Essex Boy (5 page)

It was in these clubs that I had first heard stories about him and the vicious door firm that he controlled. Anybody foolish enough to cause trouble in premises looked after by Tucker’s firm was given unimaginable beatings. At Raquel’s, in Basildon, revellers were often slashed with knives, kicked senseless or hurled down three flights of concrete stairs. One man was permanently blinded and another beaten with sticks and doused in petrol. Tucker insisted that all the door staff who worked for him must comply with the age-old adage that the customer is always right.

‘If they insist on causing trouble, let them have it, but make sure that they won’t ever feel like asking for it again,’ he would say.

When Tate returned home early the following morning from his meeting with Tucker, he woke me up and rambled on about earning more money than he could ever spend.

‘Tucker runs nightclub doors and we will be able to get people to sell gear in his clubs,’ Tate said with his usual enthusiasm where money was involved.

‘Yes, great. Fucking marvellous. Save it until I wake up, eh?’ I replied, burying my head back under the sheets.

From that day onwards, Tate spoke little of anything else other than Tony Tucker and their money-making schemes and plans. It was hard not to notice that Tucker had made a huge impression on Tate. The following weekend, at Tate’s behest, we travelled to Epping Country Club to meet his new friend.

Epping Country Club was, at that time, the page-three girl and premiership footballers’ playground. Queues of wannabes, B-list celebrities and East End gangsters snaked around a large car park waiting to get in. When we arrived, Tate marched to the front of the queue with me in his wake and, after shaking hands with the door staff, entered the club. We found Tucker standing near the bar surrounded by a group of blonde Essex girls who tottered on their high heels, giggling insanely at his every word. Tucker, like Tate, was a huge man and had a very intimidating aura; it was almost as if you could smell violence when you were around the two of them. Tucker shook my hand firmly and called over a friend who he introduced as Craig Rolfe. He wasn’t as tall as Tucker but he had clearly been abusing steroids as he was stuffed into a jacket that no longer quite fitted him. ‘Sneaky’, that’s how I would best describe Rolfe; there was just something about him that wasn’t quite right. He tended to sneer when he spoke, as if he was somehow mocking you. I know I may sound paranoid for making assumptions about people I had only just met, but that doesn’t mean that they were not out to get me. After shaking my hand Rolfe turned his back on me to talk to the girls in Tucker’s entourage; a classic display of ignorance, in my opinion.

When the club closed, we all went back to a house in Chafford Hundred, which I assumed was Tucker’s. A large bag of cocaine was emptied onto a glass coffee table, and Rolfe immediately began to hoover the drug up his nose. Tucker told us that he was not very happy with a man named Jimmy Joel, who had allegedly burgled the home of a woman who had recently been diagnosed with cancer. He produced two syringes, one of which was full of pure heroin and another that contained a potion that he called ‘pink champagne’; a cocktail of steroids and cocaine.

‘Top that up,’ Tucker said to Rolfe as he handed him the syringe full of heroin.

Rolfe rolled up his sleeve, slapped his arm several times and after sticking the needle into a vein he withdrew a quantity of his own blood. Rolfe then shook the syringe, drew more blood and shook the syringe again until his blood and the heroin mixed to resemble the pink champagne.

‘The cunt who burgled that woman’s house is going to get this,’ Tucker said, holding the syringe full of heroin and Rolfe’s blood. I thought it was all talk designed to impress Tate, but the following night Tucker rang and asked us to meet him.

‘That guy I am after is going to Epping Country Club tonight,’ Tucker said. ‘Do you want to come up there with me?’

Tate answered for us both and as we were getting into Tucker’s car a few hours later he handed me a revolver.

‘What the fuck do I want that for?’ I asked Tate.

‘It might be needed, so just hang on to it,’ he replied.

The atmosphere in the car on the way to the country club was very menacing. Tucker was talking about the best way of disposing of Joel’s body and Tate was getting visibly excited about the various ways in which they could kill him; none were pleasant. Tucker eventually finalised a plan whereby Joel would be lured to Rolfe’s vehicle and offered a syringe full of pink champagne. To allay any fears that Joel may have, Rolfe would inject himself first and would then offer Joel an identical syringe. Identical in appearance only, that is, because unlike Rolfe’s syringe Joel’s would contain the pure heroin mixed with Rolfe’s blood, which would kill him within seconds. To ensure Joel complied with Rolfe’s request, Tucker and Tate decided that I should sit in the back of the car and if there were any problems I was to threaten the man with the gun.

‘And what happens if he still doesn’t do as he is told?’ I asked.

‘Then shoot the cunt twice in the back of the head,’ Tucker replied.

With the benefit of hindsight I can see just how ludicrous it was to even suggest doing such a thing but that night in that car, immersed in an atmosphere of pure evil, I am in no doubt that I would have done it.

Before we arrived at the club, a former football hooligan turned bouncer named Carlton Leach, and approximately 20 of his friends, had spotted the man we were intending to kill. Leach, another recently recruited friend of Tucker’s, had approached Joel but he had seen him coming and fled. Tucker and Tate were incensed to learn that Leach had scared Joel away and after a few minutes of incoherent ranting we all got back into the car and returned to the house that I believed was Tucker’s. Another large bag of cocaine was poured onto the glass coffee table and Rolfe immediately buried his nose in it. Tucker produced a bag of syringes and injected himself with a cocktail of drugs.

‘Have a go, Pat, it’s the bollocks. You’ll love it,’ Tucker said as he offered Tate a syringe.

Tate looked at the syringe and then at me, as if seeking my approval.

‘Don’t be fucking daft, Pat, think of Sarah,’ I said but he just shrugged his shoulders and plunged the needle into his arm.

That stupid act, that moment, signalled the end for my friend. Tate loved the buzz that the cocktail of drugs gave him and his constant use of it from that night onwards changed him from a friend into a fiend. As the powerful drugs took a hold of Tate he seemed to lapse into a semi-conscious state. He began mumbling about Rolfe being incapable of murdering the man that Tucker wanted dead.

‘Some fucking mate you are, you cunt,’ Tate sneered.

‘Oh bollocks, Pat. I am the man,’ Rolfe replied, in an effort to make light of the abuse being aimed at him.

Tate’s facial expression made it clear that he was not joking with Rolfe and when he demanded I give him the revolver the room fell silent.

‘The fucking gun, Nipper. Give me the fucking gun,’ he shouted.

Rolfe leapt to his feet and ran to the nearest exit, which happened to be an open window. Laughing insanely Tate grabbed the gun from me, cocked it and staggered to the window to shoot Rolfe. Before Tate could take aim and fire, Tucker had grabbed his arm and wrestled the gun from him. Both men fell to the floor giggling like fools, totally out of their minds on drugs. I got up and walked out of the house in disgust.

As I closed the front door behind me Rolfe began screaming from the garage roof, ‘No, Pat. No, please don’t.’ When Rolfe looked down and saw that it was me and not Tate leaving the house, he begged me to go and ask Tate not to shoot him.

‘Ask him yourself, you fucking idiot,’ I replied, before walking away.

Later that day, Tate was dropped off at my flat in a terrible state. He could tell by my face that I wasn’t impressed with his antics.

‘What the fuck did you do that shit for?’ I asked him.

‘I know, I know. I won’t ever do it again. Please don’t tell Sarah because if she ever finds out she will dump me,’ he replied.

Sarah had recently given birth to Tate’s son Jordan, and I knew that she would have undoubtedly ended their relationship if she knew what he had done and so I agreed that I would not tell anybody. Unfortunately for Tate, he was a walking advertisement for his own bad behaviour and habits, and it was only a matter of time before everybody would become painfully aware of his uncontrollable drug addiction.

CHAPTER THREE

I am not sure why Tate turned into the Jekyll and Hyde figure that he
became. He was such a nice guy when I first met him but, once he had an audience of people he wanted to impress, he would take drugs to give him confidence and turn into the monster they expected him to be. I am not sure that many of Tate’s numerous ‘friends’ ever did get to know the real Patrick Tate. When I was in prison, he would tell me all about his youth and times that clearly meant a lot to him. His family had lived in St Neots, a relatively crime-free picturesque town in Cambridgeshire. While roaming the streets one day, Tate had found a leather pouch containing £300 on the roof of a parked car. A policeman who had been entrusted to look after the money for his colleagues’ Christmas party had put the pouch on the roof of his car while securing the vehicle and then forgotten to retrieve it. Tate told me that he had no idea that the cash belonged to the police but he had decided to celebrate his good fortune by throwing his own Christmas party.

‘It was a lot of money in those days, I bought a record player and leather jackets for me and my mates,’ he said. ‘I took cab rides into Cambridge, ate at the best restaurants and still had enough left for a night on the town.’ A jealous friend rang the police and told them that Tate had stolen the money and when he was taken into custody they convinced him to come clean, not only about the £300 but about every other misdemeanour that he had ever committed.

From what Tate told me there were no serious offences. He said he had confessed to trivial matters such as stealing a rubber from Woolworths and breaking a window once while playing football. Tate was adamant that he couldn’t tell them about any serious crimes simply because he had never committed any. If you choose to become a criminal, there are two things that you must never, ever do: upset the police and upset the police. Tate had stolen their Christmas party money and, therefore, Tate was going to pay.

When he appeared in court, he was sent to an approved school in Grimsby. I have had the misfortune to visit Grimsby and can, therefore, say with some authority that sending him to that town would have been punishment enough, but the added misery of the approved school was, I would say, excessive. Tate told me that, in his opinion, it was the time he spent in that approved school that turned him into a ‘proper’ criminal.

‘The other kids in there taught me how to break into cars, where I could sell stolen goods and what I should or shouldn’t say if I was ever caught,’ Tate said.

When he was released and returned home, Tate ventured out into the wider community to employ his new skills. The school he attended was constantly writing to his mother, Marie, enquiring about items that had gone missing from their premises. Tate once gave his younger brother Russell a bicycle as a present but when he went out into the street to ride it, a group of boys set about him and snatched the bike back, claiming it was theirs. When he left school, Tate managed to get a job as a butcher’s apprentice. He married a local girl named Donna and saved up to buy a car. His mother thought that he had finally settled down, but one evening Tate was involved in a police chase that ended 70 miles away in Chelmsford. He lost his job as a result of being convicted of such a reckless crime and almost overnight his life became a whirlwind of drugs, booze, girls and bodybuilding; little wonder his wife divorced him.

As I sat in the flat one day, listening to Tate talking to Tucker on the phone about killing Jimmy Joel, I honestly felt sorry for him. Tate had no problem with Joel, he didn’t even know him, but he was ranting about torturing and killing him just to impress Tucker. It was pathetic.

‘Why the fuck are you getting involved?’ I asked him when he put the phone down.

‘Because Tucker’s my mate and that slag has taken a liberty,’ Tate replied.

I couldn’t argue. I was no better. I had been prepared to shoot the guy in the head and I had never even met him.

It was the drugs, the fucking drugs, they were ruining us all. The next time Tate and I met Tucker he was still talking about how he desperately wanted to murder Joel and how he had now put several of his minions to work in an effort to lure him to a suitable place of execution. After a few days, Tucker received word that Joel had unwittingly agreed to meet a man he believed to be a trusted friend at a service station near Chelmsford. Almost drunk on feelings of joy, Tucker quickly recruited a gang numbering 20 men who then set off in a convoy of cars to the meeting place with murder in mind. I was in a vehicle with Carlton Leach, Tucker and Tate. We were all tooled up with various blades and weapons capable of causing horrific injuries. The acidic smell of industrial ammonia hung heavy in the vehicle because somebody had failed to secure the lid on one of the many bottles in the boot.

‘Squirt’, as bottles of ammonia were more commonly known, was the weapon of choice in those days. One sharp ‘squirt’ of the container holding the noxious fluid would send an almost invisible spray into the face of an opponent. Even if the ammonia failed to hit the eyes, which would temporarily blind the victim, the fumes the fluid produced still affected their eyesight and restricted breathing. The natural reaction for anybody receiving an eye injury is to close their eyes and raise their hands to the face. This rendered the victim defenceless and the attacker could continue the assault without fear of being assaulted themselves. Nobody in Tucker’s firm went anywhere without their squirt.

When we arrived at the service station, Joel stood alone in the middle of a large car park. Like vultures circling their prey, the convoy of cars swept around Joel, effectively trying to block any escape route that he may have had. As our vehicle screeched to a halt, Tucker leapt out and pulled a butcher’s meat cleaver from his jacket.

‘Come here, you mug cunt,’ he shouted.

Taking the only sensible option open to him, Joel turned and ran for his life. Fortunately, a few of Tucker’s fuller-figured friends had not yet disembarked from their vehicle and Joel was able to make good his escape.

‘Come back and fucking fight me,’ Tucker bellowed after him.

To everybody’s surprise Joel stopped running, turned and shouted, ‘I will fight you anytime you want, but tell your mates to get in their cars and leave us two alone.’

All eyes fell on Tucker, who should have been the man he was always claiming to be, and fought Joel. Instead, he raised the meat cleaver above his head and ran towards Joel screaming threats and obscenities. Joel simply turned and ran in the opposite direction. Everybody present knew that Tucker had embarrassed himself; one or two even walked away, vowing never to back him again.

Two weeks later, Tucker was in the changing room of Jimmy Connor’s gym when Joel walked in to the reception area. The changing room door was open and Tucker looked up at Joel as he greeted the receptionist. Expecting trouble, Joel put his back firmly against the wall and continued his conversation but kept one eye fixed firmly on Tucker. When Tucker had finished dressing, he picked up his holdall and walked straight towards Joel. Two or three paces before he reached the man that he had recently threatened to kill; Tucker bowed his head and walked by, staring at the floor.

As one episode of madness ended, Tate and Tucker were about to send yet another careering into our chaotic lives. Malcolm Walsh had told me that he had met a man from Canning Town in the East End of London who had £240,000 worth of stolen traveller’s cheques for sale. He asked me if I knew of anybody who might be interested in purchasing them and so I said that I would ask Tate. Never one to miss an opportunity Tate contacted Tucker, who agreed to pay £60,000 for the cheques on the condition that he was given a sample first. The following morning, myself, Tate, Malcolm and a man I shall call Nick travelled to the East End to meet the man and pick up the sample, to ensure they were genuine. The cheques came in books of quite high value and so the man we met insisted that one of us remain with him until Tucker had examined the sample and returned it.

Malcolm agreed to stay with the man while the rest of us drove to Tucker’s house with the book of cheques. When we arrived, Carlton Leach was with Tucker. I thought that he was just paying a social visit but, after Tucker had made a phone call and verified that the cheques were genuine, Leach announced that he was returning to London with us. I looked at Tate to register my disapproval but he just shrugged his shoulders. I immediately sensed that something was not quite right but I kept my suspicions to myself.

As we pulled up in a pub car park in Canning Town to meet the man, Tate turned around to me and said, ‘There’s been a change of plan, Nipper. We’re going to rob this guy.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. You can’t rob him. He’s a friend of Malcolm’s,’ I replied.

Tate glared at me and said that he could do whatever he wanted and if anybody tried to stop him they would die.

‘Fuck you,’ I said. ‘I want no part of this slag trick. I am staying in the car.’

Tate seemed to think that I was joking because he kept looking at me and laughing.

‘Nipper, do you want to give your mate Malcolm the bad news or shall I?’ he asked.

Staring straight at Tate I didn’t even give him the courtesy of a response. I felt disgusted that he would even contemplate ripping off a man who had taken the time and trouble to visit him in prison. At that moment Tucker and Leach pulled up in a 4x4 and the man selling the traveller’s cheques walked out of the pub and into the car park. Tucker and Leach got out of their vehicle and swaggered towards him. As the man extended his hand to greet the duo, Leach grabbed him in a bear hug and Tucker punched him.

‘What the fuck is happening, mate?’ the shocked man shouted.

As Tucker went to punch the man again he threw his arms up, freeing himself from Leach’s grasp, and ran. Leach gave chase, tripped the man up, punched him a few times as he lay on the floor and then pulled him to his feet by his jacket lapels. The man continued to shout and so Leach hit him again but he didn’t fall over, he simply shoved Leach backwards with both hands, which sent him sprawling onto the floor.

Before making good his escape, the man called out to Tucker, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, you cunt.’

Leach, Tate and Tucker were laughing but everybody in the London underworld knows that you don’t fuck with firms out of Canning Town without suffering some sort of comeback.

To save face for the botched robbery, Tucker boasted to his friends and associates that they had taken all £240,000 worth of cheques off the man. Some have since theorised that the robbery was the catalyst for Tucker and Tate being murdered. It may well have been, but I was present that day and I know for a fact that they left east London empty-handed and extremely embarrassed. That night I started receiving threatening phone calls from the Canning Town firm, who were convinced that I had lured Malcolm and his friend to the robbery, but I agreed to meet them alone to prove that I had played no part in anything underhand.

‘I am deeply embarrassed by what happened. Malcolm is a true friend; I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that,’ I said.

I was told that they would be in touch to arrange the meeting but I didn’t hear from them again. I assume that they believed me. Malcolm was less forgiving; he refused to even discuss the episode with me. A few days later, I was shopping in Sainsbury’s with my girlfriend. We were queuing at the checkout and I was gazing out of the window. Suddenly Malcolm’s car came into view and as he glanced inside the shop our eyes met. I guessed by the expression on his face that he wasn’t pleased to see me. Any doubts I may have had were confirmed when he jumped on his brakes, flung his car door open and leapt out. I gave my money and my mobile phone to my girlfriend, told her to abandon her shopping trolley and disappear. I was in no doubt that Malcolm and I were going to fight and I wanted her out of the way. I walked to the main entrance, where I found Malcolm waiting for me.

‘We have got something to sort out. Where do you want to do it?’ he said. Before I could reply Malcolm suggested that we fight in the car park.

‘Fuck off. It’s covered by CCTV. I will fight you in the toilets,’ I replied.

Malcolm looked me up and down, shook his head and said, ‘Fuck you, Steve,’ before striding away.

The odd thing is, the next time we met he spoke to me as if the attempted robbery had never taken place. I did try to broach the subject but he simply raised his hand and said that he was not interested. When I saw Tate and Tucker, I asked them to apologise to Malcolm but their attitude to everybody and everything was ‘fuck them’. They really had come to believe that they were invincible and nobody would dare to even take them on, let alone defeat them.

One evening we were out in Southend at a nightclub and Tucker asked me to go to Chris Wheatley’s house to collect some cocaine for his personal use. Chris had been a member of Tucker’s firm for a number of years, running the door of a nightclub called Club Art in Southend. I liked Chris. He was a really decent no-nonsense man who was prepared to stand up to anybody. A young guy named Danny, from Basildon, had been ejected from Hollywood’s nightclub, in Romford, by Chris and his uncle, a top Southend face was not happy about it. Threats to shoot Chris, petrol-bomb his home and cripple him followed, but he refused to apologise for ejecting Danny because he believed that he had been in the right. Fortunately for all concerned, Danny was a regular at another of the nightclubs where Tucker provided security, Raquel’s, in Basildon, and he got on well with the head doorman. This doorman was also friends with Chris and so he was able to resolve the issue amicably.