Wannabe in My Gang? (19 page)

The night after I met Packman, I went into work and called all of the doormen into a meeting. I told them I was leaving. I’d had enough of Raquels and all that shit that went with it. I was meant to work until 2 a.m. that night, but by 11 p.m. I’d had enough. I went up to the office and told the manager of my decision. I went downstairs to the main dance area, said goodbye to the barmaids and the assistant manager and walked out of the door.

The following day I received a telephone call from one of the doormen who said that Mark Murray’s photograph was in the
News of the World
. I had expected Steve Packman’s picture to be in the paper, but not Mark Murray’s. I went out to buy a copy to see for myself.

On the front page there was a picture of Murray and an article which said that Murray was one of the men being quizzed by police investigating the death of Leah Betts:

Jobless Mark Murray, 35, of Pitsea, Essex, was among six people held after Leah’s death at her 18th birthday party last week. He faces further questioning after the
News Of The World
handed cops a secret tape containing new evidence.

The verbal undertaking I had received about the tape remaining confidential had been ignored. I felt sick knowing the police had the tape, as I knew they would be questioning me about it sooner rather than later. I was also annoyed that Murray had not bothered to contact me as he had been arrested and could have briefed me about police lines of enquiry.

The following day, Monday, 20 November, Tucker rang my home, but I wasn’t in. He left a message on the answering machine. He was shouting, being abusive and threatening. He said I couldn’t just walk out of Raquels and he wanted an explanation. He also said I was responsible for Murray being in the paper. He said, ‘I thought that other kid was going in. You shouldn’t have put Murray in. I’m going to fucking do you.’

Debra heard the message first and was quite concerned, but I reassured her Tucker wouldn’t do anything. ‘Cracked out of his head no doubt,’ I said, ‘Tate’s probably listening to him in the car so he’s going over the top for his benefit. I’ve done nothing I regret, so fuck him.’

I was still owed a week’s money as we were paid in arrears at Raquels. I rang the doormen and told them I would be down on Friday to collect my money. One of them said, ‘You had better ring me before you come, as I have heard that Tucker has got the hump.’ I told him I didn’t care.

It was not about the couple of hundred pounds I was owed, it was the fact I wanted Tucker to know his threats didn’t concern me. I didn’t want to involve the door staff in my problems, so I agreed I would ring before I turned up to ensure there would be no unpleasantness. I armed myself. I put a huge bowie knife in the back of my trousers, a bottle of squirt (industrial ammonia) in my pocket and went down to Basildon town centre to collect my money. Two of the doormen, Maurice and Gavin, met me outside McDonald’s and advised me not to go round to the club. Maurice told me, ‘Tucker’s there now with Tate, Rolfe and a few other people I haven’t seen before.’

I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck, I want my money.’

Gavin said, ‘Tucker’s told me that he’s holding your money and if you want it, you should get it yourself, but I wouldn’t advise it as he’s firmed up.’ I got really annoyed. If Tucker was going to do this and that why didn’t he turn up as I had done, alone?

‘I’ll give you my wages,’ said Gavin, ‘and get yours off Tucker. You can go round if you really want to. You know I’m with you.’

Gavin needed the work at the time, and Tucker knew he was loyal to me. I didn’t want to cause him any unnecessary problems, so I agreed. Gavin gave me his money and went back to the club. Tucker asked Gavin if he had seen me. ‘I know he’s your mate, but we’ve got a problem with him,’ he said.

‘Well, I’ve given him my money and now I need to get paid,’ replied Gavin.

Tucker apologised and gave Gavin my money.

As far as I was concerned, that was the end of the matter. Everyone was happy. I was out of Raquels and out of that way of life, while Tucker now had gained complete control of Raquels. There was no need for anyone to continue with a vendetta.

On 29 November I appeared at Chelmsford Crown Court for possessing CS gas and a gun. I was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment, which was suspended for twelve months. I was thankful that the threat of prison had been lifted. Within days of the case ending Basildon Council revoked my door licence and I was banned from working on the door for seven years. It was all too little, too late. I now had only to deal with the threat from Tucker and those members of the firm loyal to him.

The following day I received a phone call from Essex police. A detective told me that I ought to watch my back as they had received information that a firm was going to shoot me. He said Tucker was the man behind it and I should take the threat seriously. I take all threats seriously, but life has to go on. You can’t put everything on hold because some loser decides he wants to have a go at you. I asked the detective if the police had any further information. He told me they hadn’t; a couple of people claiming to be close to Tucker had called Crimestoppers, the confidential phone service, claiming they had heard it being discussed. They had refused to give their names or any other details. I didn’t expect a gold watch when I quit the firm, but I certainly didn’t expect to get shot, either. The next day I rang Tucker. ‘I hear you want to speak to me,’ I said.

‘I’ve been told that you put Murray in the paper,’ he replied.

‘I don’t care what you’ve been told,’ I said. ‘You know it isn’t true. I told you Packman was going in the paper, and you said you didn’t give a fuck so long as the attention was took off the firm.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving Raquels?’ he asked.

‘I’d had enough of everything,’ I explained. ‘I admit I was wrong not to discuss it with you, but I just wanted to walk away. You’ve not lost out. It is still your door. In fact, you have complete control now, instead of going down the middle with me.’

‘But people are talking,’ he said.

‘I don’t give a fuck about people, Tony,’ I replied. ‘I’m out of it.’

Tucker sneered, ‘I don’t believe you,’ and then the line went dead. I assumed he had switched off his mobile phone.

On 6 December I was asked to attend South Woodham police station as DI Storey, the policeman heading the investigation into Leah’s death, wished to speak to Debra and me. He said he needed to speak to everybody who had worked at Raquels on the night the pill which had killed Leah had been obtained. Debra was employed to search females as they entered the club, but I guessed this had nothing to do with her – it was just a ploy to get me down at the station.

When we arrived, four detectives met us at the door. Two said they wanted to speak to Debra and I was told that DI Storey wanted to have an informal chat with me. Storey was well aware of the firm’s involvement in just about everything. He knew what he could prove and he knew, despite knowing the facts, what he could not. Murray had been pulled and questioned, but nobody was going to give evidence against him. I could see Storey’s task was painful, but he knew at that time the only people who could realistically be prosecuted were Packman and Smith. He asked me about the tape which had been given to him against my wishes by the journalist. What could I say? I could hardly deny I was the person on the tape. He asked me if I would make a statement. I didn’t have to implicate anyone. All I had to say was, yes, that is my voice on the tape.

He said that there was always the possibility that if I refused I could be subpoenaed to court. He made it clear he wasn’t offering me an ultimatum, he was just being honest with me.

I told him I understood my position, but I wouldn’t put my family at risk for things I had done. I told him I would have to go away and give it some serious thought, discuss it with my family and speak to him again in a couple of weeks. I wanted the problem with Tucker sorted out first. Despite what the police had warned, I didn’t believe Tucker was a threat to me. It was the wannabes, the fucking gang groupies around him, who were trying to stir it up. The conversation with Storey ended around 4 p.m. When I came out, Debra was waiting. She said they had only kept her for half an hour. She had been asked about who was working on the night and other trivial matters – facts they already knew. I guess they had to speak to everyone who was in the building on the night the pill was bought. Procedure these days demands it.

As we drove away from South Woodham police station snow was falling. It had settled and was perhaps three or four inches deep. We had arranged for Debra’s mother to look after the children whilst we spoke to the police so we drove over to her home, where we arrived at about 5 p.m. We stayed for a cup of tea and then drove to Wickford, where we had something to eat. Heading for home we drove from Wickford up to the Rettendon turnpike on the A130, which is the main roundabout between South Woodham Ferrers and Chelmsford. We reached there at about 6.30 p.m. It was a miserable night. The sky was pitch black and the surrounding fields were bleached white with the snow, which was still falling. Unknown to me, around the very same time, Tucker, Tate and Rolfe were driving along the very same road.

That night I went to bed early. I had an appointment the following morning with a solicitor in London. I was involved in a civil case at the time and I had to discuss a few points with my counsel.

I had travelled on the train, as I didn’t fancy battling through the traffic. At about 11 a.m., I rang home to see if any messages had been left on the answering machine. There was one. It was from a detective who asked me to contact him as soon as I got his message. I rang him from one of the public call boxes inside King’s Cross station.

He said to me, ‘We’ve found a Range Rover with three bodies inside. They’ve all been shot through the head. We think it’s your mates.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Do you recognise this registration number: F424 NPE? I am sure it is them. We were watching them on Tuesday and they were in it then.’

I was confused. I said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, explain to me what’s happened.’

He repeated that they had found a Range Rover. Tucker, Tate and Rolfe were inside, but they had not been formally identified at that stage.

I said, ‘Are they dead?’

‘They’re very dead,’ he replied.

I knew instinctively why they had died: it was their stupid plan to rob a shipment of cocaine they believed would net them enough money to retire. They were certainly in retirement now and few people would be shedding tears over their premature departure.

The day after the blood-spattered bodies were discovered in the Range Rover, the police charged Stephen Smith and Steve Packman with being concerned in supplying the Ecstasy tablet that had claimed Leah Betts’ life. It made sense: the investigation that sought to expose those at the most lucrative end of the supply chain was going nowhere and the police’s most-wanted now lay dead. In an ironic twist, the detectives who had been trying to gather evidence against Tucker now switched their efforts to gather evidence against his killer.

On 25 January 1996, I met DI Storey, who wanted me to make a statement in relation to the conversation I’d had with Packman. I told him I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had been trying to give up my life of gangs and crime since March 1995 and every step I took towards sanity I was knocked back three by one incident or another.

With Tucker, Tate and Rolfe dead, surely now my time had come. Did I really have to put myself centre stage in a high-profile trial to get my chance? Storey explained that the Crown Prosecution would never let me just walk away. He said they could subpoena me to attend court and the press would then attack me for being a hostile witness in a case concerning the death of a young girl who was currently on the front page of every national newspaper. I knew he was talking sense and he could see that I was struggling with the very thought of accepting that fact. Storey suggested I take another week before I made my final decision. For two or three days I wrestled with my conscience. I knew in my heart what I had to do, this nightmare had to end some time. I will never, as long as I live, forget the next meeting I had with DI Storey at Maldon police station.

The upstairs office we sat in overlooked a quaint row of shops and below people were going about their everyday business. As I sat there watching the normal world go by, I was talking about the unnecessary deaths of young people caught up in a very different and murky world. I was astride two very different worlds at that moment and my decision would leave me in one or the other. I knew which one I wanted to inhabit. I agreed to make the statement validating the tape. As I uttered the words ‘I will do it’, the door to my previous life slammed firmly behind me.

9

MURDER AND MAYHEM

On Thursday, 23 May 1996, my old friend and Raquels colleague Larry Johnston fulfilled my grisly prophecy and murdered a man. Larry always had to go over the top and it was inevitable that it was going to happen one day. Larry had gone to a theme pub in Rush Green, Romford, called Big Hand Mo’s. He had got into a dispute with a 31-year-old doorman named Steven Poultney. After refusing Larry entry, Poultney had been stabbed in the side. An ambulance was rushed to the scene but the doorman was pronounced dead on arrival at Old Church Hospital. Larry was arrested the following day and charged with murder. He was subsequently convicted and given a life sentence.

Two lives wasted and for what? Stupid fucking bravado. But that is what these gangsters think it’s all about: being a face, being a somebody. Preferring to murder a man rather than face the ‘humiliation’ of not being allowed in a pub.

My decision to assist the police had been met by them with relief and caution. Their investigation now had few loose ends and would appear neat and tidy, but my life, they warned, was now in danger of being ended prematurely. My home became a virtual fortress care of Essex Police. Debra and I were told to carry small pager-sized panic alarms and electronic boxes tuned into the local police headquarters were in every room of our home. If the telephone wires were interfered with, an alarm would be activated and an armed-response unit would come running. It was an awful way to live, not so much for myself but for my family.