The Wrong Man: The Shooting of Steven Waldorf and The Hunt for David Martin (33 page)

I accept that at the time of Martin's arrest in the Underground tunnel, he was not in possession of a firearm, nor did he have access to one. If he had, I have no doubt that he would have opened fire at his pursuers and would have killed or incapacitated as many of them as possible before, once more, attempting to escape.

Martin was brilliant, certainly, in his knowledge and expertise when dealing with locks and security devices, but since he utilised that knowledge to commit offences, instead of strengthening the weaknesses he found in those security systems – which as I have already suggested would have made him his fortune by the security companies – is that something to be admired? Not by me, although with the values which are held nowadays by many members of the public as to where wrong is right and vice versa, I should think that my opinion is only held by a minority. And yet, ironically, Martin described himself as a security expert, a security advisor. At his trial, Martin told the jury that in late 1982, he had been involved in security work, adding that he had ‘reasonable ability' in his field, including the ability to enter buildings. And while the Flying Squad was still hunting him, Martin's friend Philip Lee told the press that he had seen him several times during the summer of 1982. ‘He told me his job was selling bugging equipment and he used to go out of town now and then, supposedly to see business clients,' said Lee. ‘His flat was filled with gadgetry and he never stopped talking about it. He even asked me to make him some sort of bugging device once but he was a bit of a rambler. He used to go on and on and on.'

‘He was,' added Lee, ‘a bit of a dreamer.' Not, however, according to former Detective Sergeant Roger Clements. ‘Out of all the criminals I ever dealt with, there were only two that I regarded as being pure evil,' he told me. ‘One was an IRA quartermaster and the other was David Martin.' Martin was rotten through and through. He chose his lifestyle, nobody else. He did not have to become a criminal and the fact that he did, was his choice. I heard that when Martin was told that Steven Waldorf had been shot by police, he wept; call me Old Mr Cynical if you like but if he did, I should think they were tears of laughter. Controlling and cunning, it seemed as though his criminal acts were just one long dare, to ‘catch me if you can'. And when he was caught, whatever he had done was always somebody else's fault.

As for the escape from the cells at Marlborough Street Magistrates' Court, it was a widely held belief that he had used a metal spoon or perhaps a plastic knife to pick the lock of the cell door, except that on the inside of a cell door there is no lock to pick, just a flat steel plate. Nor did he use a duplicate key, for precisely the same reason. The answer is far more simple. As I mentioned previously, during the large number of journeys he made to the cells at court, his meek and mild manner lulled his captors into a false sense of security. It was Mick Geraghty who unravelled this conundrum as he chatted to Martin when he took his fingerprints; let him tell the story:

He noticed that the jailer only pushed the cell door closed and did not secure it further. Martin obtained a sheet of Perspex in prison and when he attended the court and the cell door was closed, he slipped the sheet between the door and the door jamb to prevent the lock sliding home. At an appropriate time, he had only to push the cell door open and having worked out the route, walked out of the cells and out of the building. He said that he did not say how in his interviews, as he did not want to get the jailer into trouble.

And there is one matter that all of us should remember: directly or indirectly, David Martin was responsible for injuries and/or trauma to quite a number of people and their families who feature in this book. This caveat also applies to any liberal-minded council who might, one day, be induced to put up a blue plaque to him, perhaps at the slum in Finsbury Park where he grew up, maybe at the stinking dump at Notting Hill where he spent his last few hours of freedom or else Hampstead Underground station. Mind you, I think Martin would have loved that.

As he once said to a friend, ‘If you've got the bottle, you can make the world dance for you.' And perhaps for a short time in London during the early 1980s, it did.

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Dick Kirby was born in the East End of London and joined the Metropolitan Police in 1967. Half of his twenty-six years' service was spent with Scotland Yard's Serious Crime Squad and the Flying Squad.

Kirby contributes to newspapers and magazines, as well as appearing on television and the radio. This is his twelfth true crime book and in his retirement he lives with his family near Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk. He can be visited at his website:
www.dickkirby.com

Rough Justice: Memoirs of a Flying Squad Detective

The Real Sweeney

You're Nicked!

Villains

The Guv'nors: Ten of Scotland Yard's Greatest Detectives

The Sweeney: The First Sixty Years of Scotland Yard's Crimebusting

Flying Squad: 1919–1978

Scotland Yard's Ghost Squad: The Secret Weapon against Post-War Crime

The Brave Blue Line: 100 Years of Metropolitan Police Gallantry

Death on the Beat: Police Officers Killed in the Line of Duty

The Scourge of Soho: The Controversial Career of SAS Hero Detective Sergeant Harry Challenor, MM

Whitechapel's Sherlock Holmes: The Casebook of Fred Wensley, OBE, KPM: Victorian Crimebuster

The two faces of David Martin.

Steven Waldorf.

West Hampstead police station, from where Martin re-stole the BMW.

Gerald Road police station, from where Martin escaped.

The cell passageway at Marlborough Street Magistrates' Court.

Marlborough Street Magistrates' Court, from where Martin escaped.