Gangster (3 page)

‘Frank told me not to call him John because he would have felt he had to live up to his father. I think there were four generations of John Gilligans, and Frank said it was time to break the chain. All the Johns had ended up as criminals. That’s why Darren wasn’t called John after his dad,’ she once recounted.

The young bride’s in-laws liked her. They saw her as a stabilising influence on Gilligan, who was fast developing a deep interest in crime and robbery. The newly weds couldn’t afford their own home and so they moved into the already-overcrowded 5 Lough Conn Road with Sarah Gilligan and her growing brood. Their presence added to the sheer turmoil of the house. They wanted privacy but couldn’t get it in a house filled to capacity with people. Geraldine pushed her husband to get a house or flat; anything away from the sprawling housing estates of Ballyfermot.

Eventually Gilligan found a flat on Charleville Avenue in Dublin’s North Strand. It was small and cluttered but at least the newlyweds had privacy and could come and go as they pleased. The couple lived between houses until 1977, when they moved into a council house at 13 Corduff Avenue in Blanchardstown in west Dublin.

But John Gilligan followed the life path already determined for him by circumstances. He stopped working on the ferry line and turned to crime like his father before him. Gilligan, though, changed his world to accomplish what his father could only dream of—the notoriety of being a multimillionaire gangster and the most dangerous man in the underworld.

Chapter 3

The Wild West

‘Those were the best days of my life.’

John Gilligan

From 1896 to 1901, Robert Leroy Parker and his sidekick Harry Longbaugh, forever known as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, roamed the desolate plains of Wyoming, Utah and Colorado with a gang of ten or so misfits, robbing whenever the opportunity arose. They were collectively known as the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang and, under the tutelage of Parker, pioneered the art of robbing banks, mail vans and stagecoaches, using means other than armed confrontation. Instead, the outlaws would blast their way into bank vaults using dynamite stolen from the Union Pacific Railroad and help themselves to whatever they could get away with. Almost a century later, history repeated itself when a similar bunch of misfits came together in Dublin.

They too called themselves the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Only this time, they roamed the industrial estates of west Dublin in stolen vans and trucks, breaking into warehouses, hijacking mail vans and freight containers laden with goods destined for supermarket shelves. They too entered premises by making a hole in a wall, only their technique involved brute force: smashing down bricks and mortar with sledgehammers. These men also looked up to a leader—a devious and cunning young man who was meticulous in his approach to crime. Like all gangster figures, he was given his own nickname by the press—they called him Warehouse John. The police called him John Gilligan.

When his seafaring career ended, Gilligan chose to become a criminal. ‘If you want to get rich, why work when you can rob? Why get up at eight in the morning when you can go out at eight at night and get anything you like?’ were words he repeated to friends. This became his philosophy. From 1980 to 1990, Gilligan’s Hole-in-the-Wall Gang wreaked havoc, plundering the industrial estates lying scattered off the motorways that take travellers from Dublin to the cities of Cork and Limerick. They would steal anything they could lay their hands on: trucks, cars, refrigerators, animal-health products, computer games, vacuum cleaners, sweets, chocolates, power tools—anything that could be sold. Gilligan orchestrated hundreds of robberies that netted him hundreds of thousands of pounds, most of which he squandered gambling. He knew every square foot of his stomping ground: every road; every warehouse; every fire escape; every side entrance; every waste ground; and so he knew where to strike, when to strike and how to escape.

‘They were the good old days,’ he once remarked. ‘I used to tell people that I lived in the “hereafter land” because when I arrived in the industrial estates I would say, “This is what I’m here after” and the Garda Síochána would say, “We’re here after Gilligan.” They were great days. There was loads of times when we’d get chased, sometimes we’d get something, other times we’d get nothing. I got a great buzz in those days. Nine times out of ten the owners wouldn’t have known we’d been in. In some cases, the owners were happy because they got insurance on devalued goods. I wasn’t into bank robberies because that involved firearms and I could get shot. When we’d go down for a stretch we’d write to the other lads, messing, pretending to sell the rights to steal from other industrial estates. It was great fun because we knew the prison officials saw the letters. We were like the Mafia.’
[1]

Although his flat Dublin accent and shabby dress code bore no similarity to the suave gangsters of the Cosa Nostra he watched in films, his criminal operation was just as sophisticated. The truth was that in the space of a few years, by the time he was 30 years old, Gilligan had become a major figure in organised crime. By day he would act out the part of the family man, the hard-working loyal husband and father. This persona lived in Corduff and travelled into Dublin city centre where he ran a second-hand car salesroom. Here, he sold second-hand Ford Capris and other cheap models to anyone unfortunate enough to venture on to his forecourt. Unfortunate because if the car broke down, Gilligan simply wouldn’t entertain them.

It was at night that the true criminal in Gilligan came to life. Whilst the city slept, he would emerge with his band of thieves and set about plundering warehouses. Accompanied by one or two of his lieutenants, he would drive south across the city to his turf, the Robinhood or Cookstown industrial estates. Like a cat burglar, he would reconnoitre his surroundings, looking for ways to break and enter; he would search for an entrance in the perimeter fencing and for ways to bypass security systems. ‘We would sit there all night, waiting for the security guard to arrive, time how long it took the guard to check the locks, what doors he checked, how thorough his checks were and see which way he approached,’ remembered Maurice Ward, who went on to join the gang.
[2]

Gilligan would then scout around looking for rubbish. ‘Get me some pallets, we need to light a bit of a fire,’ he would say. He would build a bonfire against the side of the warehouse and set it alight before retreating back into the undergrowth.

The raiders would return the next night. ‘Right, lads, we know what we’re here to do. Everyone into position.’

They would act with military-like co-ordination. Two men would run towards the industrial estate entrance, walkie-talkies at the ready should a passing garda patrol stumble upon the heist. With professional skill, another two men would approach the warehouse and skirt around the wall until they found the section scorched by the fire Gilligan had set ablaze the previous night.

‘Come on lads, faster, faster,’ he would shout.

With resolute body co-ordination, they would attack the wall with sledgehammers. The heat from the fire would have dried out the mortar and the brickwork, so it would just crumble away, leaving a gaping hole for the thieves to enter.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .

‘We’re through, boss.’

Gilligan would inspect the demolition work. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Security systems in those days were humble devices designed to act as deterrents. Alarms were mostly battery operated, so Gilligan would simply knock them off the walls and take out the batteries. Once the ‘security system’ was disabled, he would set about the warehouse, stocktaking, compiling a mental inventory of the goods on offer. Once this was done, he would order one of the gang to prepare the trucks. Walkie-talkie in hand, he would give the sign, and they would arrive within minutes, entering the warehouse via the goods entrance.

‘Remember, lads, what’s my favourite saying?’

‘Why leave anything, boss?’

‘Get to work,’ he would shout.

Entire warehouses and factories would be cleared. Nothing of any value was left. ‘We would spend hours just loading up our own trucks and making sure we left no fingerprints or evidence. He would take everything, paint brushes, boxes of nails—he even robbed the spare tyres off lorries and the tools. If it was worth anything, he would take it. I never saw anyone like him. Ropes, hammers, nails, car batteries—everything would be taken,’ recalled Ward.

The Hole in the Wall’s stomping ground lay between the industrial expanses that surround Tallaght, Clondalkin and Ballyfermot. Businesses located in the Robinhood and Cookstown industrial estates were particularly affected because of Gilligan’s familiarity with the area. He believed that even if the gardaí caught him robbing a factory here, he could escape.

At that time, the Garda Síochána concentrated all its efforts and resources on combating the Provisional IRA and the other paramilitary organisations. Organised crime was considered something ephemeral in Garda headquarters; men like Gilligan didn’t rate in the general scheme of things. The Government and the Department of Justice were categorically told there was no organised crime problem in Ireland. This belief filtered into all sections of Irish society and was quoted verbatim by the media at large, with the exception of some individual journalists. There were, of course, some gardaí who could see what was happening. Gilligan’s small stature, devil-may-care attitude and churlishness towards authority didn’t fool them. They were watching a petty thief turn into a master criminal before their eyes. There was no stopping his gang.

Gilligan expanded his operation to rural areas. By 1985 he felt confident using weapons and extreme violence. Warehouse robberies were no longer his speciality—he targeted mail vans and payroll deliveries. Violence was something the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang had no problem dispensing.

The Garda found it was near to impossible to combat his criminal operation. Gilligan had so much regard for gardaí and the lengths to which they would go to charge him with a serious offence that he never took the same route twice, discussed crime over the phone or left any piece of evidence that could link him to a crime. He made all the arrangements for the gang so that no one could betray him. If he had to meet someone, he went to them. Under no circumstances did they arrive at his front door. He never held any stolen property at his home in Corduff, and so the Garda knew there was no point in raiding it.

His extensive connections in the business world were more than willing to allow him to store stolen goods in their warehouses. And because he sold his loot at knockdown prices to ‘reputable businessmen’, he slept assured that his products were laundered into the system fast, making it almost impossible to trace them.

Even when the Garda did manage to catch him red-handed, he always seemed to find a loophole to beat a charge, as happened in the Nilfisk case.

There wasn’t a star in the sky when Niall McClory closed the door behind him and locked up his premises. Grey clouds, the type that seem to float in suspended animation over Dublin’s skyline, blotted out the moonlight. Cookstown Industrial Estate was lifeless; the familiar sounds of forklifts and delivery trucks, which normally deafened those working there, were absent. It was 2 January 1986. The managers and factory workers were still on holiday, recuperating from the Christmas and New Year celebrations. It was McClory’s first day back at Nilfisk. He had to return early to take delivery of 850 new vacuum cleaners that had arrived from Germany. What better way to start off the year than with a new delivery, he thought to himself as he walked to his car parked outside the warehouse. He had just got in when he saw a masked man approach wielding a baton.

‘Get out of the car,’ yelled his assailant.

More men suddenly appeared. ‘Open the door. Open the door.’

McClory was overcome by fear. His assailants had come from nowhere; he had no way of escaping in any case, so he opened the door.

‘Get down on the floor. If you don’t co-operate we’ll shoot you. Do you understand?’

He could not see a weapon, but fearing they had a gun and would shoot him dead, he obeyed the command. One of the gang handcuffed his hands behind his back and the factory’s security man was forced to lie in a similar position. They were made to look down. The next few hours seemed never-ending and the atmosphere was tense as the two hostages wondered if they would be freed. Wearing a balaclava, Gilligan stood with a two-way radio clenched in one hand, shouting instructions to the others. ‘Send in the truck.’

From his position, McClory could hear a truck arriving and the sound of the factory’s forklift starting up, then reversing and moving to and fro. Gilligan and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang were cleaning out Nilfisk, stealing the vacuum cleaners that had just arrived. When every one of the boxed vacuums was loaded, the gang left, vanishing as fast as they had arrived. The alarm was raised almost immediately afterwards when McClory managed to press a panic button in the office.

Gardaí arriving on the scene set about making inquiries, but they had only one suspect in mind: John Gilligan.

It was inconceivable for Gilligan to travel far with such a massive cargo of stolen goods. Gardaí would be mounting checkpoints looking for the stolen vacuums, so he arranged to store the vacuums in a warehouse located nearby, at Unit 22, Weatherwell Industrial Estate in Clondalkin. From here, the vacuum cleaners would be sold off in small lots by the gang, one of whom was a young criminal and new addition to the gang, 23-year-old David Weafer.

The Nilfisk heist was to work as follows. The loot would be divided in seven; Gilligan and two others would take the lion’s share, while the rest, like Weafer, would receive a smaller amount of vacuums to sell themselves. Gilligan correctly envisaged that he would not be able to fence the load all at once because Nilfisk would issue a general warning or possibly offer a reward for the return of the goods. Therefore, whenever one of the gang wanted access to their share of the vacuums, they would ring Gilligan and arrange to meet. Gilligan held the keys because it was his hiding place and he would ensure that everyone got their fair share.

Gilligan’s prediction that Nilfisk and the Garda Press Office would highlight the robbery proved correct. Two days after the raid, the
Irish Independent
carried an article warning housewives to beware of door-to-door salesmen selling cheap vacuum cleaners. Nilfisk’s managing director, Pat Murphy, told the
Independent
that the vacuums would not be sold through established outlets.

‘It would be very difficult to get them into electrical shops. The only alternative would be door to door. Somebody somewhere should be able to give us a clue. I am as intrigued as you are as to how the gang is going to get rid of these machines. I would love to know what they are going to do with them,’ he said.

The vacuum cleaners were being sold door to door, but faster than the gardaí could have imagined. Weafer in particular was selling more than the others, more than his allocation, unknown to Gilligan, who had given him the keys of Unit 22 to help himself. Fearing that he would ‘vanish’ should Gilligan find out about his ‘sales drive’, he leaked information about where the stolen vacuums were being kept to the gardaí. If they raided Unit 22 and found the vacuums, Gilligan would never find out about his double-cross. But the gardaí wanted Gilligan, and so placed Unit 22 under surveillance with the intention of arresting him red-handed with the stolen property.

Weafer co-operated and arranged to meet Gilligan at Unit 22 a week later, on 9 January. Gilligan didn’t want to go near the haul—the gardaí were running a major operation looking for the vacuums and would no doubt be monitoring his movements. But Weafer insisted, saying he needed to get more vacuums to sell, he needed the cash. The two met at Weatherwell Industrial Estate, which, unknown to Gilligan, was surrounded by armed detectives.