cellmate was a shifty young Jewish fraudster named Jonathan Kern. A Wing comprised a ground floor and three upper floors of cells and accommodated about 200 prisoners. There were some notable legends from London’s gangland: Ronnie Knight, husband of actress Barbara Windsor; Duke and Dennis of the feared and respected Arif family, Turkish Cypriots who became London’s most heavily investigated crime family since the Krays; Tommy Wisbey, the Great Train Robber; and Mickey Williams, a half-Irish and half-Jamaican Londoner whose behaviour even Her Majesty’s Prison, Durham’s infamous control units could not inhibit. One morning, Mickey was next to me and Jonathan Kern as we were ‘slopping out’ plastic buckets of our night’s excrement.
‘Watch him, H. He’s a wrong ’un, a real wrong ’un. He’d grass up ’is own muvver.’
Kern heard him and walked away.
‘Thanks, Mick.’
‘It ain’t nuffink, H. He ain’t in your business, is he?’
‘No, Mick. I didn’t know him before.’
‘Coz there is a few wrong ’uns in your business, H. You know what I mean? I thought he might have been one of ’em. And it’s such a good business, H. But someone ought to shut a few mouths up. I heard your co-defendants talked a bit?’
‘Yeah, they said more than they should, more than they wanted to, but they’re not really criminals, Mick.’
‘Then why are they doing crime, H? Tell me that. If they can’t do the time, they shouldn’t do the crime. That’s simple. Am I wrong? I know I ain’t. I know what I’m doing when I get out. No more jumping over bank counters with a gun. I’m doing drugs. But there’ll be no grasses in my firm. No live ones, anyway. Let’s keep in touch when we’re on the out, H. I got loads of geezers who work in the airport and docks in London. Might be able to ’elp each other.’
This was typical of many conversations I and other dope dealers had with more traditional criminals in British prisons at the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s. The money we had made in our profession tended to dwarf that made by robbers, fraudsters, and thieves. Prisons are excellent forums for the combining of criminal talents. If a dope smuggler is locked up twenty-four hours a day with a forger, a counterfeit air waybill or bill of lading will come up in the conversation. Accordingly, many heavy criminals had begun to deal dope, all kinds from anywhere. Some of the results were predictable. A lot more ruthlessness and violence was injected into dope-trading activity. Rip-offs and guns became more common. Inevitably, a Customs Officer was shot and killed while busting a container of Moroccan cannabis. The perpetrator was a London villain. Instead of seeing this tragedy as an obvious consequence of the folly of drug pr
ohibition (high profits attracting criminal organisations), the authorities seized upon it as proof of a congenital association between drugs and violence. Marijuana smokers and dealers, despite being generally lawabiding and peace-loving, were in bed with ruthless assassins and should be treated as such. Give them long and stiff sentences.
I made several appearances in Guildhall Magistrates Court, mostly for administrative reasons and for futile bail applications. I would hardly be given another chance to abscond. Returning to prison from one of these court appearances, I looked into a prison interview room I was walking past and observed Jonathan Kern talking to Her Majesty’s Customs Officer Baker. They didn’t see me. Later on in our cell, Kern began asking questions about my case. I hadn’t yet seen any of the evidence against me, but Kern’s link to Baker could provide a valuable avenue of misinformation. I could give no end of false leads as to what my defence was. I wove a fantastic tale for Kern’s ears and told him that the marijuana had been provided by Peruvian terrorists, who were now anchored off Ireland with a further sixty tons. Unfortunately, Kern was again seen talking to Baker, this time by a heavy East Ender, who gave Kern a thumping as soon as he had the chance. Kern was transferred to another prison. I was given another cell to occupy. This time I shared with a man called Jim Hobbs. He had been arrested for having sexual relations with a man under the age of twenty-one, but he kept the nature of his offence fairly quiet. Sex offenders (nonces), like convicted policemen and grasses, get a rough time in British prisons. They are considered fair game for a bit of physical torture. It wasn’t much use Hobbs’s explaining that the under-age victim was actually eighteen. At best he was a poof, an iron. And he might be lying. Hit him anyway. Despite his strange leanings, I liked Hobbs and appreciated his disdain for authority and his generosity to prisoners without funds.