Once Upon a Crime (13 page)

I
t didn’t take me too long to find out why the law were so keen to arrest me. On Saturday afternoon I called an old pal of mine back in Newbury who always had his finger on the pulse of anything to do with villainy. Steve Garroway was a real thorn in the side of the law.

I had known Steve for years and had been involved in a few escapades with him. He was a big lump, over 6ft and powerfully built and he could have a row. His speciality was smashing up pubs to persuade them they needed a bit of protection and knocking out coppers and anyone else who incurred his wrath. But he could also be a very funny guy and his loyalty was without question, and I had a real soft spot for him.

Steve was able to tell me that on the previous Thursday at just about 5.30 a lone gunman had robbed a delivery to the Midland Bank in Newbury. The word on the street was that the coppers were saying it was down to me. The heavy team had crashed through his front door at six o’clock that
very morning looking for me and they were led by the big Scottish DS.

‘Listen, Jimmy,’ Steve said. ‘For fuck’s sake stay away and don’t let that slag get hold of you. He’s gonna do you for this. He said to me, “Tell your wee pal Jimmy I am going to make sure he gets at least a ten stretch this time.” If you need anything doing at this end just let me know. I’ll make sure your mum knows you are OK and I’ll look out for her.’ Steve was aware of how close me and my wee ma were and it was a really nice touch. I had been close to Steve’s own mother Phyllis and had looked out for her when Steve had been away.

This news was a body blow. I knew that I now had very few options. Handing myself in was a non-starter as I was on parole licence and would almost certainly be in breach of the conditions, which would mean an immediate return to Long Lartin. I would now have to go on the run. I also knew how hard this was going to be for Ma and this bothered me more than anything else. The cops had been back twice more to her house but she was made of strong stuff, my wee ma, and had told them they could come back every day if they liked but they wouldn’t find me hiding under her bed. She even said to Sergeant Bastard, ‘If you bumped into my Jim and you were on your own, you would shite your trousers and run away, wouldn’t you?’ She was some wee woman, my ma.

Hughie told me he would return after he finished work and would bring any news and also some money. Hughie was a real rock for me at this time and gave me total and unconditional support. I spent the week familiarising myself with Bournemouth and managed to get a terrific white Mini Cooper to help get about. I immediately sent off the registration papers in the name I was using, John Hall, and the address where I was staying. This covered me if I was ever
stopped. I also acquired insurance cover with the same name and address and once I received the new log book I would have genuine ID that, along with the insurance document and a household bill, would allow me to open a bank account. I also had contacts that could furnish me with a driving licence and a national health card. I knew that I would be able to stand a police stop and check.

After the Christmas holidays I came to the decision to return to Scotland, to East Kilbride, where I would move in with Olive and her new partner Dennis. Olive asked me if I would be her driver as her work entailed her driving all over Scotland as a merchandiser for a large drinks company. I was more than happy to repay her, in some small measure, for everything she was doing for me. The fact that I was now on the run from some very serious allegations should not be underestimated when considering how much Olive and the rest of the family put themselves at risk to protect me. It is because of this kind of loyalty and the love that they have always shown me that I am so protective of all of them. I owe each and every one of them so much.

I had a last night with Chrissie and Carol and a couple of the Scousers and we made it a really good night. I was so grateful to Chrissie for all the help he had given me. He said, ‘Now don’t be a stranger, Jim. You know that there is always a place here for you. Keep in touch and let me know if there is anything you need. And if there is anything that comes up in your line of work I’ll give you a bell.’

This wasn’t something I took lightly, but if I am honest the thought of going back to my old line of work was something that I relished. I had to be very careful if I wanted to stay one step ahead of the law. The name of the game for me now was to be low profile and live quietly. Neither the local old bill or
any of the residents of East Kilbride knew who I was and that was an advantage I intended to retain. But would I be able to settle in East Kilbride? It was a whole new ball game for me and for the moment I was the only player. Instinctively, I knew that I would find my feet and that opportunities would come my way. It is what had always happened in the past and I had no reason to doubt it would be business as usual before too long. I just had to be patient and vigilant.

In late January 1981 Olive gave birth to a baby boy named Craig. Both Olive and her partner Dennis were overjoyed and it was a really happy home that I had settled into. Olive returned to work on a part-time basis with me as her driver and we spent many happy days driving all over Scotland.

Meanwhile, Ma had arranged a house swap with a family from East Kilbride and two months later she, Hughie, Gerald and Carolyn moved into a lovely three-bedroom house in the Greenhills area of East Kilbride, just around the corner from both Sheena and Olive. I moved back in with Ma and at last we were all together again as a family.

M
y brother Hughie was working with the construction company Sir Robert McAlpine and in August 1981 I started working alongside him, doing mostly concreting. It was under my new ID as I was still on the wanted list but it went smoothly enough and before I realised it almost a year had passed. It was good to be bringing home some wages for Ma.

In late summer Hughie and I walked into the Greenhills Bar after work. Standing at the bar was a guy who was to become a huge influence in my life and who I was to become closer to than almost anyone else. His name was Billy Robertson and at that time he was 47. Like us he was dressed in working clothes and I could see traces of cement on his boots and trousers. He said, ‘Here, son, will you do me a favour and carry my drinks over to the table? I’ve got some broken ribs and I cannae manage.’

‘Sure, nae bother. Why don’t you join us?’ And that was the start of a friendship that was to last until the day he died of cancer in July 2005.

Billy stood about 5ft 10in with a lean build but he was as strong as an ox. He had the face of a hard, fighting man and I knew straight away that here was a man that could have a row. I wasn’t wrong. Billy’s broken ribs had been caused by a fall-out he’d had with a group of fellas in a pub in the east end. The fact that there were three of them had been no deterrent to bold Billy and he assured me that he had left them in a far worse condition. I had no reason to doubt him – for one thing, the knuckles of both of his fists were bruised and swollen.

By late 1982 there had been no visits from the law and I relaxed a wee bit, though I was never able to let my guard down completely. My brother Gerald had returned to live in the Thatcham/Newbury area as he had found it very difficult to settle down in Scotland. He kept in touch with us by phone and one night he said, ‘Jim, I’ve got a nice surprise for you. John Renaldi is back in town and he is getting married in a few weeks.’ This was a great piece of news as I had not seen or spoken to John since January 1977. ‘You know the bride, Jim, she is an old friend. Alexis.’

I was over the moon. Alexis and me went back a long way. She was a Londoner and I had even been to her first wedding back in 1975 when she had married a fella I knew called Bobby Malone, a bit of a livewire. I told Gerald that I would be coming down for the wedding but that I did not want John to know. Alexis was aware of my plan and she was absolutely brilliant, almost as excited as me about my surprise for John.

The wedding was to take place in Newbury town hall. This was a wee bit risky for me but we kept our security tight. We waited until all the guests had arrived in the registry office before we slipped in quietly and took seats at the back. Once they had been declared man and wife, John
and Alexis turned to have pictures taken and that is when I stepped forward and John saw me. I still have a photograph that was taken at that very moment and John’s face really is a picture! He threw his arms around me saying, ‘Jim, Jim, I can’t believe you are here. Fuck me, this is the best wedding present I could have wished for.’ It was one of those very special and rare moments and fills me with warmth whenever I think about it. Both John and me were quite emotional and there were a few tears shed. Now, it might sound strange to say that about a couple of villains but John and me had a very special relationship and were brothers in every sense of the word.

John very quickly regained his composure and said, ‘Right, let’s get you under cover, Jim, a bit fucking lively. Old bill would have a field day if they spot you.’

John and Alexis had set up home in a lovely two-bedroom flat and that was where the reception was to be held. Alexis knew it would be much safer for me not to be on public display. She persuaded John to have a small intimate do and at the same time managed to keep him totally in the dark about my intention to appear. It takes a special kind of woman to do that on her big day. God bless you, Alexis, you will always have a special place in my heart. Love ya! Unfortunately, Alexis died suddenly in her sleep just a couple of years ago and I was very saddened to her of her death. She was far too young, only in her fifties.

But that wedding is one of the highlights in a storehouse of memories that I have and even though their marriage did not last the course we always remained close. Hughie and I stayed the weekend in Thatcham and on Sunday night John arranged transport for us back to Glasgow. It had passed without the law getting a sniff that I was back on the manor.

I had now been on the run for almost two years and apart from the one visit to my ma’s by the law there had been no contact. There were a few punch-ups in some of the bars of East Kilbride and Glasgow but otherwise I led a relatively low-key lifestyle – well, at least for me. Now I began to look at various bits of ‘work’ and decided to have one or two on my own. These took the form of smash-and-grabs on jewellers and other high-value targets. Smash-and-grabs during the day were sometimes the easiest. A lot of people will be surprised by this but this type of work is carried out with speed and surprise. Even people standing very close are seldom a threat as they initially go into shock and by the time they realise what is happening it is all over. I was never once tackled by any have-a-go heroes. Only once did a fella call out to ask what the hell I thought I was doing and I simply turned to him with a large hammer in my hand and growled. He very quickly tried to make himself invisible.

Booze or cigarettes or preferably both were always a bestseller, even when times were hard – probably more so. I would often stay for a few days at Billy’s house. He had a lovely three-bedroom house in the Greenhills area of East Kilbride that he shared with his daughter Una who had just finished her education. She was 17 and a smashing lassie I was very protective towards. Billy’s door was always open to me and I had my own room. The more I learned about him from other people, the more I liked Billy. A lot of people were very wary but I knew that he was a very loyal friend with a great heart and in my world that went a very long way. We spent almost every weekend together and became known for our capacity for violence.

Billy was not a crook in the sense that I was but he was an old-school hard man who had been born and bred in the
notorious Gorbals area of Glasgow. Born in 1936, he had really known hard times and had become something of a legendary figure in the 1950s and 1960s for his fighting prowess. He took part in numerous bare-knuckle fights on Glasgow Green, some of which were organised by Arthur Thompson. I have met quite a few guys who witnessed some of these fights and they talk of him with awe in their voices.

Over the years I had many fights with Billy, usually
square-goes
, although some of them were quite vicious and on a few occasions we went at each other with blades in hands. I’m just glad that I had never had to face Billy in his prime, but even in his late forties and right through into his fifties and sixties he was a handful and had without any doubt the best left hook I have ever seen or felt. He threw it with lightning speed and accuracy, and I speak from experience.

The first time me and Billy came to blows was in my ma’s house. There was a crowd of us having a drink. Ma had gone to bed leaving us to it and it was about five in the morning as the sun was coming up. We decided to take our argument onto a large playing field at the back of the houses. We stripped to the waist and there were to be no weapons involved. As we stood a couple of feet apart Billy said, ‘Right, daddy’s boy. Noo, when this is finished we will still be pals, whoever wins?’

‘Aye, OK, Billy,’ I said. ‘Of course we will.’

‘Right, son, give me your hand on that.’ Billy held out his right hand for me to shake. As I extended my own right hand Billy grasped it, pulled me on to that perfect left hook and I was on my arse. I didn’t even see the punch. Looking down at me, Billy said, ‘Right, Jimmy boy, that’s the first lesson. When you’re gonnae fight, just fight. Nae talking, nae shaking hands – just get on wi’ it and always hit first. Lesson
over.’ Billy helped me to my feet and there were no hard feelings. He had done me as sweet as a nut and I appreciated the valuable lesson. In future I made sure I stayed well out of range of that left hook.

Billy would use anything that came to hand and would not hesitate for a second to bring extreme violence to the table, until guys were clinging to life. The main difference between us was that Billy could burn on a slow fuse whereas I was much quicker to explode. As for levels of violence, it was pretty much a score draw. Looking back now, it is easy to see why a lot of people were very wary of us and kept us at arm’s length. But in a fight there was no better man to have by your side. No matter what the odds were or how many guys you were facing, he would be there with you to the death and he could absorb amazing amounts of punishment. I loved him. He was also one of the most generous and loyal men it has been my privilege to know – even if he was slightly psychotic! We only ever had one really serious falling-out when I slashed Billy and he stabbed me, and if it hadn’t been for other people who intervened then one or both of us would have ended up dead. That feud was to last about 18 months until a mutual friend arranged a sit-down and peace was restored.

Billy was also an unconscious comedian and would sometimes come out with things that would leave me doubled up with laughter while he looked on puzzled. I remember I called round at the house for him one Saturday morning and saw straight away that he had a couple of bruises to his face and his knuckles were grazed and swollen. He’d had a row the previous night outside a bar in the town centre with three guys. Billy had flattened one of them earlier and they’d ambushed him. Billy had by no means taken second prize and the three of them had ended up running away, but it was the
fact that they had not had the balls to square up to him face on that he couldn’t let go. I said, ‘Right, let’s go on the hunt, Daddy. We’ll do the rounds of all the boozers.’

We struck gold in the first pub we entered. One of them hadn’t clocked Billy and we took a seat in one of the booths and watched. The scene was set up perfectly as there was only one guy serving behind the bar and no other customers. Billy waited until the man went into the toilet and afterwards I asked him how it went. ‘Fucking lovely, Jim. I caught him with his dick still in his hand and I smashed him with a left hook and battered him all around the toilet, then I dragged him into a cubicle and rammed his fucking nut down the pan and kicked fuck out of him.’

‘He’ll be in a bad way, then,’ I ventured.

‘Oh aye, Jimmy boy. They’ll be taking him to extensive care.’

‘It’s intensive care, Billy,
intensive
care,’ says me.

‘Aye, the state he’s in he’ll be going there as well.’ Billy couldn’t understand why I was suddenly convulsed with laughter. Fucking brilliant!

There were numerous incidents like this, far too many to count, and Billy and me very quickly acquired the reputation of being a couple of guys that it was best not to fuck with. We didn’t consciously set out to achieve that and I really did not give a fuck one way or another. But on the plus side we usually had no bother finding a seat in even the busiest of pubs and clubs, usually because people were reluctant to sit in our company – unless they needed something. This usually took the form of debt recovery or handing out retribution for some misdeed and this type of work was quite lucrative for us.

Sometimes we’d do a favour, as when Billy had gotten
word that an old friend of his from the Gorbals was having some grief. This old boy still lived in the Gorbals in a high rise facing the Citizens theatre. A bunch of no good, fucking ne’er-do-wells, who were also junkie bastards, were causing him misery with music blaring all night. There were fights and arguments outside the old boy’s door and he was constantly harassed. Eventually he’d had enough and asked that they keep the noise down, only to be met with a torrent of abuse that culminated with one of these fucking no-use’ers spitting in his face and telling him to fuck off before he got stabbed. Billy was absolutely apocalyptic with rage and wanted to beat the fuckers to death, slowly. We were having a drink in the Pig and Whistle pub in McNeil Street in the Gorbals at the time, a real spit-and-sawdust type of place full of very dangerous characters, both men and women.

It was a short walk to the flats and as we knocked on Billy’s pal’s door we could hear the racket coming from next door. The old fella was so glad to see Billy and made us a nice cup of tea. Billy quickly came to the point and assured him that we were going to take care of his wee problem. He said, ‘After me and Jimmy boy have gave them a wee visit I’ll guarantee you won’t hear another word fae them.’

Our plan was very simple: knock on the door and as soon as it started to open, kick it right in and batter the fuck out of everyone in the place with no exceptions, cut the slag whose name was on the door and finish with a little chat pointing out the error of his ways. And that is exactly what we did, with a little twist. After we had totally kicked and battered the shit out of the four guys who were in the flat, we dragged the head man over to the large living room window which we opened and, taking him by his ankles, put him up and over the ledge where he dangled 14 floors above the
street. I assured him between his screams that this would be the last view he would ever see if he and his little gang didn’t pack up and fuck off.

Billy was all for just letting him drop there and then saying, ‘Fuck him, just let the bastard drop, it’ll be an accident.’

I said, ‘No, Billy, this isn’t a killing. No’ yet anyway.’

We hauled the slag back in – he had soiled himself and was incoherent. I took an open razor from my pocket and cut him, slashing his face on both cheeks. Now this may seem particularly brutal and ruthless but I have no conscience over this incident or others like it. When you are dealing with rodents like these there is absolutely no point in trying to be reasonable. They will just think you are a fucking sap and mug you off. No, the only thing these arseholes understand is fear. And this fear has to be reinforced occasionally by handing out some extreme violence and, believe me, a simple slashing was at the lower end of the scale.