Elephants can't hide forever (6 page)

Frank’s intuition kicked in.
Lucky my arse
” he thought. The depot manager returned as Frank Carter put the medical report down.

“I want,” he said to the manager, “every single piece of information you have on Tony Black, and I want to meet Dr Samantha Pope, and I want both these things now.”

As Samantha was being summoned and the file of Tony Black being dug out of personnel, Frank had called his immediate number one, Will Peck.

“Will, I think we’ve got something, I want you and whoever else you need to get up the arse of Tony Black, he’s one of the guards who got clobbered here and maybe he’s
our inside man, so right away” he commanded.

“On it Guv,” came the reply.

For the next three days and nights Will Peck had been camped in the tree lined street in Crayford named Chestnut Avenue. The house occupied by Tony Black, his girlfriend Shelia Robinson, and her
three children was a modest three bed semi-detached. Will had watched the comings and goings of the family, and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this was just a normal family going about
its normal business, he knew the governor was rarely wrong when it came to hunches but there was nothing out of the ordinary occurring; in fact he was figuring out how he was going to tell the boss
he felt he was wasting his time. Just at that moment the passenger door of the Ford Granada Will was using that day opened and Frank Carter eased into the seat next to Will.

“What’s happening Will?” asked Frank.

“Well,” replied Will “To be honest, fuck all, sometimes he takes the kids to school, when he does I stay here watching the house, and Jim Mason follows him, but nothing, he
always comes straight back, never a detour, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What about the phones then?” asked Frank. He had pulled a favour from one of his mates in Special Branch and they had a van parked round the corner where they were monitoring all
incoming and outgoing calls-highly illegal without a magistrate’s agreement and inadmissible as evidence if it ever came to court, but Frank would get round that if and when.

“Nothing there either” said Will. “The woman who’s his girlfriend, Shelia Robinson, calls her mum once a day and that’s about it.”

“What did you just say?” Frank asked,

Will repeated that the woman rang her mum. “No, what did you say her name was?” rasped Frank.

“Shelia Robinson” was the answer.

Frank thought for a couple of seconds. “Will,” he said, “It just may be a coincidence, but ten quid says it’s not, that she’s in fact related to Brian
Robinson.”

Will’s stomach turned over; he knew Brian Robinson was a south London blagger, but just hadn’t put two and two together, Robinson being such a common name, but that was no
excuse.

“Fucking hell boss, I missed it” he said in an apologetic voice.

Frank was out of the car and twenty seconds later in the back of the Special Branch van.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” said his old mucker, from the Branch,

“Get on that phone of yours, get hold of Central Criminal Records, and get me the low down on Brian Robinson’s family. I want to know if there’s anyone associated with that
clan by the name of Shelia,” Frank said breathlessly. The man from Special Branch put the call in and made it absolutely clear this was priority one, it had to be immediately or sooner.

The three men didn’t have long to wait. The man from the Branch took the call through his headphones and then set them down and looked Frank dead in the eye.

“Brian Robinson has a daughter by the name of Shelia, lives in Chestnut Avenue, with her three kids and partner Tony Black, somewhere near here I think,” he said grinning from ear to
ear. Frank was over the moon, he had his breakthrough, and two hours later he was at Bow Street Magistrates Court in front of the beak and a search warrant was issued.

At 6.30am the next morning two Transit Vans pulled up outside the semi-detached house in Chestnut Avenue; having obtained a warrant of entry and arrest the previous afternoon. Frank now wanted
to put the fear of Christ into Tony Black. He needed to unsettle him as much as possible before the first interview that he had scheduled with him for that afternoon.

So it was that on that frosty morning that John Dawes, a resident of Chestnut Avenue for twenty years, was just leaving home for his early morning dog walk, when to his astonishment he stood
mesmerised as eight burly police officers in full riot gear and a battering ram tipped out of the two vans, charged up the steps of the semi detached home opposite, smashed the door right off its
hinges, piled into the private home of his neighbour and not three minutes later reappeared dragging the naked form of a man handcuffed and hooded, bundling him into the first van and then
disappeared, leaving a woman and three children standing at the hole in the house where the front door had been locked and bolted a few minutes earlier. John Dawes let himself back into his own
house, made a cup of tea for his wife and took it upstairs.

“There’s something you ought to know about the neighbours” he said thoughtfully.

Back at Paddington Green police station, the most secure police station in England. The cells which had housed most IRA terrorists were empty apart from one man, Tony Black, whose world had
suddenly fallen apart. He was out of his depth and he knew it.

By 6.30pm that same afternoon, a written statement confessing to his part in the Brinks Mat robbery had been signed by Tony Black; it had taken the team of detectives less than
four hours to break their man. Even to the police of Paddington Green and the hardened coppers of the Flying Squad, who were used to interrogating the most hardened IRA suspects, the admission had
been forthcoming with surprising ease. After the first session in which Frank Carter had left Tony to ruminate on a thirty year stretch in the scrubs, Tony had spilled the beans, hoping that the
police would tell the judge he had co-operated and he would then receive a lighter sentence, which had been promised by a very sincere lie from Frank Carter. As soon as the statement was signed and
before the ink was dry, Frank had organised a very serious posse of armed police for the sixty mile drive to the homes of John Illes and Brian Robinson. Speed was essential as Frank was sure once
the two robbers discovered Brian’s brother in law was in the nick they would have it away.

John Illes was sitting in the kitchen of his Kentish mansion feeling rather pleased with himself. In the few weeks since the blag, he had managed to move the gold and it was now in the hands of
various associates. He was confident none of them would turn him over. Furthermore, a company had been set up in Bristol as a gold dealership; this was currently being used as a gold smelting
operation. As soon as the gold was melted down it was moved onto the scrap market and converted into cash.
Yup,
thought Mouse,
things couldn’t have worked out better.
The tannoy
broke the silence: “John Illes; this is Commander Frank Carter of New Scotland Yard. Your house is surrounded by armed police; you and any other persons in the house are to leave by the front
door immediately. You cannot run, and if you resist you will be shot.”

Mouse was mortified. How could Carter be here now, he knew Carter and knew he meant business. He just retained enough presence of mind to pick up the phone to warn Brian and the rest, but the
phone was dead and that said it all.

As John Illes was being shown to his new home a year later, that being A wing Her Majesties Prison Parkhurst, he was contemplating the rest of his life in this prison cell. Not in his wildest
dreams could he have known that two hundred and fifty miles away a young man half way up the bleak terrain of Pen-y fan in the Brecon Beacons was going to change all that.

Chapter 11 Mike (Nine Fingers) Tobin

As Mike Tobin neared the summit of Pen-y fan he hadn’t a clue who John Illes was, or that he was starting a twenty five year stretch for the Brinks Mat. He’d heard of the robbery and
over a pint he had even shown begrudging admiration for the balls of the robbers, but right now he would gladly swap life on the mountain for a prison cell.

Mike Tobin joined the British Army aged eighteen. From a poor background in the North East of England, he knew life in Gateshead without qualifications or a job could only lead one way. Although
uneducated, he was smart and self reliant so he had walked into the local army recruitment centre and signed up with the R.E.M.E- the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers to give them their
full title. Not only would Mike get paid to see the world, well, Norway if he was lucky, but they told him at the centre he could train as a Mechanical Engineer, and he didn’t know what that
meant but it sounded good.

Mike took to army life like a duck to water. Based down at Bordon Camp south of Aldershot, his eager approach and natural enthusiasm made him a popular soldier within the ranks. Opposite the
road from the main REME camp, and a quarter of a mile from that highway, lies an independent military barracks occupied by the Ghurkha Regiment. The rivalry between the two forces was fierce and
often things got out of hand, necessitating the intervention of the Military Police.

It was after one of the regular Saturday night skirmishes with the men from the mountains of Nepal that Mike found himself in the guardhouse on three days hard labour with a rival Ghurkha as
company. A few hours earlier both men had been trading blows in the local hostelry when the MPs had stormed in and grabbed the first protagonists available. Unfortunately that happened to be Mike
and the Ghurkha. As the hours passed, and the two men mellowed towards each other, the little Nepalese fighter regaled Mike with stories from the Ghurkha regiment. Mike was enthralled as the
Ghurkha told him of jungle warfare and how, with their diminutive frames, they fought and usually beat most adversaries and indeed, Mike realised just how vicious they were.

On the last night of incarceration the Ghurkha said to Mike: “Tell me, Mike, I’ve got to know you these past few days and it strikes me you want more action than the R.E.M.E. can
offer. Have you ever thought about applying for the selection process of the SAS?”

Mike thought for a moment. “No I haven’t, do you know how it works?” he asked.

“Well,” said the Ghurkha, “Actually, yes, although we are not eligible, which is probably just as well or you English wouldn’t get a look in,” he laughed. “To
apply is easy providing you have at least thirty nine months left to serve. Should you pass Selection Training and are between nineteen and thirty four, all you have to do is get the OK from your
CO and away you go.”

Mike was getting interested. “It’s that easy?” he asked

The Ghurkha laughed again. “Mike we’re talking about the most elite cadre of Special Forces in the world, the selection process is the most gruelling imaginable, men have died trying
to obtain that badge. The pass rate varies between five and seventeen per cent; there are some fucking hard bastards that don’t make the first week.”

Mike’s mind was made up. He was now a qualified Mechanical Engineer which he rightly figured would be an advantage. So the next morning, after he had received one hell of a bollocking for
his recent escapades from his CO Major Majors, he decided to ask if the Boss would help him apply for entry into the SAS. The Major looked him straight in the eye.

“Mr Tobin,” he said, “I have worked with you these past four years and you have accredited yourself admirably. The SAS are always looking for people who are above average
intelligence, assertive, self-sufficient, hard to fool and not dependent on others to name just a few of the qualities required, but before all of that you have to prove you have the physical
stamina to sustain weeks of untold hardship when you undergo basic selection. However, putting that to one side, you have as good a chance as anyone I’ve recommended before, so the
answer’s yes, I’ll apply on your behalf and let you know Dismissed, soldier.”

Six months later, months in which Mike had committed himself to the hardest training regime he could muster in addition to his normal duties, he left the comfort of Borden Camp and entered into
the initial SAS recruitment process. He found himself on the bleak hillside of Pen-y fan. The fan, as it is colloquially known, comes into play in the SAS selection regime in week two. At three
thousand feet the tallest and most inhospitable peak in the Brecon Beacons, this is the point where the aspiring SAS soldiers are found out. Week one saw off forty five hopeful recruits before they
had even seen the fan. Mike had done OK.

Mike had seen those that had failed standing forlornly on Platform Four of Hereford station having been RTU (returned to unit), and was even more determined to make it through. On this
particular day the mist had descended on the fan and Mike watched as those in front disappeared into the mire.

Mike was now carrying a fifty five pound Bergen on his back, and alone for a split second his resolve had started to waver, but just as these thoughts were taking hold he caught up with a group
of men who were the lead pack. This gave him the strength to shrug off his self doubt, as they descended the Fan for the second but not the last time that day. All fears of failure left Mike, and
his resolve was solid again.

As the course progressed and more and more men dropped out, Mike seemed to get stronger and stronger, and the moment of uncertainty on the misty mountain was gone and never re-appeared. The last
day of basic training finally arrived, which consisted of a forty six mile endurance march known as the “Fan Dance,” but having to be completed in twenty hours. It was more of a jog
than a march, and carrying the obligatory fifty five pound Bergen on his back was Mike’s crowning glory. Finishing third on the day, his personal road to Damascus was complete and although
there was still a long way to go, those that had made it this far were not going to fail now. That weekend, the remaining men were given the weekend off and instructed to return to Stirling Lines
on the Monday for a further fourteen weeks of Continuation Training. Out of the hundred and sixty men who had started the course, thirteen left for some weekend R&R and thirteen reported back
the following Monday.