Essex Boy (4 page)

The night before the famous annual Derby horse race, Malcolm planned to break into a bookmaker’s shop near Southend and make off with all of the punters’ bets. The bookie’s safe had been concreted into the floor of the office and its rear secured with bolts to the wall of the room. Malcolm had worked out that if he smashed through the wall from the outside, he could then quite easily access the back of the safe and remove the money. Fortunately for Malcolm, the part of the wall that the safe was behind was conveniently hidden by a shed. As the task in hand appeared to be a relatively easy one, Malcolm had initially decided to commit the crime alone, but after experiencing difficulty getting through the wall and into the safe he telephoned two associates to assist him. Even with two pairs of extra hands, the safe proved to be more secure than Malcolm had imagined, so he telephoned me. When I arrived, we busied ourselves smashing the concrete that held the stubborn safe in place. As we toiled away Malcolm’s lookout hammered on the rear door of the bookmaker’s and an accomplice opened it.

‘A police car has just turned around at the top of the road,’ the lookout said.

‘Close that fucking door, you idiot. We don’t need a running commentary of what’s going on in the street, and don’t bother us again unless the police are taking an interest in us,’ I shouted. I looked at Malcolm and shook my head. ‘No wonder you rang me for help. These clowns are hardly the A-Team, are they?’

Five minutes later, a police car screeched to a halt at the front of the bookmaker’s and a second vehicle blocked the rear entrance of the premises. We later learned that a vigilant member of the public had been looking out of their window and noticed that the back door of the bookmaker’s had been opened and immediately telephoned the police. The very man who had been hired to be a lookout for us had actually been the person who had alerted a member of the public to our presence.

Trapped inside the building, we did our best to hide but the police smashed the front door open and sent in two dogs that soon found and savaged us into submission. When we appeared in court, I was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment and Malcolm and his bungling buddies were given non-custodial sentences. To be honest, I was seething because I had only been invited to take part in the job when it was in progress, and even then it was only because the other men were incapable of completing it. My anger was short-lived because, ten days later, Malcolm joined me at HMP Chelmsford after he, too, was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, but in his case it was for fighting.

Upon my arrival I was disappointed to learn that my friend Tate was no longer in the prison. I was told that he had been moved to HMP Swaleside on the Isle of Sheppey, in Kent. Neither Malcolm nor I were particularly bothered about our predicament as we knew it would only be a matter of weeks before we were free once more. Unfortunately for Malcolm, while serving those few short weeks, his father, who had been suffering from cancer, passed away. ‘Totally devastated’ are the only two words that accurately describe the effect his father’s death had on Malcolm. The prison staff became so concerned for his mental health that they moved me into his cell to try and cheer him up. I am no psychiatrist, so I thought the best plan of action would be for me to be myself and not dwell on his sad loss. I have always been a bit of a bookworm and so I decided that I would read to Malcolm in the hope of getting his mind of things. I chose
Killing for Company,
the ghost-written autobiography of serial killer Dennis Nielsen. Upon reflection, it probably wasn’t a wise choice and my late night recitals, detailing death and human suffering, did little to mend my friend’s broken heart.

When I was released from Chelmsford prison, Tate wrote to me asking if I would bring Malcolm to visit him at HMP Swaleside. I have no idea why Tate wanted to meet Malcolm; I think it was just curiosity because I had often talked about him. Kenneth Noye, the infamous Brinks Mat gold thief, was at Swaleside and Tate was telling Malcolm and me how well they had been getting on. Noye, according to Tate, was a reserved, polite, no-nonsense man, the type of guy who he would love to do business with. Malcolm and I just thought that Tate was talking the talk and trying to impress us but, upon reflection, whatever Tate thought or said, regardless of how improbable or bizarre it may have sounded, Patrick Tate firmly believed it and would make it happen.

As well as trying to forge friendships in the underworld, Tate was busying himself trying to settle old scores with people that he claimed had upset him. A man I shall call Peter Mills had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbing a jeweller’s shop in Essex. He too was in HMP Swaleside and happened to be in the visiting room on the same day as me, Malcolm and Tate. Mills’s visitor was a man I shall call Simon Gold, who had allegedly been riding the motorbike that Tate had leapt on the back of to escape from Billericay Magistrates Court. Both Mills and Gold have since claimed that Tate informed the police that they were involved in various offences in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Mills is adamant that Tate was his accomplice when he robbed the jeweller’s. They had initially got away with the crime but, when Tate had been arrested in relation to an unconnected matter, Mills had immediately been taken into custody and the jewellery recovered. Tate kept glaring over at Mills and Gold, saying that he was going to do them, but he didn’t approach the men while Malcolm and I were there. At the time, I did not believe that Tate would even dream of informing on other criminals but so many stories and allegations have arisen since then, from credible people, that they are very hard to dismiss.

When Tate was released from prison in 1994, he did his personal best to keep himself out of trouble. He appeared totally devoted to Sarah and I suppose, in his own troubled mind, he really did believe that he was going to manage to go straight. Sadly, Tate’s life was one never-ending contradiction; his brain knew what was right and what was best for him, but his heart loved the excitement of being a criminal and craved all that was bad for him. Three days after being released, Tate arrived at my home and insisted that we go out for the evening. There were absolutely no drugs involved, nor were drugs mentioned; it was simply two friends meeting up for a quiet night out. Sarah, the best thing to ever happen to Tate in my opinion, would not tolerate him taking that shit and so Tate was refusing to touch it. As we sat in a bar sipping lemonade, Tate told me that Sarah was pregnant and there was not enough room for all three of them in her home. Tate knew that I had a large three-bedroom flat in Grand Parade, Leigh-on-Sea, and so he asked if he could stay with me until he could secure a larger property for himself, Sarah and their child. ‘Sarah will remain where she is for now. It’s only me that needs a room,’ Tate said.

‘No problem,’ I replied without hesitation. ‘I am happy for you and it’s a pleasure to be able to help you both.’

As soon as Tate moved into my home he began thinking of ways to earn the money that he would need to support his family. Being told what to do in return for a pittance of a wage was not an existence that Tate could give genuine consideration to, and so, within a couple of weeks, he had abandoned any notion of earning an honest living. We were both soon immersed in credit card scams, distributing counterfeit money, robbing drug dealers and selling cannabis. Tate had met a man in prison, who I shall call James, and he happened to be on the ascendancy in the ever-thriving drugs trade.

Tate had kept in touch with James since his release and he knew that he was regularly supplied with large amounts of cannabis. It was decided that, when the time was right, Tate and I were going to rob James’s supplier. We arranged a meeting with James and put our proposal to him. Initially, he was reluctant to play any part in our plan but when Tate began to lose his temper over his interpretation of a snub, James quickly reconsidered and agreed that, when he was due to pick up his next shipment of drugs, he would let us know. When the call came, less than a week later, Tate told me that James was on his way to Kent to purchase 80 kilos of cannabis and we were going to intercept it. An hour later, Tate and I were parking our car in a quiet Kent suburb and walking towards a large, well-kept house.

Not in the habit of knocking on doors, Tate ran and hurled his enormous frame at the front door and emerged on the other side roaring at the occupants, ‘Stay fucking seated. Stay fucking seated.’ Following Tate through the splintered remains of the front door, I entered the lounge waving a gun around and saw that three terrified men were cowering on the settee.

‘On the floor now, arseholes, and keep your hands above your head,’ I barked.

When the men complied, I set about tying them up with nylon rope, but Tate grabbed the largest man by the head, dragged him from the floor and began punching him mercilessly. Blood splashed the walls as blow after blow rained down upon the man’s face.

‘You fucking cunt,’ Tate shouted, ‘you had better tell me where the gear is or you are going to die.’

His face a mask of blood, the man could barely speak with fear and so Tate began to strangle him. I thought it highly unlikely that Tate’s vice-like grip around his already crushed windpipe would permit the man to speak, so I suggested to Tate that he be allowed to breathe. When Tate had relaxed his grip a little, I could see that the man’s swollen head had turned blue and his bulging eyes were barely able to focus, but he did manage to tell Tate that the cannabis was in two vehicles parked outside the house. A crushing blow to the middle of the man’s chest emptied his lungs of oxygen and he was left struggling to answer Tate’s final question about the whereabouts of the keys. Pointing a blood-stained shaking hand, the man indicated that his car keys were in a jacket hanging on the door.

Having retrieved the keys Tate turned his attention towards the other men, one of whom was crying.

‘Fucking keys. Give me the other fucking set of keys, you slags, or I’ll shoot you all,’ Tate roared.

The men quickly complied with Tate’s request and, moments after gate-crashing the social gathering, we were striding back through a hole in the wall where the front door had once stood. Tate opened the boot of both vehicles to ensure the drugs were on board and then like an excited child he began to shriek because he had found not only the cannabis but a bag containing £50,000 in cash.

‘Eighty fucking kilos, Nipper, and a wedge of cash, not a bad night’s work, eh?’ Tate said. ‘I will have to take a bit of additional expenses to get my clothes dry cleaned though. One of those bastards has bled all over me,’ he added laughing.

We drove both of the vehicles back to where we had parked ours and transferred the cash and drugs into our boot. Laughing and joking about the fear we had instilled in our victims, we headed back over the QE2 Bridge and home into Essex. I was paid £60,000 for that night’s work; Tate paid himself £60,000 and James, who had reluctantly assisted us with setting up the job, was paid the same. I was more than happy earning £60,000 for three hours’ work and, as an added bonus, Tate never did ask for my contribution towards his dry-cleaning bill.

Our other business interests were not as lucrative as robbing drug dealers but they did provide us with a steady income. Tate would purchase high-quality forged £50 notes for £12.50 each and together we would descend upon a town and spend £1,000 worth in chain stores, which have a policy of giving cash refunds on returned goods. Having made our purchases we would then travel to a neighbouring town and, receipt in hand, return the goods for genuine banknotes. Throughout the day we would also use an array of brand-new credit cards that one of Tate’s cohorts had stolen from the Royal Mail sorting office. Apparently, credit cards and other such valuable items are stored in a secure cage prior to delivery and Tate’s friend had the job of handing them out to the postmen. Tate claimed that for every ten credit cards due to be delivered in south-east Essex, at least two would end up in his wallet.

Tate had another lucrative business but he insisted this was ‘strictly sole trader only’. To be honest, even if Tate had offered me a partnership in this particular venture, I would have declined because he was hiring out young prostitutes to depraved and desperate clients. His staff-recruiting methods were simple but effective. Tate would book appointments with working girls at massage parlours or their homes and, after putting the product through its paces, demand that they work for him. Few argued. All eventually complied. Patrick Tate could be a very persuasive man.

In September 1994, Tate met a man named Tony Tucker and his sidekick Craig Rolfe at a cafe in Southend. Tate had gone into the cafe with a man named Shaun Miller, who also happened to know Tucker and Rolfe. The men were introduced by Miller, and Tucker immediately warmed to Tate. Weighing 18 stone and standing 6 ft 2 in. tall, Tate was the type of man that Tucker would deem ‘useful’. When Tucker invited Tate to meet him and Rolfe for a drink at a nightclub in Southend later that night, he readily accepted. As soon as Tate returned to my flat that day he talked excitedly about his new friends. He urged me to go to the club with him to meet them but I declined the offer as I was already tired of hearing about just how great Rolfe and Tucker were. The name Rolfe meant nothing to me but I had heard of Tucker because he was involved in the running of a Basildon nightclub named Raquel’s. That club had started hosting rave nights that were run by a promotions team that I knew, which had previously held them at a smaller venue in Southend. The good people of Southend generally only visit Basildon for court appearances or funerals; they certainly do not go there to socialise. However, because this particularly popular promotions team moved their rave nights to Raquel’s, to accommodate their ever-increasing customer base, many of the Southend ‘in crowd’ followed them. Tucker, who ran the security at Raquel’s with a man named Bernard O’Mahoney, became friendly with some of these people and eventually began socialising with them in the nightclubs along Southend seafront.