The Devil (15 page)

That should've been the end of it, but, apparently, after I had gone inside, Andrew had reignited the dispute. He had said to Val, ‘You fucking cunt, taking two grand off my mate in the jug after he didn't even know it was you.' Andrew had then made out that Val had threatened to go to the police if I hadn't compensated him. He said, ‘You took two grand off him, otherwise you were going to the Old Bill. What kind of a fucking villain are you? Let's have it right.'

Anyway, he kept riding the guy and eventually got the two grand back off him. However, he then wanted more and more dough. He started taxing Val, taking a Mercedes from him. Val was terrified and humiliated. Even his family were ashamed of him. Apparently, Val's dad had wound him up even more by saying, ‘Val, if you were back home in Jamaica, you would have to do something about him. Andrew John just thinks you're a bitch.'

So, Val had his dad telling him he was a bitch, and he had Andrew John pressuring him. He was coiled up in fear for his life – a terrified animal. So what did he do next? He lashed out and shot his tormentor. He sneaked up behind Andrew and put four bullets in his back. He didn't face him and shoot him from in front, because he was so scared.

At that moment, everything became clear to me – it was like a lightning bolt of truth, searing down from heaven.
That
was why my mum had said I was in jail for a reason. As I was the cause of all this, Val had more reason to kill me than Andrew. Also, if I had been on the outside, he would have assumed that I was pulling Andrew's strings, egging him on. The only reason I'm alive today is that I was safe in a prison cell.

However, I was in Pentonville, and my world had fallen in. I had been holding everything in since I'd been inside, but now I had a reason to let everything out, and I began to bawl and cry. When my brothers came to see me later that day, they smuggled in a two ounce piece of weed to get me through the mourning period. Usually, I'd have stuck the weed up my arse to get it past the screws. However, that day, my head was so up my own arse that I simply put the lump in my hand and walked brazenly past the screw. He spotted it immediately. ‘What's that?' he growled.

I told him, ‘I fucking need this. You're not taking it off me. My brother's just been killed, and that's that.' He looked at me and could see my head was done in.

‘Go on, Scouse,' he said. ‘You can go through with it, just this once.' He showed me some compassion that day, and I've never forgotten him for that kindness.

Back in my cell, I cut the toes off a sock to make a black armband in remembrance of Andrew. But, my God, you couldn't do fuck all in there without some shitbag trying to have a go. As soon as I came out of my cell, one of the inmates started sneering and jeering. ‘What the fuck have you got that on your arm for?' he said.

Now, this prick had been riding me for weeks. Nonetheless, I'd kept my nose clean, saying nothing and not letting him know what I was really like. However, showing disrespect to the dead
and
the mourning was a different matter. I grabbed him by the bottom of his jeans and pounded him with my fists before throwing him off the fourth-floor landing. Luckily, the safety net caught him, but he had broken his arm. The screws came for me, but there were no witnesses. Then, some of the lads said to the top screw, ‘Frenchie did what he had to do. The other lad was bang out of order.' As a result, the matter was dropped and nothing more was said.

Soon afterwards, I was called in to see the governor regarding my application to go to the funeral. When I got to his office, I saw that he'd drafted in a squad of muftis. Muftis are specially trained riot-control officers who specifically work in prisons. They wear crash helmets, black uniforms and protective gloves, and they wield batons to deadly effect. By bringing in the heavy artillery, I knew that the governor wasn't going to let me go to the funeral. The muftis were a precaution, in anticipation of my angry reaction. I had read the play, so I just wanted to hear what the chief was going to say, out of curiosity.

He immediately launched into a tirade. ‘You've come to this jail and you haven't joined in any of the activities,' he said. ‘You walk round this jail like you own it.' Apparently, when I walk, I strut. I've been told that it looks arrogant a few times. ‘You're not going to your brother's funeral, and that's that,' he said.

At this, I launched myself at him. He was only a couple of yards away, but I only got as far as his desk before the muftis got hold of me. Greased lightning, they were. They fucking murdered me – they slaughtered me and knocked me unconscious for the first time in my life.

On the day of Andrew's burial, I was caged in a padded cell in solitary wearing a straightjacket with dried blood and mucus caked into my nose and my mouth – it was the lowest point in my entire life. ‘It can't get any worse than this,' I thought.

I don't know whether it was the licks they'd given me, or whether it was the medication that they had pumped into me to calm me down, or if I was simply hallucinating through lack of sleep, but I heard a whistle from outside. It was the same signature whistle that Andrew and I had always used when meeting to go on an armed robbery or to go out on a tax. I manoeuvred my arse over to the window to hear better, but heard nothing but silence. There was no more whistling.

I'm intelligent enough to know that it could've been a combination of things – natural and physical phenomena – but I chose to believe that it had been a sign from Andrew. I put it down to him letting me know that he was OK.

Andrew gave me strength that day – the courage to have hope, even under the most horrible of circumstances. I was determined to get myself out of that hellhole.

16

COME HELL OR HIGH PURITY

When I got out of solitary confinement, my prophetic supernatural experience had fired me up to fight my case. As if sent by the heavens, a miracle revelation then fell into my lap. After I'd got nicked, I'd retained a firm of top accountants to look after some offshore financial affairs that I had going. During their visits, one of the tax assistants called Sandy took a shine to me. One day, Sandy was looking through my case notes when she came across the real name of the Chief. ‘That name rings a bell,' she had muttered to herself.

I didn't really take any notice of her at the time, but a few days later she came to see me on a special legal visit. Breathless and excited, she exclaimed, ‘You know that African guy who brought the charges against you? Well, I've done a bit of homework on him, and I've got some news for you – he's a well-known illegal-marriage fixer.'

I sprang out of my lethargic prison slump and said, ‘What?'

Sandy went on to reveal how one of her wealthy foreign clients had once been so desperate to stay in the UK that she'd undergone a bent marriage of convenience. You'll never guess who the groom had been – the Chief. Sandy told me how he had caused all kinds of problems for her poor client – blackmailing her and the like – and she'd eventually hired Sandy to protect her assets and stop the extortion. What a stroke of luck! If it was true, the information was gold dust!

I got some phone cards together and called my people on the outside. Although most of the young lads in the ghetto weren't formally educated, there were some who were bright, organised and good with paperwork – good enough to be put on the payroll. I told one of them to go to the main registry office in central London and pull out all the marriage certificates that had the Chief's real name on them. They also started trawling the birth, death and marriage certificates at the main registry offices in Liverpool and Manchester, places where we knew the Chief had drug connections. You could bet your bottom dollar that if he had been selling drugs to little firms here and there, he'd also be involved in other dodgy dealings with them. If I could prove that he was a
multiple
marriage blagger, then I could use it against him.

While I was getting on with that, another stroke of good fortune came my way. There had been a recent explosion in the prison population, and Pentonville had suddenly filled up. One night, I was shipped out on STL11 remand – a special kind of custody – to a police station in Wimbledon in order to make some room for high-priority, non-remand prisoners. My solicitor decided to take advantage of the congested jail and punt for some bail, hoping that the desperate authorities would want to see the back of me for a while. Astonishingly, a judge in chambers agreed to hear the case, but he wanted a £100,000 surety to guarantee that I wouldn't abscond. That was some fucking money, mate, but I had it – no sweat.

I phoned up my mate back home who was looking after my stash of dollars. I said, ‘Take a 100 quid [£100,000] out of my kitty and bring it down to London today.' There was a long silence.

‘Oh, dear,' I thought. ‘What the fuck has happened to my pound notes?'

‘Stephen, I've got some bad news,' said the voice at the other end. ‘All of your dough has gone.'

I was silent for a moment and then said, ‘What? Can you tell me how and why please?' Cue lots of swearing, threats, banging the phone down, etc.

After I had been nicked for threatening the Chief, I had entrusted my money to certain individuals in Liverpool to try and make a bit of profit for me while I was in jail – in order to take care of my family. However, for better or for worse, they had invested it in a big drugs consignment, and the parcel had gone down. I had fuck all left. Can you believe that shit? I had the taste of freedom within my sights. I could almost smell the freshly cut lawns and the strawberries of the All England Tennis Club nearby – and now the rug had been pulled from under my feet. Nevertheless, there was no use complaining. Whatever the reasons, I was still in a cell, and it looked like I was going nowhere fast.

I hit a new low. I was resigned to never getting out. How was I supposed to dig the dirt on the Chief from behind bars? I could only rely on my oppos to a degree – there's no substitute for your good self, is there? Also, if I didn't get the Chief off my case, I was going the same way as the ‘Creme Egg Killer', for sure. I knew I wouldn't get a second chance at bail; they'd soon clear the prison out and find a place for me again.

However, just when it was looking hopeless, a guardian angel came to my rescue. Eddie Amoo, my fiancee's dad, was a wealthy guy. He had been a singer in a famous pop group called The Real Thing in the 1970s. They'd even had a number-one hit in 1976, with ‘You to Me are Everything'. You'll definitely have heard it at a wedding, and you've probably danced to it. It's a fucking good tune, I've got to admit it. Since then, Eddie had enjoyed a string of top-40 hits, and he'd built up a considerable business and property empire.

Of course, Eddie didn't have a clue what I did for a living. He never for one moment suspected that his future son-in-law worked for the unofficial Inland Revenue. All he knew was that I was devoted to his daughter – and he was prepared to give me a chance based on that. He stood bail for me. Can you believe that?

I phoned him from the court to say thank you. ‘Eddie,' I said. ‘You know what? You to me are everything.' We both laughed. ‘Seriously, I won't let you down.'

If someone other than Eddie had bailed me out, I would have planned to abscond as soon as I was on the outside. Of course, I would have tried to discredit the Chief first, but that would have been a long shot, and I would have been straight on a plane to Holland or Spain or wherever if need be. But, of course, I couldn't do that. I couldn't let Eddie down. I couldn't even just disappear to some far-off place and secretly send him the £100,000 I owed him. I had to do the honourable thing: turn up for court and face the music.

When I hit the street in March 1991, there was no partying – it was straight down to business. Financially, I was down to my last 25 grand – my lowest net worth since 1980 when I had returned from London and lost all my dough to those card sharks. After Andrew had been killed, I'd bought his ride – a top of the range Saab – for sentimental reasons, but I had to sell it to get some money together.

When a professional criminal is facing a sure-fire spell in jail, he will do one thing: try and make as much money as he can to support his family in his absence. Up until that point in my life, I'd always considered myself to be on the periphery of the drug-dealing scene. OK, I'd imported and sold a lot of drugs, but I had never just been a
professional
dealer. I had always had other strings to my bow. The Hull connection had been so fucking simple, half the time I hadn't even touched the gear. I had never immersed myself fully in the drugs culture. First and foremost, I was a taxman.

Now I had come out of jail, was on bail and only had around 25 grand left to my name. I had mortgages to pay, families to keep and the possibility of six years of bird ahead of me. Thus, I made the conscious decision to become a full-time drug dealer – to live, breathe and sleep narcotics. I would personally bring it in by the armfuls if necessary. I would become a one-man drug-dealing machine on an industrial scale. I would flood the streets with as much heroin, cocaine and cannabis – not forgetting our old staple Ecstasy – as was humanly possible. Get paid – end of story.

I had made my decision; I just had to find a way of executing it. I am always planning ahead, looking 16 to 18 months down the road. On that occasion, my timing couldn't have been more perfect. My old friend and rival Curtis had gone from doing 50-kilogram to 1,000-kilogram shipments, making him
the
single biggest drug trafficker in Britain according to official documents which were later published. Warren had first been identified by the police as a rising star in the drugs game in 1991, according to their files, which later came out in the media. His name had come onto the radar during Operation Bruise, a crackdown on a Midlands-based smuggling ring. At that time, they had Warren pegged as a middle-ranking operator. Within months, he had shot up to become the wealthiest criminal in British history, worth an estimated £250 million.