Essex Boy (30 page)

One evening, I was out with a very good friend named Lee ‘KO’ Mayo, so called because he is a cage fighter who spends more time on his back looking up at the latest opponent to knock him down than he does fighting. Lee introduced me to a beautiful girl named Rachel to whom I was instantly attracted. I don’t think Rachel shared my enthusiasm regarding a potential liaison, but after a great deal of persuasion she finally agreed to meet me the following week for a date. Rachel was still uncertain about my intentions when we met, so I joked that I would untie her brother and release him from the boot of my car as soon as she had finished having dinner with me! Sitting in the restaurant I poured my heart out; I told her all about my past and waited for her to flee in terror.

Much to my surprise, Rachel said that if ‘those events’ were in my past and not part of the present, she would like to see me again. After that night, I met Rachel regularly, a relationship developed and in time we fell in love. I cannot thank Rachel enough for helping me to stick to the path that I had chosen to take. On several occasions, a face from the past has appeared and offered me the chance to take part in a criminal enterprise, but because of Rachel, I have declined. She has supported me through some very dark days and always kept me believing that if I persevere, opportunities other than crime will come my way.

For quite some time, I agonised over whether or not I should tell Rachel about my childhood cancer, which doctors had told me would leave me infertile. When we talked about getting married and Rachel mentioned children, I found myself blurting the whole sorry story out. To my surprise, Rachel said that she too had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of 19 years, and so she totally understood what I had been through. True to form, she remained positive and reassured me that if we couldn’t have children naturally, we could always try some form of infertility treatment. On 10 May 2008, Rachel and I married and I can honestly say that it was the happiest day of my life. Our union has not yet produced any children but we continue to enjoy trying, and Rachel has recently started to undergo IVF treatment.

My search for employment had been no more fruitful than my numerous attempts to become a father, so a friend suggested that I should try to learn ‘The Knowledge’ and become a taxi driver in London. The Knowledge is a term used to describe a test that all London taxi drivers have to pass before being given their licences. They have to memorise the name of every street and know every conceivable route to get from one part of the sprawling city to another. I didn’t think the body that licensed cabbies would entertain me, as you are supposed to be of good character and have a clean record, but I decided to take my chances. I couldn’t quite believe it when I received a letter stating that, as it had been 11 years since my last custodial sentence, I had passed the police check.

I bought a moped and spent eight to ten hours every day trying to learn the name of every street, road and avenue in London, in the hope that I would one day pass The Knowledge and earn myself a lucrative London taxi-driver’s licence. I wasn’t making any money while I was doing The Knowledge, and so I accepted a job as an electrician’s labourer working permanent nights. After spending eight hours on my moped, I would sleep for four hours and then labour for eight hours at night before sleeping for another four hours. Travelling back and forth to Essex took up half of my sleeping time and so in the end I made a bed up in my car.

One morning, I was driving along Park Lane when an unmarked police car pulled alongside my vehicle in the traffic. I did not know that it was the police at first; all I saw were three burly guys glaring at me. Not wishing to appear intimidated I glared back before continuing on my way. As I reached the roundabout at Hyde Park Corner the car cut in front of me and blue lights previously unseen near its boot began to flash. One of the plain-clothed officers got out, flashed me his warrant card and asked me who I was and where I was going. After answering all his mundane questions I was ordered to get out of my car, which was then thoroughly searched.

Holding a hammer aloft that he had found underneath the driver’s seat, the triumphant officer asked me to explain. ‘What is this used for?’

I am not sure what level of education people need to get into the police force these days but surely even mentally challenged individuals know what hammers are used for. Not wanting to insult the policeman’s intelligence I replied, ‘If you want two pieces of wood to be fixed together and remain so, one requires a long thin metal object, which is commonly described as a nail. You then place said nail on top of the two pieces of aforementioned wood and bash it into them using that thing that you have in your hand,’ and I pointed at the hammer.

I was immediately pushed onto the bonnet of my car, handcuffed and taken to a police station where I was cautioned for possessing an offensive weapon. I wasn’t bothered about the caution but the taxi-licensing authority held a very different view. The police informed them about the ‘incident’ and they banned me from holding a London taxi-driver’s licence after explaining that London cabbies with hammers under their seats was not an image the Tourist Board or they wished to embrace. All the time and effort that I had put into learning The Knowledge had been wasted. I don’t mind admitting that I was absolutely gutted; I mean, it wasn’t as if I had actually done anything wrong. What workman doesn’t have the tools of his trade in his car? Once again, Rachel was there to catch and guide me. She told me to put the episode behind me and continue working as a labourer until something better came along.

Six months after I had married Rachel, I was working at Mile End Underground station one night, loading scaffolding tubes from the platform down onto the track. I failed to see a puddle of water and as I stepped into it I slipped and fell head first down onto the tracks. I stood up feeling dazed and confused and can recall being surrounded by my work colleagues.

‘Are you OK, Steve? Are you OK?’ one of them kept shouting.

I then recall somebody saying, ‘What the fuck have you done to your arm?’

I looked down and saw that my hand was facing the wrong way around and my arm had been snapped in two. I didn’t faint but I do not remember much more. I was later informed that I was rushed to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel where I underwent emergency surgery. When I awoke, Rachel was at my bedside with tears in her eyes.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Steve, but a nurse has told me that you will never be normal again,’ she said.

I am not sure if Rachel was confused, deeply upset or a mixture of both, but her words made me laugh.

‘Never be normal again? Who the fuck told you that I was normal in the first place?’ I replied.

Thankfully, Rachel laughed too; I hated seeing her so upset. When I looked down at my right arm, I instantly understood what Rachel had meant. I had lost huge amounts of muscle and the bone was broken and twisted out of shape. I instinctively knew that the injury couldn’t possible heal fully and that I would lose the use of my arm. I am still undergoing surgery and regular physiotherapy to this day, but my condition has failed to improve. I won’t let my disability beat me; I still attend college and hope soon to become a qualified electrician.

My greatest hope is that one day, God willing, Rachel and I will be able to have the children we long for. Cancer took away my ability to become a father in the same way that the accident at Mile End tube station took away the use of my arm. As we go through life we do tend to get knocked down occasionally and our resolve is tested, but one must always rise to any challenge and never back down. It’s pointless giving up, taking drugs or drinking in an effort to avoid the reality of day-to-day life because reality, whoever you think you are, will eventually catch up with you.

Tate, Tucker, Rolfe, Boshell and Alvin all immersed themselves in a world of make-believe that they thought they controlled. Had they not been out of their heads on drugs they might have realised just what fools they actually were, but the drugs were part and parcel of the fantasy life that they were living, and so they were unable to grasp reality. I am not going to preach to anybody about how they should, or should not, live their lives because up until I met Rachel I had made a complete mess of my own.

The only advice that I will offer is that you should treat others how you would expect to be treated. I don’t care who you think you are, or how hard you think are, somebody some day will tire of your bad behaviour and take you out of the game. It’s not other hard men you have to worry about, it’s the little ones that you bully. In my experience, the most dangerous person in the world is usually somebody who is scared and in a corner. We all get what we are due in the end.

On 21 May 2009, Ricky Percival got what he was long overdue when his case was referred to the Court of Appeal. The only evidence that had supported Alvin’s story at the original trial and, therefore, made him appear credible, was that of Gordon Osborne.

Despite his absence from Chelmsford Crown Court, Osborne’s statement had been the most crucial independent evidence produced that the jury had been asked to consider. Without his evidence being heard, the prosecution would have struggled, and probably floundered, in proving their case. Unfortunately, Osborne’s time as a Royal Marine and his boasting about his knowledge of firearms had convinced the jury that such a man couldn’t possibly be wrong.

After reading the seven pages of Osborne’s previous convictions, alarm bells regarding his credibility and the accuracy of his statement should have rung loud and clear in the ears of the police, the Crown Prosecution Service, solicitors, barristers, and everybody else connected with the case. It is a disgrace that despite the significant changes made by Osborne in his statements and, knowing that he was a fugitive from this country, everybody concerned failed to delve further into his background. If they had done, they would have learned that Gordon Osborne had deliberately lied. The reason I say this is simple; he was never in the Royal Marines and knows absolutely nothing about firearms. Therefore his claim that he can distinguish the sounds of various weapons being fired is, at best, ridiculous.

Acting Steward Gordon Osborne, service number P100762, enlisted in the Royal Navy on 30 January 1967. He was discharged less than five months later on 24 June 1967, because he was deemed to be ‘unsuitable’. According to the Royal Navy, as an Acting Steward Osborne’s duties would have included providing hospitality services and learning ‘core skills in the hotel trade’ aboard ship. In short, Gordon Osborne was a waiter-cum-hotel porter who simply failed to make the grade.

If it wasn’t for the investigative skills of Tony Tucker’s former business partner Bernard O’Mahoney, Percival’s appeal might never have been possible. For many years, O’Mahoney has campaigned tirelessly on behalf of Steele, Whomes and my friend Percival. It was O’Mahoney who discovered the truth about Osborne’s deceit. At Percival’s appeal, as I looked along the long wooden bench in the public gallery of the Royal Courts of Justice, my mind was awash with memories. To my left sat Bernard O’Mahoney, once one of the Essex Boys’ most feared henchmen. If only I had listened to him the night he had warned me to stay away from Tucker! Beside O’Mahoney sat John Whomes, whose brother Jack was convicted of murdering Tate, Tucker and Rolfe. Even in death the trio were able to heap misery on innocent people. I feel for the Whomes family. God knows that I am painfully aware of what they are going through. To my right sat Percival’s brother, Danny, and his heartbroken mother Sandy. Another family torn apart by the lies of a Judas whose only desire was to save himself.

Sitting alone, on a bench in front of me, was a man who represented an organisation that has hindered me for more than 20 years. DC Sharp of Essex Police was clearly finding the judge’s words uncomfortable to listen to. Lord Justice Hughes said that the use of Osborne’s evidence warranted further investigation and eight points that contributed to Percival’s conviction also needed to be reconsidered.

A full hearing to deliberate the findings and decide whether Percival should be released immediately or face a retrial, is scheduled to take place later in 2009. I understand that Whomes and Steele are also due to have their murder convictions reconsidered shortly.

I sincerely hope that all three men are released as soon as possible and this story can then end. There has been too much bloodshed and too much pain. I, for one, would never wish to live through times like that again. Last man standing I am, and last man standing I intend to remain.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

STEVE ELLIS

First and foremost, thank you to my wife Rachel, who has given me a life enriched with love and a reason to live. Thanks to Bernard O’Mahoney for all his great work and help, without which this book would never have happened. His many other worthwhile projects involving prisoners go unnoticed by many, but the few are deeply in his debt. Thanks to all of my sisters, too many to name. My close friend Ricky Percival, I am thinking of you and your long-suffering family constantly. Thanks also to my friend John Whomes; I’m thinking of his brother Jack and co-defendant Mick Steele in their fight for justice. I’m also thinking of a man I loved as a brother – Malcolm Walsh. Much love to his widow Bernardette, daughter Sophie, son Anthony and extremely annoying brother Kevin.

Thanks to two very good friends, Cliff and his wife Heidi. I cannot thank enough my true friend Geordie, without whom I would undoubtedly be dead or still imprisoned now. Thanks to my very good friends Badger and his girlfriend Deb ‘lushkins’. Regards to my best little mate Georgia, if only I could be blessed with a daughter like you. Thanks to her family for all you have done for me, words are simply not enough. Thanks to my friend Lee ‘KO’ Mayo, who has spent more time on his back in the ring than the average working girl spends on her back in a lifetime. Thanks also to KO’s girlfriend Charlie and their beautiful daughters, and to Gorgeous George. Thanks to a man I have known and respected forever, Jim the wise man, who owned the gym in Hadleigh. Thanks to Sensei Steve, the mad man on Canvey Island, and to my new friend and gifted surgeon, the wonderful Mr O-J, who can perform miracles.

BERNARD O’MAHONEY

I would like to say a huge thank you to Steve Rowan, who was kind enough to allow us to photograph the Range Rover in which the murders were committed for this book’s cover. Thank you to my friend and the Cristiano Ronaldo of photography Brian Anderson for taking those and many other incredible photographs for a book we are working on entitled Faces. A mere thank you seems inadequate to express the gratitude I feel for the love my beautiful fiancée Roshea Tierney has shown me over the last year. I love you, Ro, and eagerly await the birth of our first child (Sinead or Paddy) in January 2010. Much love also to our wise and wonderful children: Adrian, Vinney, Karis, Daine and Lydia. Thanks to my mad mother Anna and the rest of the O’Mahoney clan. Thanks also to the Tierney clan – Malcy, Carolyn and Elric. May your God – whoever or whatever it, they, he or she may be – be good to you.