Essex Boy (14 page)

‘I want you to visit Tucker and tell him that I need the money for something,’ Tate said. ‘I don’t care what excuse you use. I want my money back from him and I want you to hold it and pay Sarah her weekly allowance.’

Steele could see that Tate was losing his grip on reality and didn’t really want to get involved, but Sarah and her son Jordan were in need and so he agreed solely for their sake.

When Steele had been sentenced to nine years’ imprisonment for importing cannabis, the judge had further ordered that he must hand over £120,000 to the court. This amount was estimated to be the profit that he had earned from his crimes. Steele had failed to pay the balance in full and so he had told Tucker that Tate had agreed to lend him the £20,000 as the courts were now threatening to return him to custody if he didn’t make a substantial payment soon. After looking at the documentation that Steele provided, Tucker agreed to hand over the money. It was the first time that the two men had met and Steele had been less than impressed. Tucker had been ‘doped up to his eyeballs’ and rambled incoherently about pressure he said he was under. Tucker had told Steele that he thought I was going to shoot him and so he had sold his home and purchased a bungalow complete with the latest security gadgets.

‘It has high walls and fences around it, an electronic entry system at the main gate, security cameras and a sophisticated burglar alarm,’ Tucker said. ‘I have also applied for a firearms certificate so even if that little fucker does get near me I will blow his fucking head off.’

Steele was aware that Tate had been shot but he had no idea who I was and so he just nodded and pretended to be interested in all Tucker had to say. Before parting, Steele managed to sell Tucker several lawnmowers and a van full of surveyor’s equipment for his new fortress. No doubt Steele had convinced the gibbering, paranoid Tucker that he needed to keep his grass kept short just in case I tried to crawl through it unnoticed. Only Tucker would know why he might have wanted surveyor’s equipment. If he ever did come down from his drug-induced high, he was probably asking himself the very same question. Fool!

Later the same day, what was left of Tate’s £20,000 was handed over by Tucker to Steele in a bag at Longwood Stables. When Steele counted the money, he found that it was £400 short. Rather than question Tucker about the missing money, Steele told himself that the profit from the lawnmowers and junk that he had sold him more than covered the shortfall. Steele paid Sarah’s allowance into a bank account each week and ensured that he kept a record of all transactions so that Tate would not be able to accuse him of siphoning of any of the money for himself.

Pat Tate was released from HMP Whitemoor in Cambridgeshire on 31 October 1995. As he bounded through the gates to freedom the driver of a stretch limousine sounded his horn and the passengers in the back began to call out Tate’s name. Tucker, Rolfe and four scantily clad prostitutes had come to welcome Tate home. Before the prison gates had even disappeared from the driver’s rear-view mirror, Tate had snorted a huge line of cocaine, injected himself with a cocktail of drugs and was beginning to have intercourse with one of the prostitutes while Tucker and Rolfe laughed and egged him on.

Not everybody who knew Tate was pleased that he had been released from custody. Sarah Saunders sat in the bungalow she had once shared with him dreading what state of mind he might be in when he arrived. Fortunately, Tucker had organised a party for Tate at a snooker hall in Dagenham, called Chequers, and so he had only visited Sarah’s home briefly as he was in a rush to get changed and go out. Steele had also called at Sarah’s home to welcome his friend home and brought along £1,000 of Tate’s money just in case he was in need of some pocket money. To Steele’s surprise, Tate had refused the money but added that he would sit down with him in a few days and work out what was left from the £20,000.

Tate’s home-coming party was a monumental flop. Apart from the prostitutes, who were on a wage, and a few of the wannabes that hung around Tucker’s firm, only a handful of his former friends attended. Parties such as these, which were held regularly by Tucker and members of his firm, would generally go on for two or three days. On one occasion, Tucker had hired the top floor of the Hilton Hotel, in Park Lane, London. The evening proved to be boisterous and a little noisy, which was tolerated by the hotel staff. However, in the early hours of the morning, the police were called to eject the revellers after the lift doors had opened on the ground floor to reveal a group of naked, fornicating guests. The drugged participants had been too engrossed in their activities to notice that somebody had pushed the descend button and sent the lift to the reception area where both staff and guests were horrified by what they saw.

Sarah knew that Tate could be at his most volatile after days of taking drugs, so she had arranged to go on holiday to Portugal with her son and her sister the morning after Tate was released. To her horror and surprise, Tate arrived home in the early hours of the morning and demanded to be let in. When Sarah enquired why Tate had not stayed at the party, he claimed that he was ill and climbed into her bed. Sarah was in no doubt that Tate was hoping to rekindle their relationship but she was no longer interested in him or his promises. Sarah went to sleep in the lounge but Tate kept getting up, making snide comments and slamming doors. Fearing the situation could become volatile, Sarah telephoned her sister, grabbed her son and suitcase and headed for the airport in a taxi.

Four days later, on 5 November 1995, Tate met Steele at the services on the A12 where Tucker had attempted to trap Joel. Steele gave Tate a record of all the payments that he had made to Sarah and returned the outstanding balance from the £20,000. The pair spent approximately 30 minutes together, during which time Tate mentioned that he had been offered 50 kilos of cannabis at £1,100 per kilo from a man named Darren Nicholls. Steele was well aware who Darren Nicholls was. In fact, Steele had introduced Tate to Nicholls initially. While serving his nine-year prison sentence, Steele had become involved in a sit-down protest about the quality of food at HMP Hollesley Bay in Suffolk. Nicholls, who was serving a three-year sentence for possession of counterfeit banknotes, had joined Steele and refused to return to his cell. The prison governor had called for the men to leave the dining area, but they had refused to do so until he had tasted the food for himself. When the governor had obliged the protestors, he had agreed that the food was sub-standard and ordered the kitchen staff to prepare Steele and Nicholls a fresh meal.

The two men had become friends following their victory and, when Tate had been transferred to the same prison, Steele had introduced him to his fellow protestor. Tate told Steele that he was interested in purchasing the 50 kilos of cannabis from Nicholls, but he was even more interested in knowing who his supplier was so that he could cut Nicholls, the middle man, out.

‘I know exactly who Nicholls’s supplier is,’ Steele replied. ‘It’s himself. He imports the cannabis from Holland.’

Tate did purchase the 50 kilos of cannabis from Nicholls but it turned out to be of very poor quality and he demanded his money back. Knowing just how unpredictable and volatile Tate could be Nicholls, rather wisely, went into hiding. Tate did everything he could to locate Nicholls but when he had exhausted every line of enquiry he asked Steele to find him and act as a mediator. Reluctantly, and rather foolishly, Steele agreed. When Steele informed Tate that he had managed to contact Nicholls, Tate demanded his telephone number but Steele refused.

‘Leave it to me. Nicholls doesn’t want trouble. I will sort this out for you,’ Steele had said.

Tate confided in Steele that it wasn’t just himself who Nicholls had upset: the total price that Nicholls had asked for the shipment of cannabis had been £55,000 but Tate had told Tucker, Rolfe and a consortium of their friends that the cost was, in fact, £70,000. They had paid Tate the full amount. He had pocketed £15,000 and given Nicholls the asking price.

‘If any of the consortium get hold of Nicholls, they will know that I have had them over,’ Tate said. ‘Please help me find him first.’

Tate begged Steele for Nicholls’s address but he refused and warned him, ‘If you start hurting the man, you will not get your money back and all you will end up with is someone who is rattled black and blue.’ Steele assured Tate that he would resolve the matter for him but he had to stop making threats about Nicholls. ‘If you put him in a corner, he may get tooled up and do something stupid. He has talked about shooting people before,’ Steele said.

Tate, as usual, refused to listen to common sense and told Steele that Nicholls had seven days to return the amount in full. The money was eventually returned to Tate and he did repay the consortium but what he failed to tell them was that approximately £22,000 worth of the cannabis had been of good quality and he had sold it. Tate had already pocketed £15,000 and therefore he ended up walking away with a total of £37,000 from the deal. He had also put the life of Darren Nicholls, who had supplied the drugs, in extreme danger.

When Sarah returned from Portugal, Tate was extremely spiteful and vindictive towards her. He ordered her to leave the bungalow immediately and find somewhere else to live. With nowhere to go or anybody to turn to, Sarah and her son ended up living in a women’s refuge in Basildon. Financially embarrassed, Sarah did ring Tate occasionally and ask him for money to support his son but he refused to do so until Sarah agreed to sign the bungalow over to him. Tate told Sarah that when the bungalow was in his name he would give her £900, which was the amount she needed for the deposit on a privately rented flat in Basildon. Sarah had little choice but to agree. After taking the bungalow off Sarah, Tate’s aggressive attitude towards her appears to have thawed. Her flat was some distance from her family and friends, so Tate, who had numerous contacts in the used car trade, agreed to buy her a vehicle.

At the time, Tate was driving a Mercedes that he had purchased on finance using Sarah’s name and bank details. He hadn’t bothered to ask her permission, he just explained, after the event, that because of his poor credit history it had been necessary. On the day Tate offered to purchase Sarah a vehicle, he left with Rolfe and returned an hour later with an H-registered Volkswagen Golf. He warned that the vehicle wasn’t entirely reliable but it would meet Sarah’s needs until he could find something more suitable. The car rarely started and often broke down and so Sarah found herself constantly ringing Tate enquiring about when he was going to replace it as promised. Tate continually fobbed her off and so one day in despair she mentioned the fact that the gleaming Mercedes that Tate was driving was actually in her name.

‘Why should you drive about in a Mercedes and I have to carry your son along main roads because our car’s broken down?’ Sarah said.

Tate flew into a rage and arrived at Sarah’s parents’ home with Tucker and Rolfe moments later. Shouting, swearing and threatening Sarah, Tate took the Golf’s keys from her and ordered Rolfe to drive the car away. When Sarah told Rolfe to stay where he was and dared to shout back at Tate, he attacked her and had to be restrained by Tucker and Rolfe, who somehow managed to bundle him out of the front door. Once outside, he continued to scream abuse before taking the keys off Rolfe and speeding away.

The date that Sarah had her vehicle taken off her was Tuesday, 6 December 1995. It is a date that I shall never forget as a great weight was lifted from my shoulders on that day. Unlike Sarah, the last thing on my mind that cold winter morning was Tate, Tucker and their sidekick Rolfe. My thoughts concerned the bowel movements of Bleep, my girlfriend’s Labrador. Throughout the previous night, Bleep had been suffering from a bout of vomiting and diarrhoea. The stench of the dog’s liquid faeces was making me gag as I got down onto my hands and knees to clean it up. How our eastern cousins can feast on our four-legged friends is beyond me, especially if they have had the misfortune to do what I was then being forced to do.

Having completed my unsavoury task, I showered, got changed and then gave my girlfriend a lift to college in Dorchester. I was still on bail for the garage burglary and one of the conditions that had been imposed was that I sign on at Swanage police station every morning at 1030 hrs. I couldn’t understand the purpose of such an irritating clause in granting me bail; it served no purpose. If I had signed on at 1030 hrs and then went on the run at 1031 hrs, the police wouldn’t have had an inkling that I had absconded until I failed to sign on again at 1030 hrs the following day. By that time, I could have been on the other side of the world, sunning myself on some beach. I know the law is the law and it should be obeyed, but that doesn’t mean it cannot be an ass.

After signing on at the police station, I washed my car and then lounged around the house watching drivel on daytime television. My life had become an almost painful existence. Boredom reigned. I didn’t feel comfortable making too many new friends and acquaintances just yet. Both Tucker and Tate had contacts throughout the country and I had been told that their enquiries concerning my whereabouts were still ongoing. At 1630 hrs, I picked up my girlfriend from college and we returned home. After taking up my now usual position in front of the television, Bleep ran over to me and began to bark and whine. Glancing out of the window I saw that snow had begun to fall.

I didn’t relish the thought of walking Bleep in almost arctic conditions and so I began to calculate the risks of remaining at home. Images and the aroma of liquid faeces filled my head and nostrils and so I was up on my feet, lead in hand and heading for the door in seconds. Judging by the amount of times that Bleep squatted during our brief stroll, I concluded that his condition had deteriorated and so I took him to a local vet.