Essex Boy (20 page)

Still a teenager at the time of Malcolm’s death, Ricky had found it hard to come to terms with and so joined in with the name-calling and idle threats that many who knew Malcolm were making. The Trettons informed the police but said that they did not feel intimidated by the calls at any time. However, because of the sheer number being made, they had become irritating and they wanted the calls stopped. The Trettons’ solicitor wrote to Ricky and two females warning them that if their campaign of harassment did not stop, further action would be taken. As soon as the letters landed on Ricky and the females’ doormats, the nuisance calls stopped. That was, until Ricky had a chance meeting with Lydia at HMP Chelmsford.

Lydia was there visiting Terry, and Ricky had been visiting a friend. What was later described by the police as ‘a bit of a slanging match’ took place between the pair and Ricky was arrested under Section 5 of the Public Order Act. When he later appeared in court, he was fined the princely sum of £90 and ordered to pay £150 costs. Terry Watkins was later to claim that the slanging match was, in fact, something far more sinister.

‘My wife came to see me in prison just before my trial,’ he said. ‘She was upset because she had just seen Ricky Percival. He made threats that he was going to shoot my family, including my little girl Laura, who was just four years of age.’

Watkins was, of course, stating something that he had not personally heard and so his account of the incident cannot be given credence. True or false, there was undeniably a growing feeling of intense hostility towards Terry and his family in the Southend area.

Having shed crocodile tears for his former friend on his ex-girlfriend’s shoulder and cared attentively for her emotional needs, Alvin had successfully managed to convince Clair to rekindle their teenage romance. The couple did not conduct their relationship openly, but Malcolm’s family are in no doubt whatsoever that they had become an item once more, long before Malcolm had been laid to rest. Regardless of the exact timescale, Alvin’s partner Barbara learned of his infidelity and asked him to leave her home within weeks of Malcolm’s funeral. Within the hour, Alvin had packed his belongings into a suitcase and unpacked them again at the flat Clair had shared with Malcolm.

The anger generated by the untimely death of Malcolm was not going unnoticed by Essex police. In an effort to calm the situation and reassure the Tretton family that they would be unharmed, the police agreed to install personal panic alarms in their home. These alarms, when activated, would have an armed police response unit racing to their location within minutes.

In March 1999, 54-year-old Terry Watkins appeared before Chelmsford Crown Court charged with the murder of Malcolm Walsh. He pleaded ‘not guilty’, but after a two-week trial he was convicted of an alternative charge of manslaughter and sentenced to life imprisonment. Manslaughter generally attracts a lighter sentence than one of murder, but in Terry’s case the life sentence was imposed after the judge heard that he had been jailed in 1986 by the same court for two offences of wounding with intent. He had forced his way into an ex-girlfriend’s home and stabbed both her and her new partner.

Unlike my reaction to the news concerning the demise of Tate, Tucker and Rolfe I had been devastated when I heard that Malcolm had been murdered. He had been a good friend to me. I didn’t attend his funeral; I was advised by members of his family that the police were looking for me for the robbery Malcolm and I had allegedly committed near the Lakeside shopping centre. When Essex police had pulled me in over the Rettendon murders, Dorset police had sent me a letter stating that they were not going to take any further action against me for the garage burglary. That was it. I thought that I was trouble free and I could get on with my life, but it was clearly not to be. I didn’t want to disrupt my friend’s funeral by having police officers haul me out of the church, so I agreed to stay away. I did go to Malcolm’s grave once all of the other mourners had left. My feelings as I stood over his grave are personal and I will not, therefore, commit them to paper. All I will say is that I am proud to have called Malcolm my friend.

Three days after Malcolm died, my brother-in-law Steven lost his fight against cancer. Malcolm had been 50 per cent correct when he had said that Steven would outlive us both. Steven’s death was tragic. I don’t wish to appear disrespectful, but it was more so than Malcolm’s in my opinion because the guy never hurt or bothered anybody in his life, yet he was still taken in his prime. It’s hard to understand this life sometimes.

Despite being happy living with Rhiannon on the south coast, Essex was never far from my thoughts and I often toyed with the idea of returning home. The gruesome threesome were dead and so I had no fear of reprisals for shooting Tate or for trying to murder Tucker and Rolfe. They thought they had friends but apart from Leach blowing hot air and talking about avenging their deaths, nobody but their families really gave a fuck about them. The only person I feared in Essex was myself; I knew that if I returned there I would get into trouble. Then again, I was hardly involved in missionary work on the south coast.

I am not sure how I knew but one evening, while talking to my father on the phone, I just sensed that something was wrong.

‘What’s the matter with you, Dad?’ I asked. Laughing, my father dismissed my question as paranoia. ‘Don’t fuck about, Dad. I know something’s wrong,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry. I am going to be OK. The doctors have told me that I have cancer of the throat,’ my father replied.

I put the phone down, kissed Rhiannon goodbye, packed my bag and immediately headed home to Essex.

My father had recently moved into a new house and so initially there was plenty for me to get on with, such as decorating and unpacking boxes. But as the weeks and months passed and the workload eased, I found that I got under my father’s feet and inevitably we began to argue. Perhaps my father and I were subconsciously angry and upset about his condition, I really don’t know, but we rowed so often I thought it best that I move out. I didn’t go far. Malcolm’s widow, Bernadette, lived locally and she suggested that I move in with her. Not in the biblical sense, of course; I had been a close friend of Malcolm’s. Bernadette had lost him in unimaginable circumstances and my presence somehow brought her comfort.

One night I was in Yates’ bar, in Southend, when I saw my ex-cell mate Tony walking down the stairs. Before he could cover his face and fade into the crowd I had jumped up from my seat and accosted him. I could sense that he was a little dubious about meeting me again; the scars of the mental torture I had inflicted upon him had clearly not healed.

‘I don’t mind having a beer with you, Nipper, but for fuck’s sake, behave,’ he pleaded.

As the night wore on and the beer flowed, Tony relaxed and by the end of it he was laughing and suggesting that we go into partnership together.

‘Doing what?’ I enquired.

‘Pills, coke and weed. We can sell it by the shed load in this town,’ Tony replied.

I must admit that I was not initially keen on the idea; I had witnessed first-hand the many downsides of the drug trade. Tate, Tucker and Rolfe’s involvement in drugs had led to them ending up as corpses on mortuary slabs long before their mothers could have ever imagined. I didn’t relish following suit, but surely I was not like them? Surely I could control the drugs instead of them controlling me? I told Tony that I would take up his offer but I wanted to keep it local, among friends. Unlike my predecessors, I did not suffer delusions of power and grandeur. If people could replicate the demand for drugs in any business, they would all be millionaires and retiring in their early 30s.

I started selling a few pills to people that I knew and, before too long, my phone was on meltdown.

‘Sell me ten pills. No, better make that twenty just in case I don’t see you next week.’

‘I know you have got pills for sale, but can you get me any cocaine?’

Like a house on fire our business blazed its way across Southend. People planning to go out for the evening were ringing me all day asking for drugs. Throughout the night, I was in bars and nightclubs meeting the demand of revellers. Then when the pubs and nightclubs closed, those who wanted to carry on partying were ringing me in the early hours of the morning, demanding drugs. I struggled to get any sleep and so I began snorting the odd line of cocaine in order to give me that little boost of energy that I thought I needed. Before I knew it, the substantial profit that I was making was being hoovered up my nose.

I walked out of Bernadette’s house one day and Alvin happened to be leaving his brother’s home at the same time (Alvin’s brother lived next door). I said ‘hello’, but I could tell by the expression on his face that he was not interested in exchanging pleasantries.

‘What’s wrong? You look like somebody has given you the hump,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about people giving me the hump. They are going to fucking regret it tonight,’ Alvin replied as he marched past me.

Alvin crossed the road to a car and began talking to the driver, a man named Dean Boshell, who I knew sold drugs on Alvin’s behalf. The pair were in deep conversation but when I walked within earshot they both stopped.

‘What is wrong with you?’ I asked Alvin.

‘It’s a year today since Malcolm was murdered and I’ve been told that the Trettons are having a party to celebrate. I intend to make sure that their party gets going with a bang,’ Alvin replied.

I know that it is wrong to talk ill of people but I also know that it is pointless trying to paint a pretty picture if you’re not in possession of the necessary materials. Life was never kind to Dean Boshell, but then again I can’t recall him doing himself any favours. Boshell’s father was an alcoholic bully who beat his mother while he was still in her womb. Six hours after his birth, Boshell’s father, who was barely able to stand through drink, took him out into the street in a pushchair. It was a cold, foggy day and the infant became so distressed that a midwife had to be called because he had difficulty breathing. Boshell’s mother divorced her husband shortly afterwards and a restraining order was imposed by the court, which prevented him from having any contact with Mrs Boshell and her child.

Nobody can say for certain why Boshell grew up to be the unscrupulous man that he was. Some say he misbehaved because he craved attention. Others think he had no love for anybody and so he didn’t care whom his actions hurt. What cannot be disputed is that Boshell had no morals; he was a man who stole from his own mother and brother and betrayed everybody that he met, without exception. By the time he had reached his 13th birthday his mother decided that she could not cope with his bad behaviour any more. Social Services were contacted and Boshell was placed in the care of the local authority. Boshell returned home after just two months, but his behaviour had deteriorated rather than improved, and he continued committing petty crime, which in the main involved the theft of motor vehicles.

When Boshell upset a gang of local hoodlums, he told his mother that he was going to leave Basildon and start his life anew. By chance, a friend of Mrs Boshell’s had recently told her that he and his partner were moving to Leeds to run a pub. When Mrs Boshell mentioned the problems that her son was having, the couple agreed to let him move with them. They assured Mrs Boshell that they would teach her wayward son all there was to know about the pub trade if he worked for them in return. Two short weeks after moving to Leeds, Boshell was taken into protective custody by the child protection unit after his mother’s friend had tried to strangle him. The man and his partner had been arguing and, rather foolishly, Boshell had tried to intervene.

Rather than return to Basildon to face the hoodlums who had been baying for his blood, Boshell informed Social Services that he wished to remain in West Yorkshire. A week later, Boshell was placed in a foster home. After leaving care, Boshell once more immersed himself in criminality, stealing cars, committing burglaries and any other unsavoury act that helped to line his pockets. Inevitably, he was caught and after accumulating 22 convictions for a variety of offences he was sentenced to 15 months’ imprisonment.

After being released from this sentence, Boshell returned to Basildon to live with his mother. Understandably, she wanted to believe that her son had changed and welcomed him into her home. As soon as her back was turned, he stole and sold her brand-new stack-system stereo, which was still in the box. Despite his mother’s pleas Boshell refused to return the stereo and so she called the police. Boshell was charged and convicted of the theft and when he appeared at Basildon Crown Court for sentencing he was given a meagre financial penalty. A few months later, Boshell called at his mother’s home on the pretext of visiting her and stole a cheque from his brother’s cheque book. After forging his brother’s signature Boshell withdrew £400 from the account. When the theft came to light, Mrs Boshell confronted her son and a terrible argument ensued. Mrs Boshell shouted at her son for what he had done and uttered the last words that she was ever going to say to him, ‘Piss off, Dean. I want nothing more to do with you and, as far as I am concerned, you are not my son.’

Prison became an occupational hazard rather than a punishment for Boshell. He had far more like-minded friends behind bars than he ever had out on the street. He thought of himself as a wide boy, a player and a bit of a gangster. He loved rap music and in particular the artist Eminem. Boshell would often talk to his associates using slang that he heard in songs. He thought that it made him appear cool. Everybody else thought that he sounded ridiculous.