Gangbuster (10 page)

I
didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’d put my neck on the line to intercept a gang planning to flood $1 million in fake notes on to the money markets and I had landed up in court facing a spell in nick myself. To be honest, it was the end of a job that had been doomed from the start, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been too surprised at standing in the witness box and seeing the three men arrested in the operation laughing like drains as they walked free and me facing the wrath of one very irate judge threatening me with porridge for my troubles. And all because I was honouring the most sacrosanct of our obligations – to protect the informant.

You’ll have gathered by now I don’t have a lot of time for grasses on a personal level, and you won’t find any on my Christmas list, but it was vital that we sustained the integrity of the job by never, ever,
jeopardising the identity of our informants if it was humanly possible.

A grass had come forward on this job and said he could introduce me to a bloke who could supply me with $1 million in high-quality forged notes. To me, this would be an archetypal undercover operation where I would pretend to be a top London gangster with the knowledge and contacts to be able to shift such a huge quantity of counterfeit notes, and enough financial clout to put the cash up front to buy the consignment. We were talking big, big money here – around £100,000 – to get the deal up and running. I’d dealt with counterfeiters before and found them to be, in general terms, a better class of criminal; more cerebral, less paranoid than, say, drug-dealers, but criminals none the less. I was more than happy to do the job; variety is the spice and all that sort of thing, little knowing that it was destined to be an abysmal fuck-up from beginning to end.

I was introduced to a guy, stockily built, a likeable enough London rogue, and negotiations started well over a few drinks. I impressed him with my imaginary portfolio of dodgy international dealers who would launder the dollars for me and secure a decent rake-off on the investment. After several weeks of protracted negotiations, we drew up plans for the hand-over.

These jobs can be slow starters quite often because the villains always start off the way they want to do it; you say the way you want to do it and you have to negotiate, cajole and gradually create a situation which suits both parties. I must say, though, I wouldn’t personally have chosen the location for the exchange of dollars for cash – Tesco’s car park,
Sidcup. Not exactly the million-dollar touch. But the counterfeiters reckoned it was a satisfactory location for all concerned because it gave good access to the M25 and being a busy suburban supermarket afforded ample cover for our transaction to take place without attracting undue attention among the baked beans and two-for-the-price-of-one washing powder offers.

The quality of the notes was pretty good, the paper was right and the serial numbers had been varied to avoid immediate suspicion. I was posing as an international money launderer who could shift the $1 million by shipping it initially out to Africa, using it on various moody deals, then pulling out with a profit before the shit hit the fan. I said that other batches of the fake notes would go to other countries where the dollar was king, make a nice few bob for us and we could get out again before anyone rumbled the fact they’d got a fistful of dodgy dollars.

The senior officer who would normally be in charge of the arrest operation was tied up on another job so a pal of mine was standing in for him and was the operational commander on the ground. His team would be stragetically placed all round the car park, disguised as cleaners, trolley collectors, anything that was in keeping with the location, ready to make arrests when I gave the signal. But what you do need in any undercover operation, whether you are the undercover operative or you are the operational commander, is trust in one another, an unquestioning belief in the abilities of your
teammates
. If you don’t have that, you can’t have a successful working relationship. It’s absolutely vital. The officer in charge and I got on well enough and,
even though he had not been the operational commander on a big job before, I felt happy that he would be competent enough to do his side of the job.

I drove into the car park in my Renault, parked up and awaited the arrival of the guy who was going to supply me with the $1 million. Very cleverly, the gang brought only $100,000 in forged notes, and not the full million, on to the plot. It was a tester – if he takes the $100,000 and nothing goes wrong, we’ll bring the remaining $900,000. This hadn’t been catered for in our pre-operational briefing, and the villains, like so many times before, hadn’t read the script. Bastards. This was where your instincts kicked in, the need to have flexibility, initiative, the ability to think on your feet.

I was re-evaluating the situation in my head. It was still not going too badly and I’d taken possession of the first $100,000 and put it in the boot of my car. I’d just got to keep my cool, and my credibility, and I was sure the rest of the cash would come rolling in. There was no way I was going to back it to them. I told my contact I’d sit and wait for the rest. No problem. We chatted about not very much. He assured me the fake notes would be on the plot pretty soon. I’d hang on in there.

The surveillance teams waiting to move in to make arrests at the conclusion of an undercover operation should only ever do so at a pre-determined signal from the man under cover, whether that is a physical, or transmitted signal. This depends on the trust factor.

My contact and I continued negotiations over the remaining $900,000. I didn’t see a problem with me sitting in Tesco’s car park with 100,000 grand of bent
money in the boot of my car. I assumed the rest of the team were cool about the situation as well. It stood to reason in my mind that once the final hurdle was overcome, and the rest of the money was produced, we would have evidence as to the true severity of the crime, which was what the whole undercover operation was about. We needed it to prove that this was a major-league deal, not Mickey Mouse funny money.

I was just sitting there calmly awaiting the arrival of the dosh, when the next thing I knew all fucking hell had broken loose. Now, I hadn’t given my agreed signal, or any signal at all. But we now had police coming from everywhere, leaping over walls, climbing over fences, charging through people and I thought, Shit, this has gone pear-shaped. I had it on my dancers as fast as I could to get away from the scene. I legged it over the front wall of the car park, down to the A20 where I knew there was a factory where I could go and hide. I was fuming. Why had they called in the cavalry when the job was only half done?

What I subsequently found out was that they saw me taking possession of the parcel. In the heat of the moment, the mist came down and the ‘Go, Go, Go,’ signal to attack was given.

The net result was that three minor players, acting as fixers and go-betweens were arrested nearby while the starring players, sitting in a car unseen and unidentified by the surveillance teams, realised what had happened and discreetly vanished from the scene with the $900,000 in duds, wiping their brows in relief and saying, ‘Haven’t we just had a stroke of luck.’ So, when the dust settled and we all went back
for our debriefing, the only question I wanted answers to was what the fuck had happened.

So, instead of a million-dollar bust backed up with top-grade evidence of international fraud, we ended up with a half-baked case involving just $100,000 in fake notes. Not best case evidence to back up a prosecution and it was with no great surprise that the case was eventually thrown out at Croydon Crown Court and the three defendants walked out scot-free.

But what I hadn’t banked on was the judge theatening to send me off to jail for contempt of court because I refused to name the informant who had put up the job. I’d been reliably forewarned by some of my fellow officers that Judge McHale wasn’t the most pro-police judge who’d ever sat. I knew it might be a rough ride.

When you are undercover, you tend to lurk in the shadows much of the time. A court appearance is no different. You still don’t need your face to be on show. You are taken in through secret entrances, you are kept hanging around in bare offices, not able to have a bite to eat or cup of tea in canteens, you are only brought on when it’s your turn to give evidence. You feel like a pariah.

Before I was called, the prosecution made an application to the judge in closed court that I should be allowed to give my evidence under a pseudonym so my real identity would not be made known to the defendants in the dock. Judge McHale ruled in his wisdom that if I was going to give evidence in his court, I was going to give it under my real name. Thank you very much, Judge McHale. The senior police officer in the case, who was trying to sew this dog’s dinner together as best he could, came to me
and said that the judge had ruled I must give evidence under my real name. He said, ‘I’m giving you the opportunity now to choose whether you do or you don’t.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if I don’t, what happens?’

‘Well, the case will be slung out and that will be that.’

I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he wanted me to do it. He was asking me pleasantly but I knew they would be very disappointed if I refused to go in the box. And, on top of that, I might have got the reputation of a prima donna hanging over me for the rest of my career and I wouldn’t have wanted that. So I said, ‘No, I’ll go and give my evidence,’ which I duly did. And a rough ride it certainly turned out to be.

A Mr Francis Sheridan was appearing on behalf of the defendant. He was an advocate with whom I had crossed swords many times in the past, invariably when I was in an undercover role, so much so that it became common for Mr Sheridan to receive my statement of evidence under some completely moody name, then turn round to the officer in the case and say, ‘Oh, will Mr Bleksley be appearing?’ He knew my style and I knew his. He was a mighty, formidable adversary in court, sharp as a razor, and had a fantastic knack of lulling you into a false sense of security then hitting you with an absolute crippler which could make you wobble in the witness box. He proved to be no less skilful on this occasion.

He fought hammer and tongs for crucial disclosures relating to the first meeting with the defendant, such as: was the informant who had set up the job, and who had been there to introduce us, one and the same person? I steadfastly refused to identify
who that person was.

What Mr Sheridan was doing was going on a fishing exercise in the hope that I would have to admit that the person was my informant, so it would indicate to the blokes in the dock who it was who’d grassed them up. On this occasion, we had agreed as a trial tactic that I would only disclose the Christian name of the person who’d effected the introduction with the gang – a man given the code-name Richard – but to give nothing more about him, whether he was an informant, another undercover police officer, or anyone else. Mr Sheridan knew this was the weak link and he would have to attack it. And attack it he did, ferociously. I’ve kept the court transcripts, which read like this:

I could see exactly where Mr Sheridan was coming from. He was getting nowhere in this game of verbal ping-pong. So he asked the judge for a ruling, a matter which had to be dealt with in the absence of the jury, at which Mr Sheridan presented his argument for the judge ordering me to answer the key questions – who Richard really was and whether he was the informant.

After what seemed an eternity of legal wrangling, at which I was not present, the judge decided that he would direct me to answer those compromising questions that could so easily place my informant in danger.

With the court reassembled and the jury back in their seats, Mr Sheridan was back on the attack like a dog with a bone.

Here we go again, I thought.

I knew now I was in troubled waters as Mr Sheridan sensed a victory in this battle, with the judge now firmly behind him.