Bonded by Blood (28 page)

In July 1998, Steele and Whomes were refused leave to appeal against their life sentences. The pair had hoped to have their convictions quashed but a High Court judge ruled that Whomes and Steele would not even be allowed the chance to present their case before the Court of Appeal in London. News of the rejection shocked all of those involved in the campaign to free the two men. Jack Whomes’s mother had been delighted when her son decided to appeal. She said that Jack had the full backing of his legal team, who had maintained his innocence throughout the murder trial.

John could not see how the appeal judge had the time to read the paperwork supporting the appeal in full. ‘The way I look at it is that the papers had to be ready by 2 July, which only left 3 July for the judge to study them,’ he commented to the press at the time. ‘The paperwork was about four feet high and he would had to have read everything all in one day. That’s absolutely impossible. My brother has been wrongly convicted: there was no murder weapon, no money and no drugs found. Even the papers proving the men’s time of death were lost.

‘Jack is very shaken up, my parents are devastated and the rest of the family are extremely unhappy about the decision to refuse permission to appeal.’

In order to highlight what John and his family saw as a gross injustice, John and his friend, Peter Ager, attempted to hang a 350-foot banner from Orwell Bridge in Ipswich proclaiming, ‘Jack Whomes is innocent.’

Their attempt to protest, however, went horribly wrong. They had used Peter’s 21-foot speedboat to check the bridge could be climbed, but it was when they returned to the marina that their problems began. Peter had been reversing his Land Rover Discovery and a trailer down the slipway when its wheels fell over the end, dragging the £12,000 vehicle with it. Water rapidly entered the vehicle and was rising over Peter’s lap before he managed to scramble to safety out of the passenger window. After calling the coastguard and the vehicle recovery services, the Land Rover was finally rescued. It was to be the first of many stunts and protests John mounted in support of his brother and Steele. Fortunately, future protests were far more successful.

In January 1999, Steele and Whomes were once more refused leave to appeal. John vowed that his brother and Steele would now take their case to the European Court of Human Rights. Unknown to John at that time, Darren Nicholls, the man who had secured his brother’s conviction, was unwittingly helping to bring about the appeal hearing everybody wanted.

In October 1998, Granada Television announced it was going to make a film ‘inspired by the Rettendon murders’ called
Essex Boys
. ‘We have not cast the film yet, but it will be stars of film rather than television,’ a Granada spokesperson said. ‘The budget is not finalised, but the film will probably cost several million pounds. We hope we will be shooting some scenes at Rettendon and the rest will be done in other parts of the county. The film, which will take about two months to make, will be all about organised crime, will be purely fictional and will be shown in cinemas throughout the country.’

A few weeks after the announcement concerning the film, Darren Nicholls appeared in the media, talking about his involvement in the Rettendon trial. ‘Of all the supergrasses in the system, I am the tops,’ he boasted. ‘I’m considered a major witness. The police really do feel that everyone wants me dead. There is a bounty on my head. I’m not sure how much it is – some say it’s £250,000, others say £500,000 – but who’s going to collect it? Who do you collect it from?

‘At the trial, I tried not to look at Whomes and Steele. They scared me because of what I was doing to them. Obviously, they hate me, and I don’t think I will ever be rid of them. Mick’s quite old and hopefully he’ll die in prison and Jack, hopefully, when he gets out will be older and wiser and will just get on with his life rather than try to have his revenge.

‘If their sentences are quashed, I’m particularly worried about what will happen. No one likes the truth, especially the families of the people who did it. It’s something they’ve got to come to terms with, not me.’

Happy to talk about his bravery in giving evidence for the prosecution, Nicholls failed to mention the fact that he now hoped to line his pockets by appearing in a television documentary. These facts only came to light a few days later after a newspaper article revealed that Essex Police were locked in discussions with programme makers in an effort to make last-minute changes to a documentary about Nicholls. Senior officers were said to be unhappy about certain parts of a BBC Inside Story programme that was due to be aired. Police were said to be anxious that parts of the documentary might lead to Nicholls’s identification, so they were asking for his face to be blurred out. The article also revealed that Nicholls’s story would soon be told in a book.

The programme was due to be shown at 10.15 p.m. on 3 February 1999 but at 9 p.m. Essex Police reportedly served an injunction on the BBC, preventing the documentary from being broadcast. Granting the injunction, Mr Justice Poole said, ‘The programme should not reveal any physical characteristics of the plaintiff, or reveal details of his family or those living with him, or in any way identify his whereabouts.’

In reply, a BBC spokeswoman said, ‘Having spoken at length to our solicitors, we are quite confident that we will be able to reverse this decision.’ She said the BBC would seek to ensure the judge saw the film the following morning. ‘The injunction was because of the images and some of what was going to be screened,’ she added.

John Whomes rang me as soon as he heard the news. We both wondered what on earth Nicholls could have said that would make Essex Police seek an injunction to prevent the programme from being broadcast. We concluded that he might have given a different version of events relating to the murders. If true, this could have been regarded as fresh evidence, and Whomes and Steele could seek a fresh appeal.

On 17 February 1999, the BBC announced that it was in fact Darren Nicholls who had obtained the injunction preventing the programme from being shown and not Essex Police. They went on to say that they had since managed to have the injunction lifted.

Unfortunately for the BBC, Nicholls was granted leave to appeal, so the injunction remained in place until that appeal could be heard. In order to save public money and time, Nicholls and the BBC eventually negotiated a settlement. The programme could be shown if the BBC agreed to use actors to play the supergrass and his wife. It was finally broadcast in August 1999.

During the programme, Nicholls said he had considered telling the police he had lied in order to escape the constant fear of being tracked down. He had even considered suicide to escape being traced and punished for ‘grassing’ on his mates. ‘I thought, if I told police I was lying, would [Mick Steele and Jack Whomes] like me again?’

‘Micky Steele was like a father to me,’ Nicholls reasoned, ‘and I found it really difficult to betray him. When I agreed to take part in the documentary, I thought it was going to be about the witness protection programme and I wanted to show people that you aren’t set up in luxury with millions. It’s more like a handshake and directions to the dole office. If they had told me the programme was going to brand me a liar, I obviously wouldn’t have got involved.’

John Whomes was overjoyed at the content of the documentary. ‘We are feeling extremely hopeful after seeing the programme,’ he told reporters. ‘The members of the jury have now seen the real Nicholls. In court, he came across as a little boy who claimed he had been forced into being a getaway driver. On television, the actors portrayed the real man: a cocky liar. They also heard how Nicholls had to convince his own wife he was telling the truth. We intend to carry on campaigning until we finally get my brother out of there. The programme has really helped us with that fight.’

Sadly, there were others who also wished to continue fighting – not the case, but me. A former associate of the Kray brothers and Tucker and Tate telephoned John Whomes and offered to assist him with his enquiries. The man, named ‘Frank K’, warned John to be careful if he should ever meet ‘that slag O’Mahoney’. When John asked why, he was simply told ‘O’Mahoney’s involved.’ Quite what I was supposed to be ‘involved’ in, I shall never know because Frank refused to elaborate when pressed by John.

Frank did claim that in the weeks leading up to their deaths Tucker, Tate and Rolfe had acquired a mobile electric-driven crematorium from him. ‘We had meetings,’ Frank told John. ‘They were going to murder O’Mahoney and ensure there would be no trace of him left for the police to find.’ The basic concept of an electric crematorium is to heat the coil to 500 degrees and insert the body for burning. It takes nearly thirty minutes for the chamber to reach the required heat and another two hours for cremation. ‘Really?’ said John sarcastically. ‘That’s amazing.’ John telephoned me as soon as he had finished talking to Frank and told me what had been said. A mobile crematorium sounded like pub or drug-induced talk to me: anybody who talked so openly about murder and disposing of bodies to a stranger was, at best, a fool.

As well as fools with aspirations contacting us, there were people who had important information to offer. Geoffrey Couzens, the man who had spent time with Nicholls in the witness protection programme, first contacted me via the website. He said he was not prepared to talk on the telephone or via email – all he would do was talk face to face. I immediately agreed to meet him at a time and place of his choice.

A few days later, I set off early for a coastal town in the north-west of England. I left early because I had a four-or five-hour drive ahead of me before our rendezvous at what he said ‘may’ be a dockside bar. Couzens had given me a pay-as-you-go mobile phone number that he said wouldn’t be worth keeping because he changed it every few months to avoid being traced. I rang him as I was leaving to ensure the meeting was still on. Despite being somewhat apprehensive and nervous, he assured me that he would meet me as agreed. Apart from mentioning a dockside bar, no specific location had been arranged for our meeting. Instead, I was told to come off the motorway at a certain junction and ring him.

When I exited at the junction later that day, I pulled over and telephoned Couzens. He said he was still willing to meet me but, he said, there was a condition. ‘Forget any dockside bar, I want you to drive in towards the city centre. You will pass a very distinctive building and then you will see a large park on your left. Stop on the main road outside a row of shops and then walk to a bench in the middle of the park near a pond. Wait there until you hear from me.’

I didn’t fancy sitting on a bench looking at ducks on a pond for hours, but I guessed Couzens was watching me from somewhere to ensure I was alone, so I sat there for what seemed like an age. Eventually, a slightly built man appeared from the rear of a gardener’s shed and began walking towards me. I looked at him, but his face gave nothing away: he just stared ahead, above and beyond me. When he reached the bench, he sat down and, without looking at me, simply said, ‘Bernie, right?’

‘Yes, mate, how are you doing?’ I replied. ‘There really is no need for all of this James Bond shit, you know.’

Couzens laughed, got up and started to walk towards my car, so I followed him. He stood by the locked passenger door and said, ‘When we get in, I’ll give you directions.’

The only time Couzens spoke was when he asked me to turn left or right. Eventually, he asked me to pull up outside a pub, which was located down a residential street. Couzens told me that he had been a supergrass in a drug trial involving members of a very powerful north London family.

‘I was the guy making Ecstasy for them,’ he said. ‘When the factory got raided, I was left without any assistance and the police asked me to implicate the main men involved in return for a reduced sentence, so I did.’

Couzens said that he had been in protective custody with Darren Nicholls and Nicholls had told him the police had asked him to lie at the trial and make sure his evidence matched mobile phone evidence in the case, and that Nicholls had read part of his evidence during interviews from pre-agreed scripts. I was really excited by Couzens’s story, but I had to tell him to stop divulging any more information to me.

‘If this is all true,’ I said, ‘I would prefer it if you went to see a solicitor and made a full statement about what Nicholls told you. I don’t want anybody saying I may have advised or “coached” you.’

‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I will do it because I know Nicholls lied and two innocent men are languishing in prison because of it. I can’t stand by and do nothing, knowing what I know.’

I didn’t want to give Couzens time to reconsider, so I suggested he make a statement immediately. Couzens said that he was going to go away, prepare a statement, then return to me. ‘We can go to a solicitor’s then,’ he said, ‘and get it witnessed.’

Couzens pointed to the pub, told me to get myself a drink and remain in there until he returned. As he walked away, I had a terrible feeling that he was not going to return. To be honest, I wouldn’t have blamed him: making a statement could have resulted in him having to appear in court, and being back in the public eye would undoubtedly put his life in danger. Two hours later, when I was just about to give up and go home, Couzens walked into the pub.

‘I’ve typed out all I know in this statement,’ he said, as he waved three or four A4 pieces of paper across his chest.

I didn’t bother finishing my drink. We got in my car and drove around the city looking for a solicitor’s office. Eventually, we found one. Polly Gledhill was clearly taken aback by Couzens’s revelation that he was a supergrass on the witness protection programme. ‘I must say, Mr Couzens,’ she said, ‘I have never had a genuine supergrass in here before. Things are a little tame in these parts.’

Polly asked who I was, and I told her that I was just a friend. An hour later, we were all shaking hands and saying our goodbyes. Once outside, Couzens asked me if I wanted to take the statement to the Whomes family but I said it would be better if he posted it and I played no part whatsoever. Couzens took their address from me, shook my hand and disappeared into a crowd of shoppers milling around the high street.