Once Upon a Crime (12 page)

I
will never forget my first impression of Long Lartin as we approached it along a quiet country road in almost total darkness. From about a mile distant all I could make out was a series of bright circular lights hovering about 60 feet in the air and they looked for all the world like a group of flying saucers. It wasn’t until the coach drew up to the gates that I was able to see that the lights were secured to the tops of metal poles and lit up a vast area.

The prison stood totally alone and was surrounded on all sides by fields. It had a very modern look about it, light years removed from the old Victorian prisons. A host of cameras were on the main gate and on the walls surrounding the prison. All the doors we passed through were opened electronically and none of the screws who were escorting us seemed to have any keys. They simply spoke into an intercom positioned beside each doorway.

The screws seemed to be much more relaxed and I was to learn that this attitude was in some way generated by the
knowledge of how secure their place of work was. This is in no way meant to imply that the officers of Long Lartin were anything other than highly professional. They were all very competent and I would surmise that they had been handpicked for their professionalism and their ability to interact with some of the most dangerous men in the British penal system. And it worked, because I immediately felt at ease and relaxed.

The first culture shock happened as I was being processed in the reception area. The screw in charge said, ‘We work on a first-name basis here, so hello Jimmy. My name’s John and if you have any problems either myself or any of my officers will be more than happy to help you out.’ I was then escorted over onto A wing and the first face I saw was an old friend. ‘Hello, wee man, you’re just in time for the party.’ It was the bold Jimmy McGoldrick.

It was great to see Jimmy again. It had been almost two years and he hadn’t changed a bit – he was still as mad as a March hare. He led me into his cell and handed me a pint plastic mug that was filled with what appeared to be orange juice. I took a good long swallow and almost choked – it was hooch and the best I had ever tasted, very, very strong. Jimmy said, ‘Go easy, wee man. That stuff is lethal and for fuck’s sake don’t light a smoke anywhere near it.’ Jimmy went on to tell me that there was a party organised and that he would introduce me to the guys. His eyes lit up as he said, ‘We will be having a bevvie wi’ the boys from the IRA. Fucking excellent!’

Their head man was Martin Brady, a small, dark-haired Irishman from Belfast aged about 30. He had blown up the Old Bailey in London and was doing life plus 30 years. One of the alleged Birmingham Bombers, whose sentence was
subsequently quashed, was a really lovely man called Johnny Walker, aged about 45. He was doing 17 life sentences and 35 years. Then there was Seamus, an Irishman who wasn’t political but just an old-fashioned robber who specialised in banks and post offices. They made up the Irish contingent and the rest of our group included Scotsman Jim Blythe, an ex-paratrooper turned armed robber. Quite a tasty little bunch and later that night we all gathered together in Martin’s cell and the party began.

Martin was the man who made the hooch and we had three gallons of the stuff that night. Martin had the brewing technique down to a fine art. The party was soon in full swing and we had a right good sing-song with me giving it my best Rod Stewart. This was quite an introduction to Long Lartin and all the guys made me feel really at home with their kindness and generosity. Jimmy McGoldrick was in his element and absolutely loved being in the company of the IRA boys. The screws left us pretty much to our own devices: as long as we were not rolling about tearing lumps out of each other then we were left alone.

I spent the rest of that weekend doing the rounds and catching up with old friends. I was also introduced to some new ones and guys who were friends of friends of mine, such as some of the Wembley mob who had worked with and were close pals of John Dalliston. Jimmy Jeffries and Brian Turner were two very well respected London faces. Jimmy was a smashing fella, one of the old-school bank robbers and was liked and respected by everyone. I told him of my meeting with Dalliston in Bristol jail and let him know how John was doing and he was grateful to hear that he was all right. He also told me that I should let him know if I had any problems or needed anything sorted.

On Monday morning I was taken to see the governor, who said, ‘Now, James, I have looked at your prison file and it does not make very good reading. You have arrived under a bit of a cloud but I am prepared to give you the chance to make a fresh start. What I propose is this: if you can keep your nose clean, with no disciplinary reports for a period of six months, then I will restore all the remission you have lost and it amounts to just over one year. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?’ At first I thought he was winding me up but I soon realised that he was being perfectly serious.

‘Yes we do have a deal and thank you, governor.’ This really was a big carrot that was being offered for me to behave myself, so now it was up to me.

I was assigned a job as a wing cleaner and that suited me just fine. Finally, I made my way over to the wing and decided to make myself some soup. Each wing had a small cooking area with a couple of cookers, a fridge and some worktops and I made my way there with a tin of Heinz lentil soup in hand. As I stood there lost in my thoughts I was brought rudely back to reality by the roaring voice of a huge black guy who had entered the small kitchen. ‘What the fuck are you doing boy, using my cooker!’

I said, ‘What do you mean,
your
cooker?’

As he moved towards me he shouted, ‘A’m gonna smash you up, white boy.’

I thought, ‘Fuck me, he looks like George Foreman on angel dust’ and in that second I just went on autopilot and did what came naturally. I lifted the hot saucepan of soup from the cooker and I fucked him right over the nut with it. He screamed like the pig he was as I skipped around him and made my exit. The cooking area was enclosed on all sides by plexiglass panels and the whole thing had been witnessed by
quite a few of the guys and it did my reputation no harm at all. It was also seen by a couple of screws, who were all doubled up laughing and this added to the bullyboy’s humiliation.

Next morning I appeared before the governor as the slag ‘soup man’ had stuck me in for doing him. I was in for a nice wee surprise though, as the governor informed me that he had been told by his officers on duty at the time that it was all an unfortunate accident. They had seen me slip on the wet floor with the result that Mr Black Hulk became a walking advert for Heinz soups! Result! The guy was hated and despised by cons and screws alike. He had been so humiliated by what I had done to him that he very seldom ventured from his cell and shortly after he was shipped out.

Apart from this one incident I was settling in really well and for the first time during my sentence I was starting to feel at peace with myself. Of course, the feeling of emptiness was never too far away but for now it was like it was having a wee sleep. I was aware of it but it wasn’t causing me too much grief.

There was an excellent football team at the prison that played in a local league and I soon managed to win a place in it. My ma once again made a long and difficult journey to visit me and was relieved to see me looking so well. I did not mention to her anything about the bother I had had with the soup man. It had always been my policy never to burden my ma with any of the problems I encountered during my sentence unless it was absolutely necessary. She had enough on her plate.

Long Lartin was full of characters such as John McVicar, who had been the prison librarian, and Johnny the Bosh, who was a master locksmith and safecracker. Both Johnny and another London face named Mickey D were in the same section as me and I spent many happy and interesting hours in their
company. Johnny was in his mid-sixties and Mickey in his
late-fifties
, but to underestimate either of them would be a huge mistake – particularly Mickey, a professional hitman who had carried out a great deal of work for many of the London firms. He was serving a life sentence with a 30-year recommendation for carrying out a hit on a guy who had absconded with a very large sum from one of the London mobs. Mickey tracked the guy down to a yacht in Malta and put two bullets into his head. The guy’s mistress was on board so Mickey did her as well!

Mickey stood about 5ft 7in tall and weighed no more than 10 stone. He was a very intelligent man but an absolutely stone-cold killer who had discovered that he had a natural ability when it came to killing while serving with the British army and was highly proficient with weapons of every kind. He had no conscience whatsoever and thought of himself as providing a service, which he carried out with great efficiency. Yet I found him to be a lovely fella, like your favourite benevolent uncle. He had a full head of white hair and shook uncontrollably, though this did not stop him from enjoying the odd game of darts – it was usually best to stand well behind him.

Johnny the Bosh was doing an 18-year stretch for disabling the high-tech alarm system at the Bank of America in London after which the team made off with over £8 million in cash. It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, neither Mickey nor Johnny gave anyone up and they took their sentences on the chin.

Another character in my section was well-known London face Micky Ishmael. He was a real livewire, always with a smile on his face, and he had, without a doubt, the most
fuck-off
walk I have ever seen – a real flash London geezer. Brilliant!

In April 1980 I had a parole hearing. I had refused to
participate in previous sessions but was persuaded by some of the guys to give it a go. As they put it, I had nothing to lose. I filled in the relevant paperwork and did the interviews, even though I did not hold out much hope of being successful. But the governor had been as good as his word and got back the remission that I had lost, and in July I was informed that the parole application had been successful. I was to be released on 18 August but before then I was to be given a home leave for three days on the second weekend of August.

I was allowed to make a phone call home to give Ma the news and she thought at first that I was kidding. When she realised I was serious she almost dropped the phone and she screamed with joy and then started to cry. Prisoners sometimes tend to forget that their loved ones are also doing a sentence along with them. But I had served three-and-a-half years of mine and I would be 27 years of age – I still had plenty of living to do.

I was now a single man, my boy James was living in Los Angeles, my home was gone and I would be back living with Ma, my brothers Hughie and Gerald and sister Carolyn. But that was a bonus for me and I welcomed it. Now it was time for a whole new start. Bring it on.

M
y brother Hughie and his pal Aidie Lewis picked me up at the gate for my three-day home leave on licence. As I stepped out to meet them I could at last, finally believe that I was going home. We all hugged and jumped into Aidie’s motor where a nice wee surprise awaited me. On the seat was a large cardboard box and Hughie told me to look inside as it was a coming-home present for me. A bottle of Smirnoff vodka, a bottle of Remy Martin brandy and a bottle of Gordons gin with mixers and glasses. There were also bottles of lager and lots of tasty little snacks, cheese (which I love) and a selection of cold meats. Fucking lovely! I poured myself a large measure of gin and Hughie had a vodka.

Stopping at the nearest phone box I made a quick call home to Ma to let her know we were on our way. It was a beautiful summer day. Arriving home at about 11 o’clock that morning I walked up the path and there standing on the doorstep was my wonderful wee ma. I scooped her up in my arms and felt her tears on my cheeks. ‘Oh Jim, you’re home at last, son,’ she said.

‘Aye, Ma, I am and I won’t be leaving you. Now let’s get inside and have a nice cup of tea.’

Ma told me that they had organised a do for me on the Saturday night in the house with all the family and some close friends. She saved the best part till the end, that my old mate from Bristol jail, Chrissie Davis, was coming up from Bournemouth with his wife Carol and would be staying over with us for the weekend. I had grown very close to Chrissie. He had been released from Horfield in April and we had kept in touch by letters.

Chrissie arrived early Saturday afternoon and introduced me to Carol who I had never met, though we did both feel that we knew each other really well as Chrissie had told each of us all about the other. She was a really lovely girl and we hit it off straight away. The party that night was a great success with plenty of drinking, singing and dancing and lots of laughter. I was in my element and it was just so good to be surrounded by the people I loved and who loved me in return.

Sunday was spent making the rounds and visiting a few old friends. The one disappointment for me was that John Renaldi was not on the scene. He had returned to Thatcham after being released from jail serving a six-year sentence. John had been staying with his mum but had told Hughie that he was finding it very hard to settle and decided to head back to Islington in London. John’s marriage to Pauline had fallen apart while he was away and I guess he was just finding it tough to readjust.

The weekend passed in a flash and before I knew it, it was time to return to Long Lartin. The compensation was that I knew that it would only be for another couple of weeks. Big Jimmy McGoldrick actually had tears in his eyes as we said
our goodbyes. ‘I am really gonnae miss you, wee man,’ he said. Probably realising he had let his guard down he added, ‘Just make sure you don’t come back or I’ll fucking stab you tae fuck.’

Jimmy Jeffries and all the London fellas wished me well and told me to stay in touch. They were a terrific bunch of guys and I had learned so much from them, not just about the art of bank robbery but about the way you should conduct yourself.

On my last night Martin Brady and the rest of the Irish boys threw a party for me with plenty of Martin’s best hooch. I had to be helped back to my cell at locking up time and I know that I had gotten quite emotional. The next morning, 18 August 1980, I walked through the gates of Long Lartin for the last time.

I was on parole until the following March and I was confident that I would see it out without any problems. My brother-in-law James had sorted out a job for me working with the concrete squad building the bridges along the new Winchester bypass. The hours were long and the work was hard but I enjoyed it and I knew most of the guys on the site. Most of all, the money was good and as I was practically potless when I came out of jail it was important that I got earning straight away.

The one dark cloud hanging over me was that I no longer had my boy James and I knew that I had very little prospect of seeing him in the near future. All I could do was to try to suppress this aching and put it away in the empty space that was still my constant companion deep inside of me.

Otherwise, everything was going well. I was happy living at Ma’s, the weekends were for partying and I made up for lost time with a few of the ladies. None of these liaisons were either serious or long-lasting, but they were fun and it had
been a long time since I had been able to play it fast and loose with the females.

In early November I had made arrangements visit an old friend, Jane Butler, who had given birth to a baby boy in Newbury maternity hospital. I travelled by bus and had a drink with a couple of guys before leaving to go to the hospital. After the visit I phoned home to tell Ma I would be home in about an hour. Nothing could have prepared me for what she said. ‘Jim – thank God it’s you. Listen, don’t come home and keep out the way. The polis are here team-handed and they are looking for you.’

‘What for, Ma?’

‘I don’t know, son, but it is serious. There are a dozen of them, uniformed and CID and the guy in charge is a big Scots guy, a CID sergeant and he is a right bastard.’

I knew straight away who she meant and she wasn’t wrong. I had had dealings in the past with this guy and he hated me and the feeling was mutual. ‘Right, Ma, don’t worry. I’ll lie low and phone you at 10 o’clock tonight. In the meantime we need to try and find out what the story is. I’m sorry, Ma – the last thing I wanted was any trouble at your door.’

‘Don’t be daft, son – you’ve no’ caused any bother. Just make sure you keep out of the way.’

There was no point in speculating why the cops were looking for me. For the moment the important thing was to keep out of the way as Ma had said, at least until I could get a handle on this. I phoned Aidie Lewis and told him to pick up my brother Hughie and to meet me later. Hughie quickly told me exactly what had happened. ‘They went right through the house, turning everything upside down. He kept saying to Ma, “You know where he is, so you had better tell
me or you’ll be coming back to the station with us.” Ma got tore right into him, saying that he could take her back was them if they wanted but that she wouldn’t tell them where you were even if she knew. Whatever this is about, Jim, it is serious and that Scottish bastard is determined to do you.’

I knew that the best course of action was for me to disappear until we knew what the score was. Using the public phone inside the hospital I phoned my old mate Chrissie Davis and quickly explained the situation. Without any hesitation he said, ‘Right, Jim, get yourself down here a bit lively. You can stay with me and Carol and we will get you sorted.’ What can you say about friendship and loyalty like that? Aidie said that he would drive me down to Bournemouth and Hughie was coming too and handed me some money that Ma had given him for me.

Why run away if you have not done anything? This is usually asked by people who have never been in any kind of trouble with the law. It should be remembered that this occurred in the days before taped interviews and that alleged verbal admissions were still admissible in court. I would have been a mug to serve myself up on a plate for them. I had only been at liberty for three months and I was in no hurry to give a repeat performance.

We arrived in Bournemouth at about 10.30 that Thursday evening and made our way to Chrissie’s. He gave me a hug and said, ‘Welcome to our little home.’ Carol was in the living room and had already had some drinks poured and waiting for us.

‘Hi, Jim,’ she said. ‘Lovely to see you again. Make yourself at home. The three of you can crash here tonight and you can stay as long as you like.’

Both Hughie and myself filled Chrissie in and after he had
taken a few minutes to think things through he said, ‘I agree with you, Jim. Until we can find out exactly why the old bill are looking for you, it is best to keep a low profile and just make sure you are safe. You will be OK down here in Bournemouth. If anyone asks I’ll just say you’re my jock cousin down here looking for work. Right, that’s sorted. Now let’s all have a drink.’

I was concerned by these events but it has always been my policy not to waste any time worrying over things that you do not have any control over. I knew that before long I would know what this was all about and I would take it from there.