The Wicked Mr Hall (11 page)

Before I started spending real money, I laid the groundwork for one more scam. There’s no point going to all the hard work of earning trust in the community if you don’t rip them off before vanishing. I called in at the jewellers. As you can imagine, with my past, this was a shop I had been in many times. Margaret’s expensive charms had been bought here. I was a valued and trusted customer.

I told the manager that I wished to buy an expensive watch, two gold cigarette cases, a gold bracelet, plus more
charms for Margaret’s bracelet. Saying that I would think about it, I left the shop without buying anything. If I hadn’t bought anything there, we more than made up for it in the rest of the shops. Gifts for Caroline, gifts for Margaret, gifts for myself. Clothes for all of us. We bought so much that we had to hire a taxi to follow us home with the parcels and bags.

Back at the farm, we lit a roaring fire and I started to set the scene for the next part of my plan. I laid out wads of banknotes on the mantelpiece, bottles of drink adorned the coffee table. The room was strikingly festive. Just as I knew the jewellers would be closing, I phoned. I told him that I’d been thinking about the pieces I’d looked at earlier in the day. I’d decided to buy them. Would he mind terribly bringing them out to the house? He replied: ‘Of course, Mr Philips.’ He knew that it was worthwhile. Fifteen minutes later, the jeweller arrived. Sitting him down close to the fire, I offered him a pre-Christmas drink, a large tumbler full of fine brandy. He accepted and we chatted. As fast as his drink emptied, Margaret refilled it. The room was hot, he was relaxed and, now feeling the effects of the drink, I saw his eyes take in the sizable amount of cash, just seemingly laying around. ‘Would you prefer cash or cheque?’ I asked him. Everything in that room, told him that I was a man of means. ‘Whichever is best for you’ was his reply. Casually, I took out my cheque book. He had been conned.

As soon as we had waved him off, we started packing. We drove to London where, after booking Margaret and the baby into a hotel, I returned to the farm to collect the
luggage we couldn’t manage on the first trip. As I walked out of the house with more suitcases, Mrs Nielsen peered through the window of her caravan. I called to her. ‘We’re just having a few days’ break.’ I watched as her lined face broke into a smile and she raised her glass to me. Putting the suitcases in the car, I raised my hand in a wave: ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Nielsen.’ She never saw me again.

The next day, my new family and I headed for Wales. We spent Christmas in the Angel Hotel, Cardiff. From there we moved on to Caerphilly, where we enjoyed the sights of mid-Glamorgan and saw out the year. The calendar moved on to 1966.

Caroline was a lovely young child, but a life of moving from hotel to hotel, rented house to rented house was no life for a young baby. Youngsters need stability, a home that they know and where they feel secure. I talked to Margaret. She loved her child, but she didn’t want to lose me. She had no means of support, so how would she live if she was left alone to bring up a child on State benefits? Also, Margaret was becoming accustomed to the good life. She enjoyed being a criminal’s girlfriend. I knew of a very, very good friend whose wife absolutely adored children. A natural earth mother. I phoned her, she agreed to take the baby for a few months. Margaret and I would just ‘take it on the lamb’. Although I was as careful as I could be, I was an active thief who had escaped from prison. As such, my photograph was in every police station in the country. It could all end at any minute. I had considered living in Wales, but after going there, decided against it.

Instead, we moved to a seafront bungalow in Weston-super-Mare.
Going abroad was in our minds at that time, but for that I would need a large ‘score’. No point going to live in the sunshine, if you’ve got to work for a living. The sunshine, and a life outside Britain, never happened. What did happen, four days after moving in, was that a well-dressed man, wearing a milkman’s jacket, knocked on the front door early one Monday morning. I had been shaving in the bathroom, and answered it with soap still on my face. Holding two pints in his hand, the milkman asked me how much milk we wanted. I said: ‘Whatever my wife has ordered.’ I called Margaret, who shouted back: ‘Two pints.’ With a sense of dread, I closed the door. As I walked back to the bathroom, I commented to Margaret that our milkman had taken to wearing a suit and tie beneath his overjacket. Looking through the bathroom window I saw them: plain clothes, uniforms, cars. Wiping my face, I waited for the inevitable.

When George, Don and I had trouble crossing the river after our breakout, I remember thinking that I would rather drown than be recaptured. Once the other two had been taken, I had bought myself a revolver and bullets, ready for the day when they would try to put me back into a prison cell. What I had not taken into account was that I would have a young woman to care for. If I opened fire, what would happen to Margaret?

The next time someone knocked on the door, I wasn’t expecting a well-dressed coalman. Nor was I disappointed. Two plain clothes detectives stepped into the hallway. After showing me their identification they told me that they had reason to believe that I was Roy Hall,
aka Roy Fontaine. With a dozen policemen surrounding me I was taken into custody.

I had various types of identification, driving licence, cheque book, passport, all in the name of Philips. But the police had my prints, and photographs. Margaret denied all knowledge of my activities and was released. I was allowed a phone call. I called John Wooton, who drove through the night and, picking up Margaret, took her to Stafford to live with him and my mother.

While they drove north, I sat in a police cell in Weston-super-Mare, and waited for detectives from Edinburgh, who were flying down to question me. Weeks of custody ensued, and detectives came from all over. I was questioned again and again. I admitted nothing but was charged with everything. At Edinburgh High Court I was found guilty of numerous cases of theft and fraud. The judge gave me five years but, in his sentencing, he omitted the word ‘consecutive’ which meant the smaller sentence of five would be swallowed by the larger eight, the remainder of my earlier sentence of ten years. Once again, I walked down the dock steps to prison life.

F
irst stop this time was Aberdeen. A cold, bleak place where I was forced to make fishing nets in a tin shed. My hands would be numb and my body would shake with the cold. I was a high-risk prisoner and, as such, didn’t qualify for any of the decent jobs. I sensed ‘hard time’ in front of me. If I thought my life was piss poor, it didn’t compare to that of a young prisoner on my wing. He was an attractive young man, heterosexual, with a young wife and baby. This was his first time behind bars. Such people can be easy prey. One night, I heard his muffled screams, as six men gang-raped him. His cries of helpless torment did nothing to stop his rapists’ lust.

I have had sex with many men, outside prison and inside, but always consenting. The cries of a rape victim live inside your head for many a long day. If I had had my
gun, the first scream I heard would have been the last. The scum that fucked his arse would have died on the spot.

Early one freezing morning, under heavy escort, I was transferred to Durham. They put me in the isolation block. After a few days I was moved again, this time to Wandsworth. I’d no sooner settled into my cell, when they told me to pack again. This was the move I had dreaded – Parkhurst. I was going back to the island. Of all the prisons I’ve been in, and I’ve been in many, Parkhurst is without doubt the shittiest, most soul-destroying place imaginable. My worst fears were about to be realised. Besides finding myself back in the worst nick, I was again an ‘E’ man and subject to a more stringent regime than the ordinary men. Parkhurst was full of ‘faces’. With the country’s top thieves and most feared gangsters within its walls, Parkhurst was a fearful place to be. Before my time was through, I would experience brutality like never before. If I became a murderer, then some of the officers there should hold their hands up and say: ‘We helped to shape him into what he was.’

I had regular visits from Margaret. Some cons commented on how lucky I was to have a young girlfriend travelling all that way to see me, lucky to have someone so devoted. I wasn’t being cynical when I said it wouldn’t last. On one visit, I told her that she had no future with me. I still had a few years to do and she should meet someone younger and honest. Someone rich, if possible, and start a new life. That day she left the prison in tears. It was a hard thing for me to say. When your life is a living hell, the outside contact gives you the strength to carry on. She
continued to write, but gradually the letters became less frequent. Then, out of the blue, she asked for a visiting order. She came to see me, but it was to say goodbye. She had met an Arab, and together with his family, was emigrating to Canada. I hugged her and wished her all the happiness in the world. I had never been in love with her, but her vulnerability evoked the part of me that is tender and caring. How she touched my soul, I will never know. What I do know is that the side of me that Margaret brought forth is the side that I felt happiest with. Even a man like myself realises such things.

They say that like attracts like. If Parkhurst had the worst criminals, it most certainly had the worst screws. Corruption in prisons is a fact of life. Warders make money trading for the cons. Generally this suits all concerned, but sometimes the greed of men becomes too much and breeds resentment.

There was a warder in Parkhurst who embodied all that is worst about prison corruption. He would deal with the cons, but his prices were extortionate. If you are going to make money out of prisoners, you should treat them fairly in other respects. It should have been a case of ‘you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours’. But this man was a hypocrite. He had no regard for the system he worked for and he would break every prison rule in order to line his own nest. Then, once the deal had been done, he would turn. He worked extra shifts in the punishment block through choice. He loved to taunt and provoke prisoners. When on exercise, he would change the clock, cutting down the time that should have been allowed to cons.
When you returned he would have pulled the old trick of placing live matches in the cracks in your cell floor. The con would be put on another charge. If you dared to complain, you felt his stick and boot. The trade that this greedy, sadistic bastard engaged in was itself unusual. For a price, and I mean hundreds of pounds, he would alter your prison records. You could buy sheets of your own past. This meant a con could have his worst offences vanish into thin air, when the parole board looked at his papers. A few cons, those with the necessary cash, started to do business with him. These were almost exclusively high-risk prisoners. Eventually it was my turn. We talked, I paid, he gave me a sheet from my record. I should have been happy, but the beatings he gave out, his sadistic pleasure at seeing others suffer, was hard to swallow. A few of us talked, and we decided that we wanted to get rid of him. We decided to inform the Governor about him. To turn in someone who can bring your release date closer might seem strange, but hate and fear are powerful emotions. Our only weapon against him was his own corruption.

I made an application to see the Governor. I told the boss that I had heard disturbing rumours about cons’ records being tampered with. I dared not give a name. Other ‘E’ men did the same thing, again, no names, but the fingers were all pointing in one direction. These complaints were waived. Frustrated at the lack of action, I again put in a request to see the Governor. Again, the complaint was waived. When I put in a third request, I went prepared. In a re-run of the previous visits, I voiced my concern that prisoners’ records were being tampered
with and were for sale. The Governor lost his temper: ‘We’ve been through all this before. Your accusations are completely unfounded.’ Putting my hand inside my shirt front, I pulled out two pages of my prison record. I tossed them on to his desk: ‘Then perhaps you could explain to me how these are in my possession?’ I still refused to give a name, but I knew he suspected the right man. Bound by procedure, he was forced to act.

A few days later, the local police started to interview us. All told, there were about twelve of us involved. If we knew that the investigation was above board, we would have screamed his name from the rooftops, but we were unsure of these detectives. The Isle of Wight is a small place, the police used the prison officers’ social club and they all drank together. If we gave a name and then they buried the information and told the screw involved, we could expect severe recriminations.

As if reading our thoughts, a detective and sergeant came to visit us at the prison. All twelve cons were present. The detective asked us whether we watched the six o’clock news on TV, we replied that we did. ‘Well, if you watch tonight, you’ll see that we are doing our job. If there are bad things happening in this prison, and we uncover them, we will prosecute.’ That evening we rushed expectantly to take our seats in the TV room. True to the detective’s word, we watched a police car draw up to the warder’s house and, seconds later, he was taken away under arrest.

The atmosphere at Parkhurst now became electric. Prisoners were offered help with their parole dates, if they would give information that would help the arrested screw.
Needless to say, nobody did. Sadists don’t elicit much sympathy. Under heavy escort the twelve of us were taken to Newport Magistrates’ court. One by one we stood in the dock and told our story. The officer was committed to stand trial at Winchester Crown Court.

In the background of all this activity, something else had happened. Information about corruption in Parkhurst had reached the media. A young up-and-coming journalist called Paul Foot visited the prison. As events unfolded, information was passed to him. An article about corruption in Parkhurst was published in
Private Eye
. While the public read, those of us who had testified were taken from our cells and put into the segregation unit. Some officers whispered into our ears and dug us with their truncheons. We were told we were going to ‘pay’ for this. However, with the trial date coming up they didn’t dare damage our faces.

Those of us who had put ourselves on the line were anxious. If the warder was reinstated, we would be facing the wrath of every truncheon-happy screw in the prison. The detective in charge of the case told us not to worry. He was sure the case was sound. The day before the trial, he returned to the prison with the news that the judge had changed. So had the prosecutor. Both were overtly Establishment figures and the Prison Officers Association had paid for a top QC to defend their man.

The defence’s main argument was that prisoners didn’t have money. If they didn’t have money, how could they possibly pay this man to remove their records? It was nothing more than an elaborate plot by a few high-risk
prisoners to get themselves transferred to a less austere prison on the mainland.

Anybody with any knowledge of prison life knows that this is rubbish. Money is used on the inside as much as it is on the outside. The only difference is that people on the outside put it in a wallet, and prisoners stick it up their arses. There are men walking around today who, if you made them shit on camera, would produce enough money to make you think it was a lottery win.

The top detective on the case spoke to me in an interview room at the court. He knew that the defence’s argument was ludicrous. He also knew of the political shenanigans of the Home Office. As he finished speaking to me, he dropped something on the floor. Without looking back, he left the room. I picked up the paper, it was a £10 note.

Back in the courtroom I was put on the stand. The defence counsel’s inference that I was an inveterate liar was immensely irritating. After hearing my testimony being ridiculed yet again, I spoke once more. ‘It seems that whatever I say, you are not prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.’ Reaching into my breast jacket pocket, I produced the banknote. ‘Perhaps, this will speak more eloquently than any words I might say.’ I held the note up for the judge to see. I heard him say: ‘Am I to understand that this is a Treasury note?’ The clerk of the court came over to me and, taking it, gave it to the Judge for closer inspection. If prisoners didn’t have money, what the fuck was this? The court fell silent.

The jury was out for eight hours. When they came back in, they returned a verdict of not guilty.

That evening, the twelve of us who had taken the stand were moved to Winchester. The atmosphere was very grim. Again, we were all placed in segregation. That first night, the beatings started. We had dared to challenge their supposedly unassailable authority. The whispered threats of Parkhurst became reality.

When they came, it was in the middle of the night. The cell door would crash open. Six, sometimes more, would charge. In front of them, they would carry a mattress just in case their intended victim was ready to defend himself. Once they were on you, the mattress would be tossed to one side. Blows from riot sticks would rain down on your body, their clamouring hands would grab your testicles and squeeze. The pain of this alone could make a man lose consciousness. Their heavy boots would kick and kick and kick. Broken noses, black eyes and bruises and weals which would cover your body from head to toe. Each of us was visited. The sound of the screams would carry from one end of the wing to the other. I don’t know which was worse, being the subject of the beating yourself or hearing the screams of your friends. I still can feel it, I still can hear it.

One by one, we all started being moved out to other prisons. In the end, I was the only one left. I had been considered the ringleader. I wondered what my fate would be. These men wanted to kill us.

At 6.00am one morning, three screws came into my cell and told me to pack up my belongings. While I dressed, they started breaking my few personal possessions – my radio, my thermos flask. If it was breakable they smashed it
before flinging the shattered remains into a box. I was supposed to be taken to reception but, instead, I was marched to a stripped cell. There was no bed, no furniture, just blankets covering the floor. Warders with truncheons lined the walls. I was ordered to lay down. I did as I was told, I closed my eyes and waited for the beating to commence. But none came. After a few minutes, they filed out of the cell, laughing. It had just been a game. Intimidation. An amusing way for them to pass the drudgery of their long night shift.

I was bundled, handcuffed, into the back of a prison van. With police cars at the front and rear, and motorcycle riders to our left and right, we started to go north. Where were they taking me? We stopped for lunch in Wakefield. I thought that was it, but the journey continued. It was mid-afternoon before I realised that Hull was my destination.