Gangbuster (16 page)

At this point I said, ‘Right, let's get out of here.' We skidaddled off down the tube, split up, jumped trains and went our own separate ways.

It turned out that the police car was from a neighbouring police station, and not our nick where everybody knew us. Just our luck, because they would have had to deal with it impartially as was their duty. Allegations of assault and battery involved pulling in about eight or nine witnesses, as well as the victims, to give statements in evidence. The brass and her pimps spent all night making these fucking great statements of complaint. She put it all in there, that he was a copper who had tried to shag her the previous night but couldn't get it up.

The next day, my mate was off but I went in on normal duty and the place was a hot-bed of rumour. As soon as people heard, they were saying, ‘If there are two bastards who would go and get involved in something like that, it's those two.' So I hung around keeping my head down and my ear close to the ground. I was expecting the shit to hit the fan at any moment.

When there is a spot of internal bother, you can have the complaint investigated locally or by the
specialist Complaints Investigation Bureau at the Yard, and that can be really nasty. Dear old Basil Hadrell, the Chief Super who had been landed with the papers in the case and was overseeing the investigation, had through a trusted colleague put the word out that if whoever is responsible comes forward, it could remain an investigation at local level and it wouldn't have to go up to the Yard. The go-between took me aside and said, ‘Look, was this you two at this shindig? From the descriptions and the
modus
operandi
it could only be you two.'

I said, ‘Yeah, it was.'

He said, ‘Right, if you are prepared to admit it, everything will be kept local and you won't have to face all the flak you'll get at the Yard.'

I managed to get hold of my mate on the phone and said, ‘Come on, you've got to come in. We'll put our hands up and go for as much damage limitation as possible.'

We were up before the uniformed Chief Inspector who'd been designated by Mr Hadrell to investigate the case at about 6.00pm that night. He just asked us, ‘Were you involved in an incident in the Earl's Court Road at approximately midnight last night?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right, I've no further questions to ask at this time.'

He said he would conduct his enquiries and we would be dealt with later.

Curiously, we never heard another word. The matter was completely dropped much to our relief. There was no official explanation but we were given to believe that one of our colleagues had gone down there and sorted things out with the tart in a more
amicable way than me and my mate. I can imagine them saying, ‘Well, look, after all, at the end of the day, you are a prostitute and these other people are living off your immoral earnings … do you think it wise to proceed with these charges?' They all disappeared soon afterwards and haven't been traced since which was a result as far as my mate and I were concerned. The officers on the case tried to find them a few months later to re-interview them, but they still refused to come forward. No action was taken but an internal report did suggest that ‘the greatest care' should be taken that the two of us never worked together again because in the two-and-a-half years we had operated as a team, we had each accumulated a total of 13 complaints – 12 while we were working together.

My mate disappeared off to the Flying Squad and I went to the Central Drugs Squad. That was our somewhat spurious reward, a couple of premier squad postings. We counted ourselves very lucky. The only time we ever saw each other after that was over the occasional pint.

Another fiasco I was involved in came when I was on a major undercover operation in South London and had ended up at Sutton Police Station as my temporary base. When you work undercover you are itinerant and you can end up in any nick for briefings, evidence collecting, interviewing, and your face is not generally known. But when a Yard squad descends, word usually gets about that something is on the go. You get used to the itinerant life, moving about all the
time, working at different stations and hopefully you have the communication skills to get along with people you don't normally work with on a daily basis.

One day, we'd just conducted a search as a part of a big robbery inquiry and had gone into Sutton nick – not exactly one of the biggest in London – and while my colleagues were dealing with a prisoner we'd arrested I ventured out to the front counter to which members of the public have access. I was looking for some forms and they were usually kept handy in the front office.

I heard a commotion and a woman burst into the front office heavily out of breath saying, ‘Help me, you've got to help me.' It's not my job to deal with it. I'm a Scotland Yard detective and I'm dealing with something else. I look round and see two bone-idle, fat old fuckers sitting there doing nothing, just getting on with their business, ignoring this bird. I turned round.

‘Somebody going to deal with her?'

‘Well, all right, yeah, in a minute.'

I thought, You ignorant fucking toss pots. All the time, the woman was pleading for some assistance.

‘Help me, please, help me.'

Nobody else was doing anything. I approached her out of a sense of duty, although it wasn't my place, and said, ‘What's up?'

‘I'm a store detective, come with me, come with me.'

I could see she was getting more distressed by the second, so I leapt over the counter and went into the street with her.

‘I'm a store detective,' she repeated breathlessly, ‘little fella, beige bag, he's nicked a portable TV.'

She pointed down the street and way, way in the distance I could see this little fella disappearing round the corner with a fucking great beige hold-all.

‘OK. Leave it to me,' I said and I was off down the high street like shit off a shovel. There I was, supposedly the élite of Scotland Yard's undercover drugs detectives, scooting after a shoplifter.

Pretty soon, I'd caught up with the geezer, about 5ft 6in, covered in tattooes – up his arms, round his neck, across his forehead. I ran up to him and said, ‘OK, mate, I'm Old Bill, I know you've just nicked this telly.'

He said, ‘Yes, right, OK, mate. No problem, I'll come with you.' I took the beige hold-all off him with the TV in it, in case he did a runner, and grabbed him by the arm. I thought, I'm really going to get the piss taken out of me when I get back to the Yard.

We were walking back towards Sutton nick when, like a shining beacon, along came local plod. He was about 19, brand-new out of training school, and up he came to do his duty. But I had made a fatal mistake. I'd got the beige hold-all.

The baby bobby ran up to me and said, ‘I've reason to believe you've been shoplifting and there's a stolen television in that bag. I'm arresting you for theft. You do not have to say anything, blah, blah, blah.'

I was standing there, holding on to this shoplifter half my size, and I was totally gobsmacked. I said, ‘You're having a laugh here, aren't you? You've got the wrong bloke. I'm actually from Scotland Yard and I've arrested
him
for shoplifting.'

He looked totally baffled. ‘Have you got a warrant card on you?' he said.

‘Yes, I have.'

‘Will you show it to me?'

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘So you are proposing that I put the bag down, let go of him, get my warrant card out to show you … by which time he will have legged it again. Then you'll believe I'm a copper and we can all go running off after him again.'

He wasn't budging. ‘If you refuse to show me your warrant card, I can only assume you are lying. I've got to arrest you.'

So he took the beige hold-all from me, doing exactly what I'd done a few minutes earlier. I still had a hold of the little fella, the young bobby got hold of me and there were three of us walking abreast up Sutton High Sreet. Just then, along came what I thought would be my saving grace – the store detective. She went straight up to the baby bobby and said, ‘What are you doing, you stupid boy?'

He nodded at me and said, ‘I've arrested this man on suspicion of shopifting.'

‘He's a policeman,' she said. ‘He came to my help when I was in your police station.'

To my amazement, he said, ‘Well, it's too late now, I've arrested him and he'll have to stay under arrest.'

She said,
‘He's
the shoplifter … the little fella.'

So the bobby said, ‘You take hold of his other arm then.'

Now there were four of us abreast going up the street, him holding me holding him holding her, forcing members of the public out of the way, almost obstructing the highway. Even when we got to the front door of the police station, he wouldn't let go. Because we couldn't go in four abreast we had to go in sideways. It was one of the most ridiculous scenarios I've ever seen.

When we finally got through to the charge room, the duty sergeant, who knew I was from the Yard, took one look at us all holding on to each other, grinned, and said, ‘I'm really looking forward to hearing this.' The baby bobby gave a detailed account of how he had made the arrests and everyone just fell about in hysterics and took the piss out him something rotten. I think he's probably a chief superintendent by now!

I wasn't sorry to get back to our base at the Yard after that fiasco, and it gave my mates in SO10 a good laugh. If you're in the Met, then the Yard's where you want to be if you've got an ounce of ambition. I loved it. And as a relatively young detective attached to one of the glamour squads, I can only say that Scotland Yard is shaggers' heaven. I suppose it's a little bit like war-time – you're doing a job that has more danger than most and when you're off duty you're looking for relaxation in the shape of a pretty girl and a nice few pints.

There was a workforce of 3,000 employed at the Yard with many attractive, unattached females among the civilian ranks. Work hard, play hard, that's what a lot of coppers do.

Inevitably, our squad had quite a lot of dealings with the Yard's Press Bureau, the section which deals with the media, papers, TV, radio, whatever, on a day-to-day basis, fielding questions and issuing information. There was a certain amount of scepticism towards one another because we sometimes felt they were useless and didn't give our squad the publicity it deserved, didn't argue our cause well enough, and the Press Bureau in turn would think we were bone-headed paranoids or
publicity-seeking prima donnas. I think, by and large, both standpoints had a degree of truth to them.

I had quite a lot of dealings with one of the girls who was quite high up in the bureau and we used to go out for drinks and meals and argue the toss about the virtues of us and them. We'd have a good old argument then wind our way back to the Yard and try to find an empty office to have a shag in. A lot of people were at it. The crumpet there was a joy to behold. Married men were all shagging; the single blokes were all shagging their brains out. It was great fun. But some nights you just couldn't find a sodding office to do it in. You'd go round rattling all the doors but they'd be locked. I don't know whether it was others at it or just security but on one such occasion we were forced to resort to the basement where all the cars were kept. All sorts of motors were there, facilities for changing number plates for covert operations, all sorts, so we decided to do it in the back seat of my vehicle. Not ideal and not as good as one of the guv'nor's offices with a nice big desk to shag over, but better than nothing.

So we thrashed about in my car for half-an-hour and had a decent sort of shag, her arms and legs hanging out of my motor amid the passion. Although we got on well, she was awfully full of herself and really did look down her nose at most of the lower rank Old Bill. She earned bundles of money and took a delight in pointing that out to us.

A couple of days after our basement shag, I had a mate's leaving do coming up. I thought, Right, I can have a bit of a wheeze here. The basement garage didn't have a CCTV camera installed – though I think it might have one now – but the Press Bureau bird
didn't know this. So I rang her up and said, ‘Look, we've got a spot of bother here. You and I were caught shagging on the CCTV
cameras.'

Well, she sounded shattered, petrified. So I said, ‘The inspector from the information room is a friend of mine and he's managed to swag the tape for me. But he needs to be rewarded for his efforts.'

By now, she was absolutely stricken with panic. ‘What does he want, what have we got to do?'

I said he loves scotch and he loves vodka, which were coincidentally the two drinks we were short of for the upcoming party.

She said, ‘Leave it to me, leave it to me.'

I said, ‘Well, I'm willing to get one.'

‘No, no, I'll get them, leave it to me. You make sure you get the tape and then we can destroy it.' She could see her lucrative career going right out of the window in a seedy scandal. ‘All right, all right, I'll make an excuse and get out of the office.'

She came back a couple of hours later with a lovely 40oz bottle of scotch and a lovely 40oz bottle of vodka. I said, ‘Right, I'll go up and see my mate, get the tape and destroy it.'

Of course, I went straight upstairs to the squad office and said, ‘Right, lads, we're OK for the booze. Let's go and have a party.'

I don't think she ever twigged that she really wasn't the star of her own porn movie on CCTV. But it was a risk she couldn't take.

I
was eyeball to eyeball with the Yardie gangs very early on in my undercover career. And I soon realised that this was a new dimension in organised crime. Young, black and angry, these second-generation West Indians had a ruthlessness that could see them wipe out a rival just because he didn’t show enough respect, a world where street cred was a currency higher than cash.

Yardies originated from the back yards – or crime territories – of Jamaica, where localised gangs had dealt drugs and enforced ‘protection’ for generations. In Britain in the Eighties, they had grown into a feared underworld organisation breaking into the crime scene with vicious enthusiasm and a penchant for violence that was truly terrifying. But unlike the sprawling power of the Mafia or the Chinese Triads, they tended to operate in tight-knit gangs with more
emphasis on street cred and community respect than establishing money-making power bases. Factional wars were not uncommon. Rivals were wiped out with almost casual savagery, by gun and by knife, the root cause often so obscure as to be incomprehensible.

So it was with special interest that we listened to an informant who came to us with inside information on a Yardie gang moving seriously into organised drug-dealing with the accent on supplying big heroin consignments. The team, based in South London, were putting out feelers for buyers of big amounts, raising fears among Scotland Yard’s drug experts of an explosion of smack-dealing and its inevitable consequences.

In the West Indians, we had normally found that because the West Indies are a source nation for cannabis, that was their main commodity. They sought out their own transport, distribution and sales. And as cocaine markets expanded, Yardies wanted a piece of that action, too. With the geographical proximity to the South American cocaine suppliers and the United States, where demand for coke was incessant, a lot came through the Caribbean islands. They had lucrative cannabis and cocaine routes up and running. What they didn’t have as a source drug, or potential route drug, was heroin. But that’s what the Yardies were planning to break in to, according to our informant, with supply links set up to the Golden Triangle poppy fields and other heroin-producing Asian countries. We were intrigued because it was widely know that there was no love lost between the West Indian and Asian communities. They were notoriously loathe to get
involved in any sort of business deals together, let alone drugs. So we reckoned something big was on the cards. Our intelligence reports at that stage suggested the Yardies were leaning towards helping out some Nigerian heroin suppliers who had been going into a lot of drug deals and getting ripped off, getting robbed by bona fide gangsters, over here. They’d been dealing with London gangs to sell smack then finding themselves getting rolled over at the last minute and taken for every penny. Of course it broke our hearts to hear about it! So the Nigerians were actively recruiting some hard-case West Indians in London to look after their interests. This was the three-sided situation I was confronted with, London-based Yardies, Asians and Nigerians all involved in a trade offensive to distribute the world’s deadliest drug. Then I met the ferocious Levi, the ‘main man’ in the enterprise and just about as hard as they come. I could see why the Nigerians rated him the kind of muscle they needed to protect their deals.

Levi was the name by which I knew Keith Valentine Graham, aged about 30, with a form sheet showing previous convictions for offences of violence and for drug-dealing. I was introduced to him by an informant, using my normal m.o. of top drug-dealer able to handle substantial quantities of just about any gear, particularly smack. The fact that Levi was black and I was white made things a little uncomfortable for a while but greed got the upper hand and the prospect of some lucrative deals ahead persuaded him I was trustworthy. But right from the off he made it clear that he was calling the shots. No white honkey was running this show. I met him first time at the informant’s premises and right away he made it clear
these were the only places we ever used. It wasn’t up for debate. ‘You understand?’ he scowled.

‘If you say so,’ I shrugged. That, of course, immediately threw up operational difficulties which called for serious discussion at our pre-operation briefings. Do we take out this dangerous drug-dealer or do we let it run because of the dangers inherent in using the informant’s premises?

We weighed up the pros and cons, consulted with the informant, the man most at risk, and I was told, ‘Do what you’ve got to do. We must take Levi out.’

After several weeks of dealings with him in the summer of 1985, it became obvious to me that Levi and his mob represented a classic case of disorganised crime.

For example, on the first occasion that we had the heroin trade fixed, I had everything in place – I had my money on the plot, I had the attack team in place, everybody sorted and dotted around the location, hidden away where they couldn’t be seen. They turned up, and obviously they’d gone with the Nigerian suppliers this time because Levi had a Nigerian with him. We were all set to go, then they told me they hadn’t got the gear. They were due to supply half a kilo of pure-grade heroin. We’d fixed prices and all that and then they arrived empty-handed. For a moment, I was thrown. Was it on or was it off? Or was it some sort of scam with me in the middle?

It seemed to me that they were simply having difficulty with their suppliers, a problem of actually laying their hands on the gear and getting it to me. A ‘distribution problem’ they’d probably have told me if they had bothered to say anything at all.
Communication skills were zero. I had to try to work things out for myself. They wouldn’t tell me anything.

‘What’s going down, man?’ I asked.

Nothing.

I had to try and figure it out myself. They were nipping out to make phone calls, coming back, and nipping out again somewhere for half-an-hour. I couldn’t catch much from the heavy dialogue. There was a lot going on and time was getting scarce. It seemed to me that if they were having some practical difficulties with their side of things, and the gear would be produced eventually, I just had to sit tight and wait, hoping the troops outside wouldn’t get restless. This lasted for hours and hours. The tension was getting unbearable but I was sitting there doing my best to look Mr Cool.

Normally in a situation like that, I would have got up and walked away. But I had this gut feeling that it was still going to happen. Despite all the hold-ups, the toings and froings, all the phone calls, all the farting about, I was still sure it was on. Now, that was all well and good for me; I was sitting there sipping a few beers waiting for things to finally happen, but ever mindful that outside we had a large number of highly-trained police officers waiting unseen, ready to storm in for the arrests. By now, they might just have started to become a bit edgy, a bit restless with all the unexplained delays. I was painfully aware that I was the linchpin in the operation, that everything depended on me. It was a heavy responsibility to bear, as well as having to deal with the low-life drug-dealers. I had to retain my cover. Don’t let them know you’re worried.

All the time, a voice in the back of my mind was
saying, ‘Hold on, Blex, this will happen, it will happen, be patient.’ I’d got to hope in turn that the operational blokes were going to be patient along with the Yard bosses, something they are not always renowned for if there is no result in immediate sight. Sometimes the guv’nors will put a time limit on an operation – pull out at ten o’clock if nothing happens, or whatever – or they may say, ‘Play it by ear, you make the decisions.’ It depends on the day-to-day operational head, what he’s like, and what he thinks of you and your abilities.

The onus was squarely on me, so I decided to let it run. We were in a pleasant, cool flat in Earl’s Court on a hot summer’s afternoon, we were eating take-away pizzas with extra pepperoni, Levi was rolling spliff after spliff, offering them to me. I was facing the archetypal problem – do I partake or don’t I? I said, ‘Oh, I’m driving, I’ll have a smoke later.’

On and on it went, comings and goings, frustrations mounting. It was agony for me, so I don’t know what the blokes on the outside were like. ‘Pissed off’ is one phrase that sprang readily to mind. I had been able to give a quick update to my bosses on my mobile while the bad guys were out of the flat. I told them, ‘Stick with it. Don’t pull out yet, we’re nearly there.’

At one stage, the villains said they’d be gone for an hour so I gave another call to say, ‘Let the back-ups have a breather.’ I knew some of the surveillance officers would be uncomfortable in their observation points by now and the attack teams in the hidden cars would be bursting for a piss.

After a whole day of waiting, Levi and his mates finally cobbled together about a kilo of heroin which
they brought into the flat. Bingo. I tested it by burning some on silver foil. It was OK, so let’s go with the trade. We all got up, ready to go, and moved to the door. Levi wanted the informant out on the street for the exchange, drugs for cash, cash for drugs, but I didn’t. He wasn’t going to be adept enough to escape from the attack team and I didn’t want him there to be embroiled in the evidence.

Often, the subsequent prosecution case would parcel the evidence up to state only that at a certain time, date and place, ‘I saw three men walking down the street. We approached and one ran off. We arrested the remaining two and we found …’ all done with a view to hiding the undercover nature of the operation and the identity of the informant and not requiring me to go to court. It didn’t always work that way because some of the time I would have to supplement the evidence of other officers if there was a ‘not guilty’ plea, but ideally that’s what we aimed for.

In the event, however, I managed to negotiate that the informant was surplus to requirements, saying I didn’t need him, that we trusted each other, that I was willing to go out with Levi and his pal and I knew that was going to suit the troops outside. Once in the street, I’d give the signal and then, hopefully, the hit would go off. But things are never that simple …

Just as we were about to go, Levi started sort of adjusting his clothing, pulling at the waistband of his trousers. He motioned towards the toilet as if to indicate that he needed a pee. I didn’t know what it was but at that second something clicked; I felt suspicious, uneasy. We’d said our OKs and our goodbyes and we were right on the point of strolling
out. So what was he up to? It just concerned me that something was wrong, that something off the script was about to happen. So I grabbed the informant and motioned him to follow chummy into the toilet. He disturbed Levi still fiddling with his trousers. And it wasn’t for a piss – we’d have been able to hear as we were just outside the door. Levi hurriedly came out, making out like he’d just had a wee, but we knew he hadn’t. I was on maximum alert, but pretending to look nonchalant.

We left the flat and walked into the street. I needed only to give the signal for the attack, a tug on my right ear, and the heavy mob would steam in. I couldn’t communicate to the officers because I needed to get in a position to have it on my dancers and get the hell out of there when the action started. But I was worried about Levi and what was down his trousers. And I didn’t mean whether or not he was endowed like Linford Christie.

As I was departing from the scene at a rapid rate of knots, I bolted round a corner to be confronted by the last person in the world I wanted to see on the plot, a lah-di-dah chief inspector out on his first-ever drugs bust. CID and uniformed branch had spread the senior officer authority between them on the Central Drugs Squad as part of the Yard’s campaign to crack down on corruption. Now this awfully, awfully chief inspector, one of the uniformed chaps, full of ‘what ho’ and ‘I say, old boy’ (but a thoroughly decent cove for all that), had decided it would be a jolly nice bit of fun to get some of the action, have a bit of rough and tumble like the other troops, and he was there steaming in to arrest the baddies. Unfortunately, he was standing right in front of me as
I was running full tilt to get out of the picture. I’m sorry, but he had to cop for it. It was fucking BANG as I crashed into him, called him a cunt, and sent him flying. He was none too pleased, but needs must …

The hilarity lasted for days after the raid. ‘I’ve never been called a cunt before,’ said Chief Inspector Posh Bollocks.

‘Don’t suppose it’ll be the last time,’ one of my mates quipped, just out of earshot.

That indignity overcome on the raid, the attack team hit Levi and took out another geezer carrying the parcel of heroin. One of the uniformed guys had started to frisk Levi for weapons, not really taking the maximum precautions. He found a loaded Luger 9mm pistol stuck in the waistband of his trousers, hidden under a shirt and jacket. The PC’s immortal quote, ‘Fuck me, he’s got a gun,’ caused the odd wry smile when Levi stood trial and was given seven years inside for drug-dealing and firearms possession. His side-kick got three years. What exactly Levi had planned to do with the gun was never made clear. It was obvious from what he was doing in the toilet that he was trying to shift the gun from the back of his waistband to a more accessible place at the front, ready for action if need be. Whether that action was to take me out and run with the cash and the drugs, or to guard against himself being robbed, we’ll never know. We had disturbed Levi in the nick of time because the gun was still in the back waistband when he was arrested. He’d not had the chance to move it to where he’d have a chance to whip it out and open fire. I wish I’d had an opportunity to tip off the raid party about my suspicions, but in the heat of the moment it hadn’t been possible. Thank God he never
had a chance to use the shooter; I’d hate the thought of a dead or injured copper on my conscience.

My bosses were delighted with the result. The Press were banging on daily about the new Yardie menace in London and here we had a West Indian drug-dealer nicked in possession of a loaded gun. It was grist to the mill and a positive indication that the police were hitting back at the Yardie gangs. Levi, or Keith Graham as he turned out to be, fitted the bill of the up-and-coming Yardie boss to the letter.