Wild Thing (28 page)

Not long after meeting Reg and Charlie Kray in Maidstone prison, I was contacted by Kate Kray, the former wife of Reggie’s twin brother Ronnie. Kate said that she was writing a sequel to her book about the hardest men in Britain and my name had been put forward by several people for inclusion in it. I wasn’t keen at first, because I had moved away from that lifestyle, and the people in the area in which I now lived knew nothing about my past. I was told that my friend Carlton Leach was going to be included in the book, and nobody in it was going to be portrayed in a distasteful light, so I eventually agreed.

When I met Kate, who turned out to be a charming lady, I was asked to give a brief history of my life and to answer the same 14 questions as the 23 other men in the book. Several did not really apply to me, as they referred to living a life of crime. The book, titled
Hard Bastards 2
, was published in 2001, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I would read. I hadn’t heard of half of the so-called hard bastards in it, and describing them as such was, in my opinion, stretching the truth a little.

After saying goodbye to Kate, I was asked to accompany an excellent photographer named Geoff Langan to Dagenham Dock in east London, so that he could take a few photographs of me. At first Geoff could not find a suitable location, but eventually he spotted a scrap-metal yard that he thought would capture the mood he sought. I could not believe it when I walked through the gates and saw a group of my old friends standing around talking. Little Joe, a doorman from the Room at the Top, Brynmor Lindop and various other old faces all called out and greeted me when they saw me. It had been a few years since we had seen each other, so we all had plenty of stories to tell. I asked them what they were doing in the scrapyard, and Little Joe said that it was his. Geoff was pleased by this news, as he wouldn’t have to seek out the owner for permission to use the yard. Geoff and I excused ourselves and got on with taking the photographs, one of which was used for the cover of this book. After Geoff had finished, I remained in the yard talking to Bryn and Little Joe. The conversation eventually turned to work, and I explained that although I was keeping my head above water, I could do with some sort of new business venture.

‘Sorted,’ said Little Joe. ‘I have just the thing for you here in the yard.’

Just the thing turned out to be a burger van in need of repair. Joe explained that the area was swarming with workers during the day, and a fast-food outlet couldn’t fail to make money. Without giving it much thought, if indeed any, I stuck out my hand and agreed to purchase Little Joe’s burger van.

Over the next two weeks I worked hard repairing the van until it was ready to open for trading. I parked it down Ripple Road, which is the main thoroughfare that runs through an industrial estate near the Thames river. Business was surprisingly brisk, and I was soon making a reasonable living out of it. Every day Bryn would come to my van to have a sandwich and a cup of tea and to talk about old times. We soon became very good friends again, doing odd jobs and favours for each other as we had done in the past. Bryn used to look after a man who owned a lot of land along the Thames waterfront. In later years it was developed and became known as Docklands. Back then it was run-down and occupied by in excess of 30 scrapyards, and competition amongst the metal merchants was fierce. Bryn was employed to keep the peace and collect the rent from those who rented the yards, of which 99 per cent were foreign nationals. One Jamaican man refused to pay his rent because his office kept getting burned out by rivals, so Bryn went to see him. When he arrived at the yard, he was confronted by a hostile group of the man’s friends. Cool, calm and collected, Bryn pulled a revolver out from the inside of his jacket and fired just over the Jamaican man’s head. The man fell to his knees and his friends ran away, screaming in terror. The man was begging Bryn not to shoot him. Bryn hesitated, cocked the weapon and fired a shot just in front of him. He then made the trembling and sobbing man beg for mercy and apologise. The man did so, paid the outstanding rent and was never seen again.

I was told that Bryn had got involved with a consortium of men who planned to import a large shipment of cocaine. The drugs were delivered on time and in good order, but members of the consortium fell out over the percentages of payment that were due, and threats were made by all parties.

One of the men Bryn had fallen out with owned a garage where cars were resprayed. Bryn broke into the garage one night, doused the place in petrol and set it on fire. Unfortunately for him the paint that was stored on the premises acted as an accelerant, and his escape route was quickly engulfed in flames. Fearing for his safety, he was forced to smash a window with his bare hands and climb out, cutting himself badly in the process. The following day he received numerous threatening phone calls from the garage proprietor, who accused him of being responsible for the blaze.

These calls became even more sinister when the garage owner told Bryn and others that there had been a large quantity of cocaine hidden in the boot of a car that had been parked in the garage at the time of the fire. The man told everybody that he had searched the burnt-out wreckage of the vehicle, but no trace of the sports bags that had contained the cocaine could be found. The implication was that Bryn had broken into the garage, stolen the cocaine and then firebombed the premises in the hope that people would believe the cocaine had been unwittingly burnt. Bryn told the man and his irate friends to go and fuck off because he wasn’t responsible, but few believed him.

I went to the scrapyard once and found Bryn raking over a big pile of ashes. He was laughing, and when I asked what he was doing, he replied, ‘I can’t get rid of this bastard. I’ve burnt him. I keep raking him into the ground, but the cunt’s teeth and jawbone won’t break down.’ I could clearly see large pieces of bone, but I have no idea if they were human or not. Nothing would surprise me when it involved Bryn. The bones probably belonged to one of the foreign scrap-metal merchants he was always trying to catch in the various mantraps he set up along his yard fence.

The police drove by one day while Bryn was standing at the burger van talking to me. As soon as they saw him, the car slowed down and the officers inside glared over at us. Bryn told me that he had a gun on him, which didn’t come as a surprise to me, as he always carried one. ‘Fuck me, they had a good look, Lew,’ he said. ‘If they come back and search me, I’m fucked.’

Fearing for my friend, I said, ‘Give me the gun, Bryn.’ When he handed it to me, I wrapped it in a tea towel and put it in one of the empty water-heater tanks. Moments later the police drove by at a snail’s pace staring at Bryn until eventually they sped off. Later that day Bryn was giving me a lift to the wholesalers in his Range Rover. We passed a police car containing the officers who had shown great interest in Bryn earlier. The car quickly turned around and began to follow us. Bryn, in a matter-of-fact manner, said, ‘If they pull us over, you’ll have to chin one and I’ll deal with the other. There’s something in this car I can’t let them find.’ Bryn did not elaborate and I did not ask. When we reached the next set of traffic lights, Bryn turned left into an industrial estate and fortunately the police car carried on straight ahead.

In December 2001 Bryn told me that he was tired of London and all of the grief he got himself involved in. ‘I’m leaving, Lew,’ he said. ‘I have got an apartment in Tenerife and I am going there to retire in a few months.’ He told me that he had recently paid for a boat to be built out there and couldn’t wait to leave. To be honest, his news saddened me, as I was undoubtedly going to miss his wild antics, but I wished him well all the same.

On Saturday, 26 January 2002 I rang Bryn at about 8 a.m. to see how he was doing. He answered the phone, shouted ‘Fuck off!’ and slammed the receiver down on me.

I thought ‘Fuck you too’ and immediately rang him back. ‘What do you think you are doing putting the phone down on me?’ I asked when he answered.

Bryn said, ‘I’m sorry, Lew. I didn’t realise it was you. I will ring you a bit later.’

At about 10 a.m. Bryn called and said, ‘All is OK with me. Don’t worry. I was still half-asleep.’

I told Bryn that he seemed on edge, but he kept assuring me that he was OK. We said our goodbyes, but about an hour later he telephoned me again to ask if I had seen anybody down at the yard. I told him that I had only seen the usual faces; there had certainly been no strangers about. Something wasn’t right; I just had a bad feeling about the way he was talking and behaving. The Bryn I knew would come roaring down the yard in his car and jump out guns blazing if there was a problem, but he seemed scared. I told myself that Bryn’s problem had to involve the police, and that’s why he was being cautious.

He turned up at the yard at around 4 p.m. Bryn usually had a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, but on this particular day he said, ‘No, leave it. I’ll be back later. I’m going to get the front disc pads replaced on my Range Rover.’ He still seemed very on edge, looking around as we spoke and staring at oncoming cars. I laughed and asked him if he was sure everything was OK. Bryn said, ‘Yes, Lew, yes. I have told you I am fine,’ but he never did stop looking around. I knew Bryn was troubled, but he wasn’t going to tell me about it, so I let it drop.

The next morning Bryn’s mate Dave Allen rang me and said, ‘Brynmor’s dead. He’s been shot!’

‘Don’t fuck about, Dave,’ I replied.

‘I’m not. He was shot last night outside his flat in Goodmayes,’ he said.

I later learnt that when I had seen Bryn the afternoon before, he had been visiting his yard in order to hide his guns in an old crane. He would normally keep them in his car, but as it was due to be worked on, he had removed the guns because he feared the mechanics might find them. After picking up his car from the garage, he drove to his flat and was talking on his mobile phone as he pulled up outside. Normally vigilant, Bryn was concentrating on the call and on parking his car, rather than observing what was going on around him. When he stepped out, he was still talking on the phone.

He failed to notice a man getting out of a dark-coloured car, similar to a seven-seater Chrysler Voyager, with blacked-out windows. The man walked briskly towards him, pulled out a .45 automatic handgun and fired, but he missed his target and the bullet struck a car. Confused and in shock, Bryn ran back towards his own car, presumably thinking his guns were still in it. When he reached the vehicle, he remembered that he had removed the guns earlier and so ran towards his flat. The gunman opened fire again, and this time the bullet struck Bryn in the hip. As he fell to the floor, he knew he would have to get up and run or die where he lay, as the gunman was approaching him. With blood pouring from his wound, Bryn got to his feet and started to run towards his home. The gunman casually raised his arm and fired again. The bullet struck Bryn in the mouth, and he fell dying on the road. Bryn did get back onto his feet and managed to stagger a few yards towards his flat before collapsing again. When the paramedics arrived and began working on him, he must have thought he was being attacked again, because he grabbed one of the medical team and flung him across the street. Sadly Bryn died of his injuries four hours later in hospital.

When the gunman had sped away in the dark Chrysler-type vehicle, a BMW that had been parked nearby followed him. The Chrysler was later found abandoned. It had been wiped totally clean and the headrests had been removed. Detectives believe that a professional hit man had carried out the murder, because the cleaning of the motor and, more significantly, the removal of the headrests indicated that those responsible knew the police would have them tested for DNA traces. I was visited by the detectives investigating Bryn’s murder on four occasions. They said that Bryn’s phone records showed that he had been telephoning me throughout his final day, but I was unable to help them. I wish I could have been of more assistance. I was saddened by my friend Bryn’s murder.

His funeral was surreal. Nobody present could quite believe that the big guy was dead. The police did tell me that had he not died, it was only a matter of time before he was going to be arrested. ‘We can’t elaborate,’ the officer said, ‘but we have been taking a keen interest in Mr Lindop’s activities for some time.’

The police had always taken an interest in Bryn’s business. In the 1990s he had been arrested for supplying firearms. When the serial numbers of the seized guns were checked, a lot of them turned out to be lost or stolen police firearms. Bryn’s solicitor had warned him to expect a lengthy term of imprisonment, but he had replied, ‘We shall see when they find out who lost or was in control of the guns.’ When the matter came before the courts, Bryn was given a two-year sentence. He told me that he had been advised by the police to serve it in silence, whatever that meant.

When police searched Bryn’s flat in the hope of finding clues that might give them a motive for his murder, they discovered a hidden camera in the wall of his bedroom. Tearing out the wall to look for more devices, they discovered that the camera was connected to a video recorder, alongside which was a pile of VHS tapes. When officers viewed the tapes, they found footage of Bryn and numerous different females having sex. The possibility that he had been murdered by a jealous boyfriend or husband was given additional weight when the identities of some of the females were established. At least three were major criminals’ wives, and two were married to senior police officers.

Another motive that was pursued involved Bryn’s son. He had been employed on Dagenham Dock as a nightwatchman. Shortly before Bryn’s death a man described as looking and behaving like the character John Coffey from the film
The Green Mile
pulled up at the Dock gate in a Mercedes and demanded entry. Bryn’s son opened the locked gate to approach the car and explain to the man that entry was not permitted. As soon as he opened the gate to walk to the car, the man drove through. Bryn’s son called to the man to stop. The Mercedes’ brake lights came on and the huge man got out. Before the situation could escalate, an Asian man who also worked nights on the Docks appeared and explained that Bryn’s son wasn’t being rude, he was merely doing his job. The man called Bryn’s son an arsehole, got back into his car and disappeared down the Dock in a cloud of dust. When Bryn heard about the incident the following day, he appeared to ignore it and get on with his work.