The Wicked Mr Hall (13 page)

One night, as I prepared to leave the club, she said, ‘You’re like Cinderella, always vanishing at the same time.’ I told her that I was going to the desolate grey building just down the road. ‘Oh, you work there?’ ‘No, I don’t work
there. I live there, I’m a prisoner on licence.’ She seemed surprised, but not put off by this. Smiling, she invited me to visit her more often at her shop. This was fine by me, in fact it was exactly what I wanted to happen.

Hazel was the widow of a Lancashire publisher. Her money had come from her dead husband. As far as business acumen went, she didn’t have much. Although the lounge was only a few feet away from the counter area, the door was always closed. While Hazel passed away her days, the two young girls who worked for her were left in charge of the money. After a couple of visits, I persuaded her to keep the door open and, with the help of two carefully positioned mirrors, she could sit and watch what her hired help was up to. The takings rose considerably. After that, she was very open to my advice. I had gained her trust.

I started having sex with her – more because I thought she expected it of me than from any great lust on my part. She liked us to do it in a heavily perfumed bath. I performed adequately but afterwards, as I showered, I was left with a feeling of unfulfilment. For me, this relationship was devoid of love. Hazel Paterson and her home were just a nice diversion from spending time in a lowlife hostel.

However, that was not how she saw it, and it was not to my credit that I didn’t tell her the truth. This act of selfishness would later boomerang on me.

She talked of selling the shop, and I encouraged her. Through sheer chance, I found myself alone one day with the prospective buyer. He was complaining that she was dragging her feet. Due to other commitments, he wanted a
quick deal. I listened to him and went to see him the following day. I asked him: ‘What would it be worth to you, if I could get Hazel out of the shop within seven days?’ After some contemplation, he replied: ‘A couple of hundred quid.’ I disagreed: ‘No, no, no. This place is a little goldmine. The takings for each week are in the thousands. It sells every conceivable thing, it’s ideally situated on a busy thoroughfare.’ Standing up, I said, ‘Think about it, I’ll call in again tomorrow.’ The next day, he agreed to a sum of £800. Within a week, Hazel was out, he was in and my wallet was full of money.

Apart from me having to leave early, our social life was quite interesting. Hazel was well connected to all the local dignitaries. She was a friend of the Mayor, and together we would attend most of the civic functions. Hazel was keen to get a car. I knew of a doctor at the hospital, who was selling his Jaguar, and I put her in touch with him. One night after returning from work, I went into the kitchen, and noticed a brown envelope on the table, addressed to me. Inside were the log book and keys to the Jag. She had bought it for me. Also, the proceeds from the sale of the shop had been put into a joint bank account. I had access to thousands of pounds again, and two cars. For someone earning £20 a week and living inside prison grounds, this was quite a remarkable feat. Life at the hospital was also improving. I had developed quite a rapport with the catering manager, and my duties had changed. Along with Mary Coggles, I had taken charge of the VIP suite and on one occasion even served dinner to Sir Keith Joseph, the Health Minister.

When the mood took me, I still had sex with Mary.
Besides her, I branched out and started sleeping with a young chef called Tony. Whittingham hospital wasn’t that bad after all! As I always say: ‘A situation is what you make it.’

I was invited to a party in London by Patrick Rafferty, a criminal friend from Hull Prison. It was there that I met the only woman I was ever to love, the only woman I would ever marry. Ruth Holmes. I still loved David. Is it possible to love two people at once? Yes!

Ruth worked for one of the city’s big fashion houses. She was elegance personified – her clothes, her bearing, her manner. She stole my heart. I stole hers by sending a restaurant waiter out to the car to serve her a drink while we were waiting for take-away food. It happened in an instant. As with Dave, when we made love, ‘love’ really was one of the factors. I started to spend my weekends in London.

I was now approaching the end of my time at the hospital and I was asked whether I would like to stay on as one of the Dining Managers. I thanked them for their kind offer, and said I’d consider it. In truth, it was completely out of the question but, until my parole had officially ended, I dared not show my hand to anyone. The last few weeks in Preston weren’t that difficult to bear. I kept up my pretence of being Hazel’s partner. At the hospital I was still sleeping with Mary and the chef and, as a bonus, I was having an illicit affair with a young woman from Blackpool, who was my half-brother Donald’s girlfriend. Come the end of the week, it was back to London and Ruth. It was a bitch of a job, having sex with all those different people but then I suppose someone had to do it.

The long eight-month period of sleeping from Monday to Friday in the bleak hostel finally came to an end. I made a rather substantial withdrawal from my and Hazel’s bank account, and left. Preston was a definite backnumber. Northern mill towns have never quite been my cup of tea.

Ruth and myself had a quiet registry office wedding and I moved into her spacious Hammersmith flat.

I had been careful to keep various compartments of my life separate. Ruth knew nothing of what had been happening in Preston. Hazel Paterson knew nothing of Mary Coggles, who I was still using to visit Dave in Hull. And Mary, who was a simple soul, had been told to keep her mouth shut. I had carefully and quietly swapped one life for another. Ruth saw me as a slightly unscrupulous businessman, which, I suppose, if applied in its loosest sense, was almost true.

Grimshaw Hall was a manor house in Knowle, Warwickshire, set in three hundred acres of undulating countryside, with peacocks roaming the gardens. It boasted a huge indoor swimming-pool. The old riding stables had been converted into a suite of luxurious offices. A fleet of expensive cars sat in the garages – Rolls, Lamborghinis, sports cars. The owner of this private paradise was a man named Angelo Southall, a
multimillionaire
who had advertised for a butler. Telling Ruth that I was going to do some business deals in that area, I took the job. The only person I trusted with the truth was John Wooton. I phoned him once a week, and told people to contact me through him. When I had told the Governor
of Hull that I was sick of prison, I had been telling the truth. Although now married, my plans for Dave and myself going into business were still in my mind. This time, though, I would take no chances. I would be very careful, and any stones that I took would be replaced with fakes. Nobody would know my whereabouts, I would use an assumed name and I would be in and out in a few weeks. The idea of actually taking a lowly paid job was incomprehensible. With luck, this would be my last criminal foray.

R
uth was wrapped up in her career. After years of giving people stories, I was an expert. She believed the business tale, and our weekends were without strained atmospheres and were full of passion. After all, we were newly-weds. Part of Ruth's attraction for me had been her independence. I had let her know some things from my past. She knew that I had done time, and was aware that I had criminal contacts. Like almost all the women in my life, instead of repulsing it only served to attract them more. A man not willing to have his strings pulled by society was a man in his own right.

We were both relaxing in the flat one Saturday evening when the phone rang. It was an old friend of mine. This particular friend was, I suppose, a gigolo of sorts. He lived the life of a playboy and he was completely immoral. He would sleep with men or women of any age, if they had
money or prestige and he could get something from them. He was still relatively young, in his early thirties, and he was very attractive. Down the phone line, he told me the story. He had slept with a very wealthy married man whose wife and children had been away at their country residence. Obviously this man must have some clout, and he was ‘in the closet’. On leaving the man’s home, he had spotted a briefcase with a huge combination lock on it standing on a hallway table. As he walked out of the front door, he had picked it up. He couldn’t open it. It could contain something valuable. Was I interested?

I told him to wait for me and, driving over to his flat, took it from him. I promised him that if it was of use to me, I would give him a fair price. I didn’t open it until I was back in the flat with Ruth. What we saw astonished us. The owner of the case was a senior civil servant. Inside were papers, some of which were marked ‘One copy only. For the office of the Prime Minister’. There was information on a certain foreign ambassador in London. Other papers related to Dom Mintoff, the Maltese Prime Minister. If this information was leaked, or sold abroad, it would cause the Government acute embarrassment. What I had were confidential Cabinet papers.

Ruth was frightened of the possible consequences, and urged me to burn the papers. But I knew that I would keep them. I couldn’t tell my newly-wed wife why. Now I had something that the Government wanted, which was ironic, because the Government had something, or rather someone, I wanted. Dave Barnard. I did some research on the civil servant. Now this was a man who had the ear of
the Home Secretary, head of the prison service, the man with the power of veto and release.

The next morning, I went to Euston and made photocopies of all the documents. I posted the copies to John Wooton, telling him to put them in a safe place. From there I went to a public phone box and dialled the number of a Cabinet Minister. The secretary who answered seemed reluctant to put me through until I mentioned that I was in possession of a missing briefcase. Seconds later, I had the ear of the Cabinet Minister. I kept the call as brief as possible. All I wanted to do was establish contact. Half an hour later I called again, this time I was put through straight away. I asked him: ‘What are the chances of a prisoner being released in exchange for the briefcase?’ He started to procrastinate. I put the phone down. They would already have the necessary equipment in place to instigate a phone trace. I’d let them think about it. Thinking was just what I did, too, when I returned to Ruth’s flat. I realised that my initial reaction had been pure ‘knee jerk’, an emotional response. I wanted the man I loved free. After some thought, it was clear that there was no way I could give them Dave’s name, without leading them straight to me. I decided to see what the Russians would offer. Taking some of the least important papers, I visited their Consulate in the Bayswater Road.

After a short wait, I was ushered into an office at the rear of the building. A masculine-type woman, wearing a grey suit and string tie asked what I wanted. I told her that I worked in a government department and, on occasion, came into possession of certain papers. I went on to
explain that I felt a friendship towards the Russian people, and would like them to see the documents. I pushed the papers across the desk towards her. After reading them, she picked up the phone and spoke in Russian to what I assumed was a superior. A couple of minutes later, a well-groomed young man came in and indicated that I should follow him.

I was taken up a large marble staircase, and into an office that overlooked the Bayswater Road. There, I repeated my story. I was asked: ‘How often do you get such papers?’ I said: ‘Probably about once a month.’ He asked me whether my motives were financial gain. I replied ‘No.’ Then he asked me whether I would like to visit Russia. To this I replied: ‘Yes, very much. I would like to see the Kremlin, the Bolshoi ballet, the Fabergé collection and St Petersburg.’ I was assured: ‘All of this will be possible, but you must not visit the Consulate again. Everyone who enters the building is photographed.’ I was told, at an appointed time the next day, to walk in a certain area of Hyde Park where I would be approached. As I left the building, I wondered if my photograph had just been taken. I knew that I had just stepped out of my depth.

My stroll in the park the next day was hardly relaxing. I walked round and round the same area. Every so often I would sit on one of the benches, but I seemed to be of no interest to anyone. I was actually beginning to think that they had forgotten I was there, when a man approached me. We walked, he talked. He was interested and wanted to see all the papers that I had. He gave me an ex-directory telephone number, which I wrote down on a book of matches that I’d
picked up at the bar of the Dorchester. I was to phone this number and an interview would be arranged.

Returning to Grimshaw Hall, I hid the briefcase, along with a revolver and bullets in Southall’s wine cellar. My interview with the Russians never happened. I had only been back in Warwickshire for one day, when I telephoned John Wooton for any messages. He told me that Patrick Rafferty had been in touch, and wanted to meet. I called the number that John gave me, and Rafferty said he had some stolen foreign currency and could I help? I said that I could, but because of work commitments I didn’t want to travel. Would he come to me? He agreed, and we met in a bar in Solihull. After agreeing a price, I told him that the Hall where I was working was only a fifteen-minute drive away. I would go there, get him the money, and relieve him of his burden. I stood to make a nice profit, but my greed was to prove my undoing. After our business was concluded, he asked me whether I was still in touch with Dave Barnard – Rafferty had been in the same wing as us in Hull. As I drank, my emotions got the better of me, I told him that I’d been doing all I could to get Dave released, including using the top-secret contents of a briefcase to try to cut a deal with the Government. Every single word that I uttered to Rafferty would later rebound on me. As I left him that evening, all my previous caution would count for nothing. The man who had introduced me to my wife, the man I had done dealings with in Hull prison was a ‘grass’. My lack of judgement would put me back behind bars. I didn’t know it then, but the best days of my life were already over.

Besides giving the police everything he knew on me, Rafferty also made a phone call to Ruth and told her that Dave Barnard was my homosexual lover. At the promptings of the Special Branch, he informed her that it was not a casual relationship, and it wasn’t over. The worst kind of enemies are the ones that come disguised as friends.

When I walked into Ruth’s flat that weekend, I was greeted by an atmosphere as chilly as the Arctic wind. ‘Your friend in Hull prison, Dave. What exactly is your relationship with him?’ I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone had told her. I contemplated lying. It would have been easy, but how could I? How could I deny a relationship that was based on something so beautiful as selfless love? I told her the truth. She broke down and cried. Then came a torrent of questions. Had I kissed him? I told her I had. Who was active, and who was passive? I explained that Dave was the passive one. What of the future? ‘I’ve made a promise, that I will meet him when he comes out. We’re thinking of starting a business.’ After that I left her to contemplate our future. I had dealt her the cruellest blow possible. As for myself, what could I do? I had lived a loveless life for forty-five years then, within the space of eighteen months, I had fallen in love with two people. I also felt cheated. Such is the fickle finger of fate.

I returned to Knowle with a heavy heart.

I was going about my duties in the kitchen when my employer came in: ‘Roy, if you see strange people wandering about the grounds don’t be alarmed. I have given permission to the local photographic society to come and take some shots of the gardens and birds.’ I nodded:
‘Very well, Sir.’ Unperturbed, I carried on with my work. Within moments, there was a knock on the front door. Expecting an enquiry of some kind from the visitors, I opened it without fear. The two men in front of me showed me identification as they stepped into the hallway. They were Special Branch. My accommodation was a four-bedroomed house situated away from the main house on the far side of the estate, and that is where we went. I have been subject to many interrogations over the years. These men were very professional. They offered me a drink and without me stipulating, they gave me my favourite tipple. Without me mentioning Wooton, they said they would tear his and my mother’s house apart if they had to. They would dig up every square inch of Grimshaw Hall, if required. I knew that resistance would only make it harder for me. I led them to the wine cellar and unearthed the briefcase for them. I had forgotten about the gun, that alone meant a five-year sentence. The shit had hit the proverbial fan. I was taken to Paddington Green, the most secure police station in London. All of my belongings followed, every suit I had worn, every scrap of paper I had written on.

Ruth came to visit me, as did a crime reporter I had known for years from the
News of the World
. After many hours of interrogation from a Commander Wilson, I was remanded to Brixton.

Ruth was a personal friend of the solicitor and MP Douglas Mann, and he was engaged to defend me. On our first meeting, he told me that under the Official Secrets Act, I could expect to get 10–15 years. In the exercise yard I
spoke to a couple of old friends who thought it could be even more. That night in my cell, my worst nightmares seemed to be coming true. The thought of another long sentence chilled me to the bone. How much of my life was to be spent locked in a cell? How much more could I possibly take? If I was religious, I’d say that God was taking the piss. Even with this possible sentence stretching in front of me I never grassed the guy who gave it to me. That night, there was no sleep.

The next morning Douglas Mann visited again. I knew what I wanted to ask him – can you get to the top people in the legal section of the Government? He said he could if it was important enough. I told him to try this: ‘If I go to the Old Bailey under the Official Secrets Act, I will reveal in the dock the names of various prominent people in Ted Heath’s Government who enjoy the favours of handsome, in some cases very young, male prostitutes. I know of a club off Park Lane where these activities take place. I also know of a stately home, owned by a Marquess, where on selected weekends the same things happen.’ As a postscript to this little ultimatum I let Mann know that over the years I’d had various contacts with journalists, one of whom was Paul Foot, who knew of my character and knew to take me seriously. ‘If I strike a deal of silence, and it is reneged on, copies of this information will be leaked to the press. If the powers that be put me in a cell for years, all for nicking a poxy briefcase, I will do this Government irrevocable damage.’ Leaning over, I whispered to Mann: ‘Let them know, if they fuck me, I will fuck them.’

The next day Mann returned. A deal had been struck. If
I pleaded guilty to possession of a stolen briefcase, the case would be heard
in camera
. I would get a lesser sentence. Would I agree to it? I nodded. This sounded a lot better than fifteen or twenty. The events that followed broke all previous precedents. Instead of being held for months on remand, as was usual, I found myself standing in the Inner London Crown court within the week. The public gallery was deserted save for two people, a man and woman. Later, I would learn that these were the civil servant from whom the briefcase had been stolen, and his wife. A sentence of two years was passed. They had kept their word. As I was taken away, Commander Wilson of the Special Branch stepped forward. ‘I don’t know how you swung that one, Roy, I thought you were looking at ten, at the very least.’ I just smiled, Wilson’s bluff didn’t fool me. He had been told what was going on. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder: ‘Expect a visit from me, I have some questions.’ The police van took me to Wandsworth. Again. I’ve almost lost count of the times I’ve been in that nick.

At 10.30am a warder came up to me and told me I had a visitor. This was most unusual. In all my years of going to prison, I have never known anyone to get a visit in the morning hours. Another first was being taken to a prefab outbuilding instead of to the usual visiting rooms. Sitting at a table was Commander Wilson, who motioned me to sit down. He said: ‘Tell me about the Russians.’ Out of habit I was evasive. ‘They live in Eastern Europe,’ I replied. Opening a briefcase he spread some photographs on the table, which included the faces of the man and woman who
had interviewed me and the contact in Hyde Park. They were all pictured innocently walking the streets of London. For a second I stared at the photos without speaking. Then Wilson pulled out a sheet of paper with an enlarged photograph of a Dorchester book of matches on it. Written on the flap was the ex-directory phone number of a Russian agent. ‘This’, he said, ‘if shown to a jury, would have put you away for twenty years on charges of treason.’ It is a stupid man who, when caught ‘cold’ fails to see it. I knew enough of the ‘system’ to know that when you are in it, a power such as British Intelligence can make sure you stay in it, no matter what the judge’s sentence. Also, as a lifelong professional thief and lover of the high life, the Communist system is not one that is close to my heart. I’m closer to being a Monarchist than a Socialist. I gave him everything I could. He shook my hand when he left.